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Logansport - Beauty in Belief [Ginjoha; 2013] I have little idea if Logan Jackson is truly from Logansport (consider it your idea of Pawnee if you must, though geographically that’s more akin to Bedford if you want a lesson in Indiana) but its certainly draped within Beauty in Belief. Not because of any supposed wholesomeness within a Butternut state but because of the simple, idyllic ruminations of Jackson’s sweet ambient swing. This is why I turn to Ginjoha batch after batch–a manner of drone both contemplative and salubrious. This is a palette cleanser for big city living and current transgressions (however defined). Logansport is angelic, uplifting without the booming prophetic doomsday voyeurism of preachers invading small campuses (I can’t count how many times I encountered this during my days at generic state Indiana college). We are all absolved in Jackson’s confessional booth, without prejudice or judgment. Hell, there is no sin to be found no matter your home. We’re all just trying to do the best we can for ourselves, our loved ones, and the community. At least Logansport would have you believe, and it’s worth believing in.

Logansport - Beauty in Belief [Ginjoha; 2013]

I have little idea if Logan Jackson is truly from Logansport (consider it your idea of Pawnee if you must, though geographically that’s more akin to Bedford if you want a lesson in Indiana) but its certainly draped within Beauty in Belief. Not because of any supposed wholesomeness within a Butternut state but because of the simple, idyllic ruminations of Jackson’s sweet ambient swing. This is why I turn to Ginjoha batch after batch–a manner of drone both contemplative and salubrious. This is a palette cleanser for big city living and current transgressions (however defined). Logansport is angelic, uplifting without the booming prophetic doomsday voyeurism of preachers invading small campuses (I can’t count how many times I encountered this during my days at generic state Indiana college). We are all absolved in Jackson’s confessional booth, without prejudice or judgment. Hell, there is no sin to be found no matter your home. We’re all just trying to do the best we can for ourselves, our loved ones, and the community. At least Logansport would have you believe, and it’s worth believing in.

1 month ago 

Bill Baird - Spring Break of the Soul [Pau Wau; 2013] The world of psychedelia has undergone numerous face lifts but few have been on the metaphysical level—that magnificently magenta aura that is often the subject of the sunnier side but obscured by the dark, gritty clouds of its maddening past. The intersection of the Venn Diagram of psychedelia: where pop meets garage meets mind meets matter, this is the crevice of Bill Baird. A sinisterly sweet mixture of acid rain and hallucinogenic smiles, Spring Break of the Soul has no fear in smearing the genre’s neon pop Day-Glo and casting out the demonic overtures of its seedier sounds. Case in point: “Sailing”. Baird appropriates the classic Christopher Cross yacht rocker into a moody but sadistically poppy crawl. “Sailing” does not obscure the majesty of Cross’ original but the slower pace through the stormy sea is more reality than the original cares to capture in its own sleepy-eyed haze. Further confusion occurs with “Big Sir Reverie,” a summery interpretation of post-Beach Boys California—those heady times of Manson and drugs—that still feels as warm as a Wilson melody and a Love vocal without a bit of irony (“Blob” even invoking latter Beach Boys with its Holland style storytelling). Baird doesn’t shy away from experimenting with the stretched-thin scene. “Bow Down to the Brain” is R. Stevie Moore in reverse; “Lake Eerie” is nimble motorik amid the buzzing of Mendelssohn and Morrison; a groggy belch of the echoing drone amid a sea of deft strings.Spring Break of the Soul does not succeed in its lofty titular goals but as a further expansion of Baird’s repertoire and exposing a genre for its faults by capitalizing on them, Spring Break of the Soul should be a one-two punch (along with Harmony Korine’s film, Spring Breakers) in exploring the essence of America at a time when we’re too fixated on the façade.

Bill Baird - Spring Break of the Soul [Pau Wau; 2013]

The world of psychedelia has undergone numerous face lifts but few have been on the metaphysical level—that magnificently magenta aura that is often the subject of the sunnier side but obscured by the dark, gritty clouds of its maddening past.

The intersection of the Venn Diagram of psychedelia: where pop meets garage meets mind meets matter, this is the crevice of Bill Baird. A sinisterly sweet mixture of acid rain and hallucinogenic smiles, Spring Break of the Soul has no fear in smearing the genre’s neon pop Day-Glo and casting out the demonic overtures of its seedier sounds.

Case in point: “Sailing”. Baird appropriates the classic Christopher Cross yacht rocker into a moody but sadistically poppy crawl. “Sailing” does not obscure the majesty of Cross’ original but the slower pace through the stormy sea is more reality than the original cares to capture in its own sleepy-eyed haze. Further confusion occurs with “Big Sir Reverie,” a summery interpretation of post-Beach Boys California—those heady times of Manson and drugs—that still feels as warm as a Wilson melody and a Love vocal without a bit of irony (“Blob” even invoking latter Beach Boys with its Holland style storytelling).

Baird doesn’t shy away from experimenting with the stretched-thin scene. “Bow Down to the Brain” is R. Stevie Moore in reverse; “Lake Eerie” is nimble motorik amid the buzzing of Mendelssohn and Morrison; a groggy belch of the echoing drone amid a sea of deft strings.Spring Break of the Soul does not succeed in its lofty titular goals but as a further expansion of Baird’s repertoire and exposing a genre for its faults by capitalizing on them, Spring Break of the Soul should be a one-two punch (along with Harmony Korine’s film, Spring Breakers) in exploring the essence of America at a time when we’re too fixated on the façade.

1 month ago 

Sungod - Contackt [Holodeck; 2013] Too many influences! I’m riddled with the prog-metal-synth-outer-jams of Sungod but who cares to extrapolate every touchstone? Sungod exist to bring your favorites together in one hell of a stage show, without so much as needing a performance for your cortex to picture the fog machine, the stunning laser light show, and the band’s enigmatic entrance. “Smell of Physiqal” is angry Floyd, Waters and Gilmour taking their spats public. “Gas is Better than Gas” is synth-psych, the sort of psycho future Dennis Hopper fueled in visions never meant for public consumption. “Comrade Voyager” reminds me a tighter Bad Dudes, the 80s indulgence glam of “Eat Drugs” replaced with deeper diplomatic relations as arbitrated by kraut. This is air guitar licks, cushion drumming, and Goodwill dress-up at its most epic. This one doesn’t miss a beat and is surely but the first of many knockouts from the next big (big being relative in the world of cassettes) thing.

Sungod - Contackt [Holodeck; 2013]

Too many influences! I’m riddled with the prog-metal-synth-outer-jams of Sungod but who cares to extrapolate every touchstone? Sungod exist to bring your favorites together in one hell of a stage show, without so much as needing a performance for your cortex to picture the fog machine, the stunning laser light show, and the band’s enigmatic entrance. “Smell of Physiqal” is angry Floyd, Waters and Gilmour taking their spats public. “Gas is Better than Gas” is synth-psych, the sort of psycho future Dennis Hopper fueled in visions never meant for public consumption. “Comrade Voyager” reminds me a tighter Bad Dudes, the 80s indulgence glam of “Eat Drugs” replaced with deeper diplomatic relations as arbitrated by kraut. This is air guitar licks, cushion drumming, and Goodwill dress-up at its most epic. This one doesn’t miss a beat and is surely but the first of many knockouts from the next big (big being relative in the world of cassettes) thing.

1 month ago  1 note

Homeshake - The Homeshake Tape [Fixture; 2013] The joke goes that Canada is behind America, but Homeshake prove the tables turned–at least in venerable Montreal. As America goes fascists with its rules against smoking, drinking, and public fornication, so goes pop culture in a time warp of fake 50s couture amid a backdrop of sloppy hand holding with 80s and 90s subculture. Enough H&M propagation! Homeshake moves forward, toward a Canada where Quebec is free and Stephen Harper is a bum on the street corner unable to cobble a few loons together (people are turned off by madman ravings). The Homeshake Tape goes all McKenzie-Malkmus-Desser-Sparkles with its mash-up of Canadian humor and American slackerism. But because of it, we’re in love (and strangely confused). The debut of Peter Sagar is crisp and unyielding. The pop soul of “Moon Woman,” the cool cat strut of “Gettin’ Down,” and low end lounge of “Hater” showcasing an understanding of forward thought in a time when nostalgia is a fly trap. Montreal has been coveting a healthy scene of lo-fi, noise, and drone and Homeshake skirts all of it. I’m wrapping up tight in this pop rock blanket and forgetting how America sinks further into hegemony as the world whirls by.

