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Demonic duo of doom deconstructionists originally from Providence, RI and relocated to Portland have been belting out their broke-down, volatile, spare monolith of metal for a few years now. Overblown air-raid alarms over shredded sludge slop subduction wrought with tortured wretch vocals. Trk 2 starts with haunted choirs and voices creeping out the back of your head (FCC?) and settles into some disjointed drum machine blundering and blunderbuss blasting. Trk 3 is a Maori feedback war party ritual that induces some more delusional digressions and eventually explodes into one final outlash of fury before retreating back into trembling paranoid psychosis. Some truly disturbed music for supremely disturbed souls!
Sedated Saharan lounge jazz firmly rooted in local traditions but looking forward to the future. The Orchestra was established in 1968 by the nation’s first president to have something to show off to foreign delegates. At the time, this desert nation was trying to establish itself as a major cultural center of West Africa, at the far tip of the continent and bordering sub-Saharan regions. Some established musicians were recruited, like Hiddu player Saidou Ba, Mohamed “Neyfara” Fall Ould on the namesake flute, and 17 year old Hadrami Ould Meidah to lead the band with his passionate vocals. They trained in Guinea where Western music was banned but certain instrumentation was still adopted, incorporating horns and the electric guitar, which voices their African modalities beautifully. Their only official recording was a 7″ of the middle 2 tracks on side A released in 1973. Check out “La Mone” for some seductive call-response work between vocals and flute and sultry electric guitar wah-nderings, along with a rhythmic breakdown or two. The band disbanded with the coup d’etat that followed a series of droughts and their recordings were almost destroyed under the military regime, saved by a rogue radio engineer who hid them in his house for decades. The cultural pluralism of this early era has largely been lost under the current impoverishment and Islamic focus of today’s Mauritania, but these recordings hearken back to years past when they dreamed of building a “Paris in the sands.”
This gospel giant born Christmas day 1934 never seemed to get his voice heard much outside of the Mississippi area where he hailed from, though he did play a bit in France and Italy. Front porch country-blues stomp played clean with a hint of backwoods grit and some real raw twang. He pelts out these prayers with some big belly wailin’ and gap-tooth moans that really let out that spiritual energy rooted deep to the core. I hear they called him Reverend Boyd Rivers though who knows if he ever lead a sermon in his life. I did read that he sang in local churches around Madison County and had an ample supply of biblical anecdotes. Friendly and easygoing but also intense and passionate, he liked to hang out with his friends at JoJo’s gas station/convenience store on Highway 51, the main street of Pickens, MS, of which he lived 5 miles outside at the end of a two-mile long gravel road. I’m no religious man, but I would’ve liked to sit back and hear him preach. He died of a heart attack November 22 1993.
Lost Dead C recordings from the Eusa Kills sessions around 1989 and recordings of Rangda from 2010. Crunching, plodding death dirge from Dead C evolves into a swing dance atop the ashes of yesterday. Heavy on the apolitical contention with a hint of nihilist contentment, its like sipping on broken glass so fine it goes down smooth. A know nothing mind fart of muffled mayhem and primal deconstruction. On the Rangda side we get a delicate wash of emotional protuberance. Catharsis blossoms gleefully from the organic exchange between Chasny and Bishop fed by the photosynthetic energy of Corsano’s drums. The dynamic interplay remains gentle while crashing your senses like ocean waves on a solitary rock. While perhaps not the