Homeshake - The Homeshake Tape [Fixture; 2013]

The joke goes that Canada is behind America, but Homeshake prove the tables turned–at least in venerable Montreal. As America goes fascists with its rules against smoking, drinking, and public fornication, so goes pop culture in a time warp of fake 50s couture amid a backdrop of sloppy hand holding with 80s and 90s subculture. Enough H&M propagation! Homeshake moves forward, toward a Canada where Quebec is free and Stephen Harper is a bum on the street corner unable to cobble a few loons together (people are turned off by madman ravings). The Homeshake Tape goes all McKenzie-Malkmus-Desser-Sparkles with its mash-up of Canadian humor and American slackerism. But because of it, we’re in love (and strangely confused). The debut of Peter Sagar is crisp and unyielding. The pop soul of “Moon Woman,” the cool cat strut of “Gettin’ Down,” and low end lounge of “Hater” showcasing an understanding of forward thought in a time when nostalgia is a fly trap. Montreal has been coveting a healthy scene of lo-fi, noise, and drone and Homeshake skirts all of it. I’m wrapping up tight in this pop rock blanket and forgetting how America sinks further into hegemony as the world whirls by.

1 month ago  2 notes

JD Emmanuel/Evan Caminiti - Contrasts [Preservation; 2013] Calgon Emmanuel, take me away! The A-side to this latest Contrasts pairing is amazing. And then it drops! But it returns lusher than ever. I am in its grasp, the sudsy bath enveloping my senses as I let my body go limp into the fade out…but I open my eyes to a new world, one underwater with magical creatures singing to me in docile tones. A full-body feast as I dive deeper into my Cousteau fantasy, only to come to find the Mariana Trench is a portal to the Earth behind the sun, outer space lovely this time of year. But Earth 2 is not the magical world I was expecting, Evan Caminiti’s dismal splash of acid rain on a world in ruin waking me from my Magellan cruise. As I desperately seek shelter, I find eves and overhangs impossible. When I encounter a shop or coffeehouse, thinking it a fine place to hide until the drenching rain subsides, I am skirted out the door. The world is turning dark and the gutters begin to swell. But I realize I am not in a fantasy, nor am I on Earth 2. This is the world which we have created, shunting Emmanuel’s beautiful forward progression for Caminiti’s gritty noir. We are a society growing cold, at odds with the Utopian idealism of the Golden Rule. I will endure this cold, pounding rain because it is the punishment I deserve for a fool’s errand. I fall asleep in the gutter, naked and exposed for the world to kick.

JD Emmanuel/Evan Caminiti - Contrasts [Preservation; 2013]

Calgon Emmanuel, take me away! The A-side to this latest Contrasts pairing is amazing. And then it drops! But it returns lusher than ever. I am in its grasp, the sudsy bath enveloping my senses as I let my body go limp into the fade out…but I open my eyes to a new world, one underwater with magical creatures singing to me in docile tones. A full-body feast as I dive deeper into my Cousteau fantasy, only to come to find the Mariana Trench is a portal to the Earth behind the sun, outer space lovely this time of year. But Earth 2 is not the magical world I was expecting, Evan Caminiti’s dismal splash of acid rain on a world in ruin waking me from my Magellan cruise. As I desperately seek shelter, I find eves and overhangs impossible. When I encounter a shop or coffeehouse, thinking it a fine place to hide until the drenching rain subsides, I am skirted out the door. The world is turning dark and the gutters begin to swell. But I realize I am not in a fantasy, nor am I on Earth 2. This is the world which we have created, shunting Emmanuel’s beautiful forward progression for Caminiti’s gritty noir. We are a society growing cold, at odds with the Utopian idealism of the Golden Rule. I will endure this cold, pounding rain because it is the punishment I deserve for a fool’s errand. I fall asleep in the gutter, naked and exposed for the world to kick.

1 month ago  4 notes

Fluorescent Heights - Tidal Motions [Constellation Tatsu; 2013] Oh what magnificent heights! I am bathed by the sun, wings melted by the heat like Icarus. But I ignore reason for the sine waves lift me up higher and higher. Fluorescent Heights has cut me loose. Gravity means nothing. The oceans rise with me; I am swimming among the Great Barrier Reef in the stratosphere. I jump beside Felix Baumgartner but do not fall to earth. This is my new home, enveloped in heavenly clouds and the synthesizers of angels. I am rocked to silver lining sleep on a bed of Tidal Motions. The moon is my reading lamp, the sky my window. I never want to feel terra firma with my feet again. The beach and the mud and the stone and the grass are all up here anyway. This is better than The Rapture because anyone can come. No sin exists in weightlessness. And if it does, Fluorescent Heights will absolve it. This will make it right. I lay my head on the bosom of a star. I rest my feet on the edge of Olympus Mons.

Fluorescent Heights - Tidal Motions [Constellation Tatsu; 2013]

Oh what magnificent heights! I am bathed by the sun, wings melted by the heat like Icarus. But I ignore reason for the sine waves lift me up higher and higher. Fluorescent Heights has cut me loose. Gravity means nothing. The oceans rise with me; I am swimming among the Great Barrier Reef in the stratosphere. I jump beside Felix Baumgartner but do not fall to earth. This is my new home, enveloped in heavenly clouds and the synthesizers of angels. I am rocked to silver lining sleep on a bed of Tidal Motions. The moon is my reading lamp, the sky my window. I never want to feel terra firma with my feet again. The beach and the mud and the stone and the grass are all up here anyway. This is better than The Rapture because anyone can come. No sin exists in weightlessness. And if it does, Fluorescent Heights will absolve it. This will make it right. I lay my head on the bosom of a star. I rest my feet on the edge of Olympus Mons.

1 month ago  1 note

William Basinski - Shortwavemusic [Auris Apothecary; 2013] Pleasantries first: Auris Apothecary and Cerberus entered the world the same day in the same year. I consider this no coincidence, for we are all particles connected to one another by hippie bullshit that doesn’t matter in the end because we’re all screwed up. AA transmits that and we report it. And for more than a decade, William Basinski has had to be swallowed by the same damning press all because his masterwork happened to find its completion as the twin towers of the World Trade Center sadly crumbled on the same day. Irony isn’t always fun , but AA’s twisted smirks and Basinski’s fragile compositions can make it so.Shortwavemusic’s latest reissue (of many from the 1982 composition) came in the midst of New Year’s in the guise of a 1/4-inch tape on a 7-inch reel. Without purpose, I hunted eBay to find a working reel-to-reel player for which to listen. I read, I studied, and I coveted. And here it is a pile of tape on the floor after heart and soul has been poured into such a centerpiece. But music isn’t for show, it’s for hearing. But AA does not heed such consequences, for it embraces both (always for the better). They knew what a clumsy but adventurous shell would do armed with 7-inches of reel. I’m sure many have framed and hung theirs by the chimney with care, but I sledgehammered it down to obtain the precious and put it through its paces. And it sounds good–oh so good. I’ve wrapped myself like a mummy in its discards, trying to contemplate where AA begins, Basinski takes over, and Cerberus ends. It all comes out too Donnie Darko for my tastes, so I try to ignore the coincidences. I try to focus on what each of us does and in that, I find solace. Shortwavemusic is an empowering piece, triumphant in a time where shows of aggression or talking loudest win fights. AA and Basinski take no such course. We shall oblige.

William Basinski - Shortwavemusic [Auris Apothecary; 2013]

Pleasantries first: Auris Apothecary and Cerberus entered the world the same day in the same year. I consider this no coincidence, for we are all particles connected to one another by hippie bullshit that doesn’t matter in the end because we’re all screwed up. AA transmits that and we report it. And for more than a decade, William Basinski has had to be swallowed by the same damning press all because his masterwork happened to find its completion as the twin towers of the World Trade Center sadly crumbled on the same day. Irony isn’t always fun , but AA’s twisted smirks and Basinski’s fragile compositions can make it so.Shortwavemusic’s latest reissue (of many from the 1982 composition) came in the midst of New Year’s in the guise of a 1/4-inch tape on a 7-inch reel. Without purpose, I hunted eBay to find a working reel-to-reel player for which to listen. I read, I studied, and I coveted. And here it is a pile of tape on the floor after heart and soul has been poured into such a centerpiece. But music isn’t for show, it’s for hearing. But AA does not heed such consequences, for it embraces both (always for the better). They knew what a clumsy but adventurous shell would do armed with 7-inches of reel. I’m sure many have framed and hung theirs by the chimney with care, but I sledgehammered it down to obtain the precious and put it through its paces. And it sounds good–oh so good. I’ve wrapped myself like a mummy in its discards, trying to contemplate where AA begins, Basinski takes over, and Cerberus ends. It all comes out too Donnie Darko for my tastes, so I try to ignore the coincidences. I try to focus on what each of us does and in that, I find solace. Shortwavemusic is an empowering piece, triumphant in a time where shows of aggression or talking loudest win fights. AA and Basinski take no such course. We shall oblige.

1 month ago  12 notes

FWY! - Any Exit [Moon Glyph; 2013] Are you fucking with me? Am I fucking with you? What’s this 80s slacker elevator cool bullshit doing in my bass heavy rock and soul? Any Exit, the latest from Edmund Xavier/Glenn Donaldson/Skygreen Leopards lives up the project’s heady internet total recall. It’s a throwback to minimal Liverpoolian house-gaze. Though I just made that up, it seems Xavier has created awesome music to this mangled genre identifier, filling a need nobody expected they had but soon to discover they did. Hit the club all in white and stare at your shoes through the end of the night. Then cruise home in the dawn with the comedown of “Pink Dust.” YOLO. TLTR. LOL.

FWY! - Any Exit [Moon Glyph; 2013]

Are you fucking with me? Am I fucking with you? What’s this 80s slacker elevator cool bullshit doing in my bass heavy rock and soul? Any Exit, the latest from Edmund Xavier/Glenn Donaldson/Skygreen Leopards lives up the project’s heady internet total recall. It’s a throwback to minimal Liverpoolian house-gaze. Though I just made that up, it seems Xavier has created awesome music to this mangled genre identifier, filling a need nobody expected they had but soon to discover they did. Hit the club all in white and stare at your shoes through the end of the night. Then cruise home in the dawn with the comedown of “Pink Dust.” YOLO. TLTR. LOL.

1 month ago  1 note

The Drunken Draculas - Dead Sounds [Old Monster; 2013] Keen observers of our fair website may recall my hard-cool excitement overRichard Swift gone garage a long five years ago. It’s a trend I’ve continued to tail from a host of regional acts all hammering out three chords in grungy basements and dusty backyards, all trying to recapture an era none of us lived in but have read much about. Maybe we’ve even bought a few dog-eared records from yard sales and pawn shops. It has led me to the Drunken Draculas (or them to me, if you will). It’s a twisty, half-played mess of vibrant bass, oaken vocals and silly monster references (“The Tranny was a Zombie,” “Old Ass Troll,” “Dracula Stole My Gal”). All two minute blisters that begged to be popped so the 60s ooze all over your boil covered body. If you found this during a bin (dumpster?) dive, you’d be holding a classic that never existed. As it stands, 2013 is the year of half-assed garage rock and you know you’ve been waiting for it. No more outer space zones and intricate geometric trigonometry bullshit. Just guys and gals in small confines beating and strumming and strumming and smoking and smoking and blistering. It’s been prophesied in these very pages. The little critters of nature, they don’t know that they’re ugly…

The Drunken Draculas - Dead Sounds [Old Monster; 2013]

Keen observers of our fair website may recall my hard-cool excitement overRichard Swift gone garage a long five years ago. It’s a trend I’ve continued to tail from a host of regional acts all hammering out three chords in grungy basements and dusty backyards, all trying to recapture an era none of us lived in but have read much about. Maybe we’ve even bought a few dog-eared records from yard sales and pawn shops. It has led me to the Drunken Draculas (or them to me, if you will). It’s a twisty, half-played mess of vibrant bass, oaken vocals and silly monster references (“The Tranny was a Zombie,” “Old Ass Troll,” “Dracula Stole My Gal”). All two minute blisters that begged to be popped so the 60s ooze all over your boil covered body. If you found this during a bin (dumpster?) dive, you’d be holding a classic that never existed. As it stands, 2013 is the year of half-assed garage rock and you know you’ve been waiting for it. No more outer space zones and intricate geometric trigonometry bullshit. Just guys and gals in small confines beating and strumming and strumming and smoking and smoking and blistering. It’s been prophesied in these very pages. The little critters of nature, they don’t know that they’re ugly…

1 month ago 

Roy Montgomery - Music from the Film Hey Badfinger [Yellow Electric; 2013] Montgomery’s is a life of enrichment. He was central to the emergence of New Zealand’s underground in the late 70s and early 80s, left to pursue interests in academia and art, only to return with a noggin full of new ideas, refreshing a scene that continues to flourish in the digital age. But his biggest mark has yet to be made. Throughout his lengthy career as a musician, he’s left a hefty catalog of must-listens. And yet, it seems Montgomery’s is a canon that is rooted in the idea that one loud roar is not as effective as steeled composure spread among multiple compositions. Music from the Film Hey Badfinger is the coalescing of this philosophy under the banner of paying tribute to the Badfinger; a lost history and cautionary tale of rock and roll success and failure that was conveniently swept under the rug. Though Montgomery’s 23 spirits of miniature rock won’t serve as renewed notice, they do keep the memories of Badfinger—the good and bad—alive for a new generation unfamiliar with the band’s tainted legacy. Montgomery is playful through Hey Badfinger, not only in his up-tempo guitar mantras but with the subject matter. He laments the hangings of Pete Ham and Tom Evans, cheekily references Badfinger songs with response titles (for example, “Come & Get It” becomes “Go & Get It” under Montgomery’s abbreviated tribute, the emotional response of the McCartney creation all that links the two in sound), and channels the jangle-pop of the era with his stripped sound. The brilliance of Hey Badfinger is not in its accolade but in its brevity. Twenty-three creations that bleed into each other, Montgomery seeming to conjure the music on the fly after a binge listening of Badfinger’s work; a reminder how immediate and connected music is not only between musician and audience but between fellow musicians, no matter the generational gap.

Roy Montgomery - Music from the Film Hey Badfinger [Yellow Electric; 2013]

Montgomery’s is a life of enrichment. He was central to the emergence of New Zealand’s underground in the late 70s and early 80s, left to pursue interests in academia and art, only to return with a noggin full of new ideas, refreshing a scene that continues to flourish in the digital age.

But his biggest mark has yet to be made. Throughout his lengthy career as a musician, he’s left a hefty catalog of must-listens. And yet, it seems Montgomery’s is a canon that is rooted in the idea that one loud roar is not as effective as steeled composure spread among multiple compositions.

Music from the Film Hey Badfinger is the coalescing of this philosophy under the banner of paying tribute to the Badfinger; a lost history and cautionary tale of rock and roll success and failure that was conveniently swept under the rug. Though Montgomery’s 23 spirits of miniature rock won’t serve as renewed notice, they do keep the memories of Badfinger—the good and bad—alive for a new generation unfamiliar with the band’s tainted legacy.

Montgomery is playful through Hey Badfinger, not only in his up-tempo guitar mantras but with the subject matter. He laments the hangings of Pete Ham and Tom Evans, cheekily references Badfinger songs with response titles (for example, “Come & Get It” becomes “Go & Get It” under Montgomery’s abbreviated tribute, the emotional response of the McCartney creation all that links the two in sound), and channels the jangle-pop of the era with his stripped sound.

The brilliance of Hey Badfinger is not in its accolade but in its brevity. Twenty-three creations that bleed into each other, Montgomery seeming to conjure the music on the fly after a binge listening of Badfinger’s work; a reminder how immediate and connected music is not only between musician and audience but between fellow musicians, no matter the generational gap.

1 month ago  4 notes

Abyssal Farmers - Find a Name to Call Me [Kimberly Dawn; 2013] This looks like a fine hotel. It’s remote, no one find me here. I am a pretty woman, so who would peg me on the lamb? I’ll stay here for the night and continue north in the morning. The lobby seems eerily quiet. Where’s the hotelier? The fluorescent light sure do buzz in the calm. And the bell is deep and bellowing, not the happy ping of most hotels. It’s just my paranoia. I hear foot steps, that must be the desk clerk. Why, he seems young and nervous. Not so different from me. Something is amiss but I’m tired and need to sleep. Nothing but harmless peeping from that one. I can take a little spy for one evening. But what I really need is a hot shower. Something to calm me down and sooth my aching bones. Then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. I want to sleep like a baby tonight. Or better still, the dead….

Abyssal Farmers - Find a Name to Call Me [Kimberly Dawn; 2013]

This looks like a fine hotel. It’s remote, no one find me here. I am a pretty woman, so who would peg me on the lamb? I’ll stay here for the night and continue north in the morning. The lobby seems eerily quiet. Where’s the hotelier? The fluorescent light sure do buzz in the calm. And the bell is deep and bellowing, not the happy ping of most hotels. It’s just my paranoia. I hear foot steps, that must be the desk clerk. Why, he seems young and nervous. Not so different from me. Something is amiss but I’m tired and need to sleep. Nothing but harmless peeping from that one. I can take a little spy for one evening. But what I really need is a hot shower. Something to calm me down and sooth my aching bones. Then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. I want to sleep like a baby tonight. Or better still, the dead….

1 month ago 

Smokey Emery - Quartz EP [Indian Queen; 2012] Daniel Hipolito is the Phantom of the Collage. As Smokey Emery, he heavies the pipe organ deep the theater’s recesses through Quartz. It’s a sad fugue, that plays with your mind as it loops ominously. Is it my turntable that’s faulty? Is the vinyl warped? Is the Earth’s rotation stuck on a skip? I like these mind games and clearly so does Hipolito. The black and white imagery, the Dust Bowl drones, a mysticism never to be fully grasped. The black oval obelisk is heavy with the weight of the world; full of the misery and anger of those abandoned, left to wail unheard in their own basement.

Smokey Emery - Quartz EP [Indian Queen; 2012]

Daniel Hipolito is the Phantom of the Collage. As Smokey Emery, he heavies the pipe organ deep the theater’s recesses through Quartz. It’s a sad fugue, that plays with your mind as it loops ominously. Is it my turntable that’s faulty? Is the vinyl warped? Is the Earth’s rotation stuck on a skip? I like these mind games and clearly so does Hipolito. The black and white imagery, the Dust Bowl drones, a mysticism never to be fully grasped. The black oval obelisk is heavy with the weight of the world; full of the misery and anger of those abandoned, left to wail unheard in their own basement.

1 month ago  2 notes

Various Artists - Whatever It Is You’re Doing Now [Mirror Universe; 2013] Once told that to understand music, one must define it, labels began to segregate sounds. They fell into traps of genre, eliminating the science behind listening habits for specialized fulfillment. Mirror Universe will have none of it, and over the course of four sides of pop, noise, drone, synth and kitchen sinks, Whatever It Is You’re Doing Now promises the old lay of the land–something for everybody. Though the tapes does delineate along some familiar parameters (pop dominated Side A, throwback synth eats alive Side C), it all represents the eclectic palette and devil-may-curation of Mirror Universe. Familiar favorites (Noveller, Xander Harris, Foot Village) share space with spunky up and comers. I can’t get enough of Southern Femisphere, their classic pop rock infectious. Seriously, I have a delightful fever that grows when I play “Transgander.” M. Sage traps me in the Tim Hecker/Fennesz bubble, combining elegant waves of static drone with heavy rain and distant voices. Pariah Carey deliver complete 16-bit soundtrack–speed runs, boss battles and all–within 4 minutes of the kawaii cute known as “Smile From The Grave 4U.” SuR are down and dirty, a sludge of old garage and grunge and unapologetic about your harsh criticisms. The fear of being burnt is heavy but don’t be daunted. The tempo changes, the mood waxes and wanes, and the smorgasbord of music will keep this stuck in your tape player. Though it’s almost certain that once you’ve stripped the tape bare, you’ll be forced to destroy and disavow its existence to maintain face when you introduce your friends to all these new bands.

Various Artists - Whatever It Is You’re Doing Now [Mirror Universe; 2013]

Once told that to understand music, one must define it, labels began to segregate sounds. They fell into traps of genre, eliminating the science behind listening habits for specialized fulfillment. Mirror Universe will have none of it, and over the course of four sides of pop, noise, drone, synth and kitchen sinks, Whatever It Is You’re Doing Now promises the old lay of the land–something for everybody. Though the tapes does delineate along some familiar parameters (pop dominated Side A, throwback synth eats alive Side C), it all represents the eclectic palette and devil-may-curation of Mirror Universe. Familiar favorites (Noveller, Xander Harris, Foot Village) share space with spunky up and comers. I can’t get enough of Southern Femisphere, their classic pop rock infectious. Seriously, I have a delightful fever that grows when I play “Transgander.” M. Sage traps me in the Tim Hecker/Fennesz bubble, combining elegant waves of static drone with heavy rain and distant voices. Pariah Carey deliver complete 16-bit soundtrack–speed runs, boss battles and all–within 4 minutes of the kawaii cute known as “Smile From The Grave 4U.” SuR are down and dirty, a sludge of old garage and grunge and unapologetic about your harsh criticisms. The fear of being burnt is heavy but don’t be daunted. The tempo changes, the mood waxes and wanes, and the smorgasbord of music will keep this stuck in your tape player. Though it’s almost certain that once you’ve stripped the tape bare, you’ll be forced to destroy and disavow its existence to maintain face when you introduce your friends to all these new bands.

1 month ago  1 note

Gert-Jan Prins - s/t [The Spring Press; 2013] This is brutal. Way too brutal. I forgot how sheer force can change music into noise and noise into music. Dutch master Prins destroys 10-inches of lathe vinyl in a matter of minutes, splaying electronic guts across a pretty, clear wax package of minimalism. It’s angry and immortal, ripping apart the unsuspecting with each rotation until your innards tear from your insides and seek refuge outside of the body. And if you somehow survive the assault, Prins will be waiting to do the job your body was too cowardly to act upon… FINISH HIM!

Gert-Jan Prins - s/t [The Spring Press; 2013]

This is brutal. Way too brutal. I forgot how sheer force can change music into noise and noise into music. Dutch master Prins destroys 10-inches of lathe vinyl in a matter of minutes, splaying electronic guts across a pretty, clear wax package of minimalism. It’s angry and immortal, ripping apart the unsuspecting with each rotation until your innards tear from your insides and seek refuge outside of the body. And if you somehow survive the assault, Prins will be waiting to do the job your body was too cowardly to act upon…

FINISH HIM!

1 month ago 

Mudhoney - Vanishing Point [Sub Pop; 2013] Twenty-five years after their formation, Mudhoney lay claim to the protectors of the idealized “Seattle” sound with Vanishing Point. Always an infectious band full on grunge, garage and punk, the rowdy foursome are oft overlooked by the outside world when discussing Seattle’s imprint on the musical landscape. Vanishing Point pays lip service to all the Emerald City’s past. Opener “Slipping Away” conjures a Hendrix hex, “Chardonnay” an angry toast to city’s past, “Douchebags on Parade” a subtle nod to the city’s present reputation. “I Don’t Remember You” is most recognizable of the album’s tracks as distinctly Mudhoney but like much of Vanishing Point, the careless crunch and rabbit punches of the past are pushed aside in favor of melody and rhythm. That the angst and edge of past Mudhoney albums is remarkably absent, it’s not to the detriment of album and band. Twenty-five years is a lifetime in modern rock and the band has transitioned from graffiti to obelisk. They are historians of a tradition whittled to talking points, Vanishing Point a proper retelling of the way it was and the way it will be. Vanishing Point is seasoned, lacking none of the attitude of Mudhoney, just less of it in shorter, more effective doses.

Mudhoney - Vanishing Point [Sub Pop; 2013]

Twenty-five years after their formation, Mudhoney lay claim to the protectors of the idealized “Seattle” sound with Vanishing Point. Always an infectious band full on grunge, garage and punk, the rowdy foursome are oft overlooked by the outside world when discussing Seattle’s imprint on the musical landscape.

Vanishing Point pays lip service to all the Emerald City’s past. Opener “Slipping Away” conjures a Hendrix hex, “Chardonnay” an angry toast to city’s past, “Douchebags on Parade” a subtle nod to the city’s present reputation. “I Don’t Remember You” is most recognizable of the album’s tracks as distinctly Mudhoney but like much of Vanishing Point, the careless crunch and rabbit punches of the past are pushed aside in favor of melody and rhythm.

That the angst and edge of past Mudhoney albums is remarkably absent, it’s not to the detriment of album and band. Twenty-five years is a lifetime in modern rock and the band has transitioned from graffiti to obelisk. They are historians of a tradition whittled to talking points, Vanishing Point a proper retelling of the way it was and the way it will be. Vanishing Point is seasoned, lacking none of the attitude of Mudhoney, just less of it in shorter, more effective doses.

1 month ago  1 note View high resolution

Logansport - Beauty in Belief [Ginjoha; 2013] I have little idea if Logan Jackson is truly from Logansport (consider it your idea of Pawnee if you must, though geographically that’s more akin to Bedford if you want a lesson in Indiana) but its certainly draped within Beauty in Belief. Not because of any supposed wholesomeness within a Butternut state but because of the simple, idyllic ruminations of Jackson’s sweet ambient swing. This is why I turn to Ginjoha batch after batch–a manner of drone both contemplative and salubrious. This is a palette cleanser for big city living and current transgressions (however defined). Logansport is angelic, uplifting without the booming prophetic doomsday voyeurism of preachers invading small campuses (I can’t count how many times I encountered this during my days at generic state Indiana college). We are all absolved in Jackson’s confessional booth, without prejudice or judgment. Hell, there is no sin to be found no matter your home. We’re all just trying to do the best we can for ourselves, our loved ones, and the community. At least Logansport would have you believe, and it’s worth believing in.

Logansport - Beauty in Belief [Ginjoha; 2013]

I have little idea if Logan Jackson is truly from Logansport (consider it your idea of Pawnee if you must, though geographically that’s more akin to Bedford if you want a lesson in Indiana) but its certainly draped within Beauty in Belief. Not because of any supposed wholesomeness within a Butternut state but because of the simple, idyllic ruminations of Jackson’s sweet ambient swing. This is why I turn to Ginjoha batch after batch–a manner of drone both contemplative and salubrious. This is a palette cleanser for big city living and current transgressions (however defined). Logansport is angelic, uplifting without the booming prophetic doomsday voyeurism of preachers invading small campuses (I can’t count how many times I encountered this during my days at generic state Indiana college). We are all absolved in Jackson’s confessional booth, without prejudice or judgment. Hell, there is no sin to be found no matter your home. We’re all just trying to do the best we can for ourselves, our loved ones, and the community. At least Logansport would have you believe, and it’s worth believing in.

Bill Baird - Spring Break of the Soul [Pau Wau; 2013] The world of psychedelia has undergone numerous face lifts but few have been on the metaphysical level—that magnificently magenta aura that is often the subject of the sunnier side but obscured by the dark, gritty clouds of its maddening past. The intersection of the Venn Diagram of psychedelia: where pop meets garage meets mind meets matter, this is the crevice of Bill Baird. A sinisterly sweet mixture of acid rain and hallucinogenic smiles, Spring Break of the Soul has no fear in smearing the genre’s neon pop Day-Glo and casting out the demonic overtures of its seedier sounds. Case in point: “Sailing”. Baird appropriates the classic Christopher Cross yacht rocker into a moody but sadistically poppy crawl. “Sailing” does not obscure the majesty of Cross’ original but the slower pace through the stormy sea is more reality than the original cares to capture in its own sleepy-eyed haze. Further confusion occurs with “Big Sir Reverie,” a summery interpretation of post-Beach Boys California—those heady times of Manson and drugs—that still feels as warm as a Wilson melody and a Love vocal without a bit of irony (“Blob” even invoking latter Beach Boys with its Holland style storytelling). Baird doesn’t shy away from experimenting with the stretched-thin scene. “Bow Down to the Brain” is R. Stevie Moore in reverse; “Lake Eerie” is nimble motorik amid the buzzing of Mendelssohn and Morrison; a groggy belch of the echoing drone amid a sea of deft strings.Spring Break of the Soul does not succeed in its lofty titular goals but as a further expansion of Baird’s repertoire and exposing a genre for its faults by capitalizing on them, Spring Break of the Soul should be a one-two punch (along with Harmony Korine’s film, Spring Breakers) in exploring the essence of America at a time when we’re too fixated on the façade.

Bill Baird - Spring Break of the Soul [Pau Wau; 2013]

The world of psychedelia has undergone numerous face lifts but few have been on the metaphysical level—that magnificently magenta aura that is often the subject of the sunnier side but obscured by the dark, gritty clouds of its maddening past.

The intersection of the Venn Diagram of psychedelia: where pop meets garage meets mind meets matter, this is the crevice of Bill Baird. A sinisterly sweet mixture of acid rain and hallucinogenic smiles, Spring Break of the Soul has no fear in smearing the genre’s neon pop Day-Glo and casting out the demonic overtures of its seedier sounds.

Case in point: “Sailing”. Baird appropriates the classic Christopher Cross yacht rocker into a moody but sadistically poppy crawl. “Sailing” does not obscure the majesty of Cross’ original but the slower pace through the stormy sea is more reality than the original cares to capture in its own sleepy-eyed haze. Further confusion occurs with “Big Sir Reverie,” a summery interpretation of post-Beach Boys California—those heady times of Manson and drugs—that still feels as warm as a Wilson melody and a Love vocal without a bit of irony (“Blob” even invoking latter Beach Boys with its Holland style storytelling).

Baird doesn’t shy away from experimenting with the stretched-thin scene. “Bow Down to the Brain” is R. Stevie Moore in reverse; “Lake Eerie” is nimble motorik amid the buzzing of Mendelssohn and Morrison; a groggy belch of the echoing drone amid a sea of deft strings.Spring Break of the Soul does not succeed in its lofty titular goals but as a further expansion of Baird’s repertoire and exposing a genre for its faults by capitalizing on them, Spring Break of the Soul should be a one-two punch (along with Harmony Korine’s film, Spring Breakers) in exploring the essence of America at a time when we’re too fixated on the façade.

Sungod - Contackt [Holodeck; 2013] Too many influences! I’m riddled with the prog-metal-synth-outer-jams of Sungod but who cares to extrapolate every touchstone? Sungod exist to bring your favorites together in one hell of a stage show, without so much as needing a performance for your cortex to picture the fog machine, the stunning laser light show, and the band’s enigmatic entrance. “Smell of Physiqal” is angry Floyd, Waters and Gilmour taking their spats public. “Gas is Better than Gas” is synth-psych, the sort of psycho future Dennis Hopper fueled in visions never meant for public consumption. “Comrade Voyager” reminds me a tighter Bad Dudes, the 80s indulgence glam of “Eat Drugs” replaced with deeper diplomatic relations as arbitrated by kraut. This is air guitar licks, cushion drumming, and Goodwill dress-up at its most epic. This one doesn’t miss a beat and is surely but the first of many knockouts from the next big (big being relative in the world of cassettes) thing.

Sungod - Contackt [Holodeck; 2013]

Too many influences! I’m riddled with the prog-metal-synth-outer-jams of Sungod but who cares to extrapolate every touchstone? Sungod exist to bring your favorites together in one hell of a stage show, without so much as needing a performance for your cortex to picture the fog machine, the stunning laser light show, and the band’s enigmatic entrance. “Smell of Physiqal” is angry Floyd, Waters and Gilmour taking their spats public. “Gas is Better than Gas” is synth-psych, the sort of psycho future Dennis Hopper fueled in visions never meant for public consumption. “Comrade Voyager” reminds me a tighter Bad Dudes, the 80s indulgence glam of “Eat Drugs” replaced with deeper diplomatic relations as arbitrated by kraut. This is air guitar licks, cushion drumming, and Goodwill dress-up at its most epic. This one doesn’t miss a beat and is surely but the first of many knockouts from the next big (big being relative in the world of cassettes) thing.

Homeshake - The Homeshake Tape [Fixture; 2013] The joke goes that Canada is behind America, but Homeshake prove the tables turned–at least in venerable Montreal. As America goes fascists with its rules against smoking, drinking, and public fornication, so goes pop culture in a time warp of fake 50s couture amid a backdrop of sloppy hand holding with 80s and 90s subculture. Enough H&M propagation! Homeshake moves forward, toward a Canada where Quebec is free and Stephen Harper is a bum on the street corner unable to cobble a few loons together (people are turned off by madman ravings). The Homeshake Tape goes all McKenzie-Malkmus-Desser-Sparkles with its mash-up of Canadian humor and American slackerism. But because of it, we’re in love (and strangely confused). The debut of Peter Sagar is crisp and unyielding. The pop soul of “Moon Woman,” the cool cat strut of “Gettin’ Down,” and low end lounge of “Hater” showcasing an understanding of forward thought in a time when nostalgia is a fly trap. Montreal has been coveting a healthy scene of lo-fi, noise, and drone and Homeshake skirts all of it. I’m wrapping up tight in this pop rock blanket and forgetting how America sinks further into hegemony as the world whirls by.

Homeshake - The Homeshake Tape [Fixture; 2013]

The joke goes that Canada is behind America, but Homeshake prove the tables turned–at least in venerable Montreal. As America goes fascists with its rules against smoking, drinking, and public fornication, so goes pop culture in a time warp of fake 50s couture amid a backdrop of sloppy hand holding with 80s and 90s subculture. Enough H&M propagation! Homeshake moves forward, toward a Canada where Quebec is free and Stephen Harper is a bum on the street corner unable to cobble a few loons together (people are turned off by madman ravings). The Homeshake Tape goes all McKenzie-Malkmus-Desser-Sparkles with its mash-up of Canadian humor and American slackerism. But because of it, we’re in love (and strangely confused). The debut of Peter Sagar is crisp and unyielding. The pop soul of “Moon Woman,” the cool cat strut of “Gettin’ Down,” and low end lounge of “Hater” showcasing an understanding of forward thought in a time when nostalgia is a fly trap. Montreal has been coveting a healthy scene of lo-fi, noise, and drone and Homeshake skirts all of it. I’m wrapping up tight in this pop rock blanket and forgetting how America sinks further into hegemony as the world whirls by.

JD Emmanuel/Evan Caminiti - Contrasts [Preservation; 2013] Calgon Emmanuel, take me away! The A-side to this latest Contrasts pairing is amazing. And then it drops! But it returns lusher than ever. I am in its grasp, the sudsy bath enveloping my senses as I let my body go limp into the fade out…but I open my eyes to a new world, one underwater with magical creatures singing to me in docile tones. A full-body feast as I dive deeper into my Cousteau fantasy, only to come to find the Mariana Trench is a portal to the Earth behind the sun, outer space lovely this time of year. But Earth 2 is not the magical world I was expecting, Evan Caminiti’s dismal splash of acid rain on a world in ruin waking me from my Magellan cruise. As I desperately seek shelter, I find eves and overhangs impossible. When I encounter a shop or coffeehouse, thinking it a fine place to hide until the drenching rain subsides, I am skirted out the door. The world is turning dark and the gutters begin to swell. But I realize I am not in a fantasy, nor am I on Earth 2. This is the world which we have created, shunting Emmanuel’s beautiful forward progression for Caminiti’s gritty noir. We are a society growing cold, at odds with the Utopian idealism of the Golden Rule. I will endure this cold, pounding rain because it is the punishment I deserve for a fool’s errand. I fall asleep in the gutter, naked and exposed for the world to kick.

JD Emmanuel/Evan Caminiti - Contrasts [Preservation; 2013]

Calgon Emmanuel, take me away! The A-side to this latest Contrasts pairing is amazing. And then it drops! But it returns lusher than ever. I am in its grasp, the sudsy bath enveloping my senses as I let my body go limp into the fade out…but I open my eyes to a new world, one underwater with magical creatures singing to me in docile tones. A full-body feast as I dive deeper into my Cousteau fantasy, only to come to find the Mariana Trench is a portal to the Earth behind the sun, outer space lovely this time of year. But Earth 2 is not the magical world I was expecting, Evan Caminiti’s dismal splash of acid rain on a world in ruin waking me from my Magellan cruise. As I desperately seek shelter, I find eves and overhangs impossible. When I encounter a shop or coffeehouse, thinking it a fine place to hide until the drenching rain subsides, I am skirted out the door. The world is turning dark and the gutters begin to swell. But I realize I am not in a fantasy, nor am I on Earth 2. This is the world which we have created, shunting Emmanuel’s beautiful forward progression for Caminiti’s gritty noir. We are a society growing cold, at odds with the Utopian idealism of the Golden Rule. I will endure this cold, pounding rain because it is the punishment I deserve for a fool’s errand. I fall asleep in the gutter, naked and exposed for the world to kick.

Fluorescent Heights - Tidal Motions [Constellation Tatsu; 2013] Oh what magnificent heights! I am bathed by the sun, wings melted by the heat like Icarus. But I ignore reason for the sine waves lift me up higher and higher. Fluorescent Heights has cut me loose. Gravity means nothing. The oceans rise with me; I am swimming among the Great Barrier Reef in the stratosphere. I jump beside Felix Baumgartner but do not fall to earth. This is my new home, enveloped in heavenly clouds and the synthesizers of angels. I am rocked to silver lining sleep on a bed of Tidal Motions. The moon is my reading lamp, the sky my window. I never want to feel terra firma with my feet again. The beach and the mud and the stone and the grass are all up here anyway. This is better than The Rapture because anyone can come. No sin exists in weightlessness. And if it does, Fluorescent Heights will absolve it. This will make it right. I lay my head on the bosom of a star. I rest my feet on the edge of Olympus Mons.

Fluorescent Heights - Tidal Motions [Constellation Tatsu; 2013]

Oh what magnificent heights! I am bathed by the sun, wings melted by the heat like Icarus. But I ignore reason for the sine waves lift me up higher and higher. Fluorescent Heights has cut me loose. Gravity means nothing. The oceans rise with me; I am swimming among the Great Barrier Reef in the stratosphere. I jump beside Felix Baumgartner but do not fall to earth. This is my new home, enveloped in heavenly clouds and the synthesizers of angels. I am rocked to silver lining sleep on a bed of Tidal Motions. The moon is my reading lamp, the sky my window. I never want to feel terra firma with my feet again. The beach and the mud and the stone and the grass are all up here anyway. This is better than The Rapture because anyone can come. No sin exists in weightlessness. And if it does, Fluorescent Heights will absolve it. This will make it right. I lay my head on the bosom of a star. I rest my feet on the edge of Olympus Mons.

William Basinski - Shortwavemusic [Auris Apothecary; 2013] Pleasantries first: Auris Apothecary and Cerberus entered the world the same day in the same year. I consider this no coincidence, for we are all particles connected to one another by hippie bullshit that doesn’t matter in the end because we’re all screwed up. AA transmits that and we report it. And for more than a decade, William Basinski has had to be swallowed by the same damning press all because his masterwork happened to find its completion as the twin towers of the World Trade Center sadly crumbled on the same day. Irony isn’t always fun , but AA’s twisted smirks and Basinski’s fragile compositions can make it so.Shortwavemusic’s latest reissue (of many from the 1982 composition) came in the midst of New Year’s in the guise of a 1/4-inch tape on a 7-inch reel. Without purpose, I hunted eBay to find a working reel-to-reel player for which to listen. I read, I studied, and I coveted. And here it is a pile of tape on the floor after heart and soul has been poured into such a centerpiece. But music isn’t for show, it’s for hearing. But AA does not heed such consequences, for it embraces both (always for the better). They knew what a clumsy but adventurous shell would do armed with 7-inches of reel. I’m sure many have framed and hung theirs by the chimney with care, but I sledgehammered it down to obtain the precious and put it through its paces. And it sounds good–oh so good. I’ve wrapped myself like a mummy in its discards, trying to contemplate where AA begins, Basinski takes over, and Cerberus ends. It all comes out too Donnie Darko for my tastes, so I try to ignore the coincidences. I try to focus on what each of us does and in that, I find solace. Shortwavemusic is an empowering piece, triumphant in a time where shows of aggression or talking loudest win fights. AA and Basinski take no such course. We shall oblige.

William Basinski - Shortwavemusic [Auris Apothecary; 2013]

Pleasantries first: Auris Apothecary and Cerberus entered the world the same day in the same year. I consider this no coincidence, for we are all particles connected to one another by hippie bullshit that doesn’t matter in the end because we’re all screwed up. AA transmits that and we report it. And for more than a decade, William Basinski has had to be swallowed by the same damning press all because his masterwork happened to find its completion as the twin towers of the World Trade Center sadly crumbled on the same day. Irony isn’t always fun , but AA’s twisted smirks and Basinski’s fragile compositions can make it so.Shortwavemusic’s latest reissue (of many from the 1982 composition) came in the midst of New Year’s in the guise of a 1/4-inch tape on a 7-inch reel. Without purpose, I hunted eBay to find a working reel-to-reel player for which to listen. I read, I studied, and I coveted. And here it is a pile of tape on the floor after heart and soul has been poured into such a centerpiece. But music isn’t for show, it’s for hearing. But AA does not heed such consequences, for it embraces both (always for the better). They knew what a clumsy but adventurous shell would do armed with 7-inches of reel. I’m sure many have framed and hung theirs by the chimney with care, but I sledgehammered it down to obtain the precious and put it through its paces. And it sounds good–oh so good. I’ve wrapped myself like a mummy in its discards, trying to contemplate where AA begins, Basinski takes over, and Cerberus ends. It all comes out too Donnie Darko for my tastes, so I try to ignore the coincidences. I try to focus on what each of us does and in that, I find solace. Shortwavemusic is an empowering piece, triumphant in a time where shows of aggression or talking loudest win fights. AA and Basinski take no such course. We shall oblige.

FWY! - Any Exit [Moon Glyph; 2013] Are you fucking with me? Am I fucking with you? What’s this 80s slacker elevator cool bullshit doing in my bass heavy rock and soul? Any Exit, the latest from Edmund Xavier/Glenn Donaldson/Skygreen Leopards lives up the project’s heady internet total recall. It’s a throwback to minimal Liverpoolian house-gaze. Though I just made that up, it seems Xavier has created awesome music to this mangled genre identifier, filling a need nobody expected they had but soon to discover they did. Hit the club all in white and stare at your shoes through the end of the night. Then cruise home in the dawn with the comedown of “Pink Dust.” YOLO. TLTR. LOL.

FWY! - Any Exit [Moon Glyph; 2013]

Are you fucking with me? Am I fucking with you? What’s this 80s slacker elevator cool bullshit doing in my bass heavy rock and soul? Any Exit, the latest from Edmund Xavier/Glenn Donaldson/Skygreen Leopards lives up the project’s heady internet total recall. It’s a throwback to minimal Liverpoolian house-gaze. Though I just made that up, it seems Xavier has created awesome music to this mangled genre identifier, filling a need nobody expected they had but soon to discover they did. Hit the club all in white and stare at your shoes through the end of the night. Then cruise home in the dawn with the comedown of “Pink Dust.” YOLO. TLTR. LOL.

The Drunken Draculas - Dead Sounds [Old Monster; 2013] Keen observers of our fair website may recall my hard-cool excitement overRichard Swift gone garage a long five years ago. It’s a trend I’ve continued to tail from a host of regional acts all hammering out three chords in grungy basements and dusty backyards, all trying to recapture an era none of us lived in but have read much about. Maybe we’ve even bought a few dog-eared records from yard sales and pawn shops. It has led me to the Drunken Draculas (or them to me, if you will). It’s a twisty, half-played mess of vibrant bass, oaken vocals and silly monster references (“The Tranny was a Zombie,” “Old Ass Troll,” “Dracula Stole My Gal”). All two minute blisters that begged to be popped so the 60s ooze all over your boil covered body. If you found this during a bin (dumpster?) dive, you’d be holding a classic that never existed. As it stands, 2013 is the year of half-assed garage rock and you know you’ve been waiting for it. No more outer space zones and intricate geometric trigonometry bullshit. Just guys and gals in small confines beating and strumming and strumming and smoking and smoking and blistering. It’s been prophesied in these very pages. The little critters of nature, they don’t know that they’re ugly…

The Drunken Draculas - Dead Sounds [Old Monster; 2013]

Keen observers of our fair website may recall my hard-cool excitement overRichard Swift gone garage a long five years ago. It’s a trend I’ve continued to tail from a host of regional acts all hammering out three chords in grungy basements and dusty backyards, all trying to recapture an era none of us lived in but have read much about. Maybe we’ve even bought a few dog-eared records from yard sales and pawn shops. It has led me to the Drunken Draculas (or them to me, if you will). It’s a twisty, half-played mess of vibrant bass, oaken vocals and silly monster references (“The Tranny was a Zombie,” “Old Ass Troll,” “Dracula Stole My Gal”). All two minute blisters that begged to be popped so the 60s ooze all over your boil covered body. If you found this during a bin (dumpster?) dive, you’d be holding a classic that never existed. As it stands, 2013 is the year of half-assed garage rock and you know you’ve been waiting for it. No more outer space zones and intricate geometric trigonometry bullshit. Just guys and gals in small confines beating and strumming and strumming and smoking and smoking and blistering. It’s been prophesied in these very pages. The little critters of nature, they don’t know that they’re ugly…

Roy Montgomery - Music from the Film Hey Badfinger [Yellow Electric; 2013] Montgomery’s is a life of enrichment. He was central to the emergence of New Zealand’s underground in the late 70s and early 80s, left to pursue interests in academia and art, only to return with a noggin full of new ideas, refreshing a scene that continues to flourish in the digital age. But his biggest mark has yet to be made. Throughout his lengthy career as a musician, he’s left a hefty catalog of must-listens. And yet, it seems Montgomery’s is a canon that is rooted in the idea that one loud roar is not as effective as steeled composure spread among multiple compositions. Music from the Film Hey Badfinger is the coalescing of this philosophy under the banner of paying tribute to the Badfinger; a lost history and cautionary tale of rock and roll success and failure that was conveniently swept under the rug. Though Montgomery’s 23 spirits of miniature rock won’t serve as renewed notice, they do keep the memories of Badfinger—the good and bad—alive for a new generation unfamiliar with the band’s tainted legacy. Montgomery is playful through Hey Badfinger, not only in his up-tempo guitar mantras but with the subject matter. He laments the hangings of Pete Ham and Tom Evans, cheekily references Badfinger songs with response titles (for example, “Come & Get It” becomes “Go & Get It” under Montgomery’s abbreviated tribute, the emotional response of the McCartney creation all that links the two in sound), and channels the jangle-pop of the era with his stripped sound. The brilliance of Hey Badfinger is not in its accolade but in its brevity. Twenty-three creations that bleed into each other, Montgomery seeming to conjure the music on the fly after a binge listening of Badfinger’s work; a reminder how immediate and connected music is not only between musician and audience but between fellow musicians, no matter the generational gap.

Roy Montgomery - Music from the Film Hey Badfinger [Yellow Electric; 2013]

Montgomery’s is a life of enrichment. He was central to the emergence of New Zealand’s underground in the late 70s and early 80s, left to pursue interests in academia and art, only to return with a noggin full of new ideas, refreshing a scene that continues to flourish in the digital age.

But his biggest mark has yet to be made. Throughout his lengthy career as a musician, he’s left a hefty catalog of must-listens. And yet, it seems Montgomery’s is a canon that is rooted in the idea that one loud roar is not as effective as steeled composure spread among multiple compositions.

Music from the Film Hey Badfinger is the coalescing of this philosophy under the banner of paying tribute to the Badfinger; a lost history and cautionary tale of rock and roll success and failure that was conveniently swept under the rug. Though Montgomery’s 23 spirits of miniature rock won’t serve as renewed notice, they do keep the memories of Badfinger—the good and bad—alive for a new generation unfamiliar with the band’s tainted legacy.

Montgomery is playful through Hey Badfinger, not only in his up-tempo guitar mantras but with the subject matter. He laments the hangings of Pete Ham and Tom Evans, cheekily references Badfinger songs with response titles (for example, “Come & Get It” becomes “Go & Get It” under Montgomery’s abbreviated tribute, the emotional response of the McCartney creation all that links the two in sound), and channels the jangle-pop of the era with his stripped sound.

The brilliance of Hey Badfinger is not in its accolade but in its brevity. Twenty-three creations that bleed into each other, Montgomery seeming to conjure the music on the fly after a binge listening of Badfinger’s work; a reminder how immediate and connected music is not only between musician and audience but between fellow musicians, no matter the generational gap.

Abyssal Farmers - Find a Name to Call Me [Kimberly Dawn; 2013] This looks like a fine hotel. It’s remote, no one find me here. I am a pretty woman, so who would peg me on the lamb? I’ll stay here for the night and continue north in the morning. The lobby seems eerily quiet. Where’s the hotelier? The fluorescent light sure do buzz in the calm. And the bell is deep and bellowing, not the happy ping of most hotels. It’s just my paranoia. I hear foot steps, that must be the desk clerk. Why, he seems young and nervous. Not so different from me. Something is amiss but I’m tired and need to sleep. Nothing but harmless peeping from that one. I can take a little spy for one evening. But what I really need is a hot shower. Something to calm me down and sooth my aching bones. Then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. I want to sleep like a baby tonight. Or better still, the dead….

Abyssal Farmers - Find a Name to Call Me [Kimberly Dawn; 2013]

This looks like a fine hotel. It’s remote, no one find me here. I am a pretty woman, so who would peg me on the lamb? I’ll stay here for the night and continue north in the morning. The lobby seems eerily quiet. Where’s the hotelier? The fluorescent light sure do buzz in the calm. And the bell is deep and bellowing, not the happy ping of most hotels. It’s just my paranoia. I hear foot steps, that must be the desk clerk. Why, he seems young and nervous. Not so different from me. Something is amiss but I’m tired and need to sleep. Nothing but harmless peeping from that one. I can take a little spy for one evening. But what I really need is a hot shower. Something to calm me down and sooth my aching bones. Then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. I want to sleep like a baby tonight. Or better still, the dead….

Smokey Emery - Quartz EP [Indian Queen; 2012] Daniel Hipolito is the Phantom of the Collage. As Smokey Emery, he heavies the pipe organ deep the theater’s recesses through Quartz. It’s a sad fugue, that plays with your mind as it loops ominously. Is it my turntable that’s faulty? Is the vinyl warped? Is the Earth’s rotation stuck on a skip? I like these mind games and clearly so does Hipolito. The black and white imagery, the Dust Bowl drones, a mysticism never to be fully grasped. The black oval obelisk is heavy with the weight of the world; full of the misery and anger of those abandoned, left to wail unheard in their own basement.

Smokey Emery - Quartz EP [Indian Queen; 2012]

Daniel Hipolito is the Phantom of the Collage. As Smokey Emery, he heavies the pipe organ deep the theater’s recesses through Quartz. It’s a sad fugue, that plays with your mind as it loops ominously. Is it my turntable that’s faulty? Is the vinyl warped? Is the Earth’s rotation stuck on a skip? I like these mind games and clearly so does Hipolito. The black and white imagery, the Dust Bowl drones, a mysticism never to be fully grasped. The black oval obelisk is heavy with the weight of the world; full of the misery and anger of those abandoned, left to wail unheard in their own basement.

Various Artists - Whatever It Is You’re Doing Now [Mirror Universe; 2013] Once told that to understand music, one must define it, labels began to segregate sounds. They fell into traps of genre, eliminating the science behind listening habits for specialized fulfillment. Mirror Universe will have none of it, and over the course of four sides of pop, noise, drone, synth and kitchen sinks, Whatever It Is You’re Doing Now promises the old lay of the land–something for everybody. Though the tapes does delineate along some familiar parameters (pop dominated Side A, throwback synth eats alive Side C), it all represents the eclectic palette and devil-may-curation of Mirror Universe. Familiar favorites (Noveller, Xander Harris, Foot Village) share space with spunky up and comers. I can’t get enough of Southern Femisphere, their classic pop rock infectious. Seriously, I have a delightful fever that grows when I play “Transgander.” M. Sage traps me in the Tim Hecker/Fennesz bubble, combining elegant waves of static drone with heavy rain and distant voices. Pariah Carey deliver complete 16-bit soundtrack–speed runs, boss battles and all–within 4 minutes of the kawaii cute known as “Smile From The Grave 4U.” SuR are down and dirty, a sludge of old garage and grunge and unapologetic about your harsh criticisms. The fear of being burnt is heavy but don’t be daunted. The tempo changes, the mood waxes and wanes, and the smorgasbord of music will keep this stuck in your tape player. Though it’s almost certain that once you’ve stripped the tape bare, you’ll be forced to destroy and disavow its existence to maintain face when you introduce your friends to all these new bands.

Various Artists - Whatever It Is You’re Doing Now [Mirror Universe; 2013]

Once told that to understand music, one must define it, labels began to segregate sounds. They fell into traps of genre, eliminating the science behind listening habits for specialized fulfillment. Mirror Universe will have none of it, and over the course of four sides of pop, noise, drone, synth and kitchen sinks, Whatever It Is You’re Doing Now promises the old lay of the land–something for everybody. Though the tapes does delineate along some familiar parameters (pop dominated Side A, throwback synth eats alive Side C), it all represents the eclectic palette and devil-may-curation of Mirror Universe. Familiar favorites (Noveller, Xander Harris, Foot Village) share space with spunky up and comers. I can’t get enough of Southern Femisphere, their classic pop rock infectious. Seriously, I have a delightful fever that grows when I play “Transgander.” M. Sage traps me in the Tim Hecker/Fennesz bubble, combining elegant waves of static drone with heavy rain and distant voices. Pariah Carey deliver complete 16-bit soundtrack–speed runs, boss battles and all–within 4 minutes of the kawaii cute known as “Smile From The Grave 4U.” SuR are down and dirty, a sludge of old garage and grunge and unapologetic about your harsh criticisms. The fear of being burnt is heavy but don’t be daunted. The tempo changes, the mood waxes and wanes, and the smorgasbord of music will keep this stuck in your tape player. Though it’s almost certain that once you’ve stripped the tape bare, you’ll be forced to destroy and disavow its existence to maintain face when you introduce your friends to all these new bands.

Gert-Jan Prins - s/t [The Spring Press; 2013] This is brutal. Way too brutal. I forgot how sheer force can change music into noise and noise into music. Dutch master Prins destroys 10-inches of lathe vinyl in a matter of minutes, splaying electronic guts across a pretty, clear wax package of minimalism. It’s angry and immortal, ripping apart the unsuspecting with each rotation until your innards tear from your insides and seek refuge outside of the body. And if you somehow survive the assault, Prins will be waiting to do the job your body was too cowardly to act upon… FINISH HIM!

Gert-Jan Prins - s/t [The Spring Press; 2013]

This is brutal. Way too brutal. I forgot how sheer force can change music into noise and noise into music. Dutch master Prins destroys 10-inches of lathe vinyl in a matter of minutes, splaying electronic guts across a pretty, clear wax package of minimalism. It’s angry and immortal, ripping apart the unsuspecting with each rotation until your innards tear from your insides and seek refuge outside of the body. And if you somehow survive the assault, Prins will be waiting to do the job your body was too cowardly to act upon…

FINISH HIM!

Mudhoney - Vanishing Point [Sub Pop; 2013] Twenty-five years after their formation, Mudhoney lay claim to the protectors of the idealized “Seattle” sound with Vanishing Point. Always an infectious band full on grunge, garage and punk, the rowdy foursome are oft overlooked by the outside world when discussing Seattle’s imprint on the musical landscape. Vanishing Point pays lip service to all the Emerald City’s past. Opener “Slipping Away” conjures a Hendrix hex, “Chardonnay” an angry toast to city’s past, “Douchebags on Parade” a subtle nod to the city’s present reputation. “I Don’t Remember You” is most recognizable of the album’s tracks as distinctly Mudhoney but like much of Vanishing Point, the careless crunch and rabbit punches of the past are pushed aside in favor of melody and rhythm. That the angst and edge of past Mudhoney albums is remarkably absent, it’s not to the detriment of album and band. Twenty-five years is a lifetime in modern rock and the band has transitioned from graffiti to obelisk. They are historians of a tradition whittled to talking points, Vanishing Point a proper retelling of the way it was and the way it will be. Vanishing Point is seasoned, lacking none of the attitude of Mudhoney, just less of it in shorter, more effective doses.

Mudhoney - Vanishing Point [Sub Pop; 2013]

Twenty-five years after their formation, Mudhoney lay claim to the protectors of the idealized “Seattle” sound with Vanishing Point. Always an infectious band full on grunge, garage and punk, the rowdy foursome are oft overlooked by the outside world when discussing Seattle’s imprint on the musical landscape.

Vanishing Point pays lip service to all the Emerald City’s past. Opener “Slipping Away” conjures a Hendrix hex, “Chardonnay” an angry toast to city’s past, “Douchebags on Parade” a subtle nod to the city’s present reputation. “I Don’t Remember You” is most recognizable of the album’s tracks as distinctly Mudhoney but like much of Vanishing Point, the careless crunch and rabbit punches of the past are pushed aside in favor of melody and rhythm.

That the angst and edge of past Mudhoney albums is remarkably absent, it’s not to the detriment of album and band. Twenty-five years is a lifetime in modern rock and the band has transitioned from graffiti to obelisk. They are historians of a tradition whittled to talking points, Vanishing Point a proper retelling of the way it was and the way it will be. Vanishing Point is seasoned, lacking none of the attitude of Mudhoney, just less of it in shorter, more effective doses.

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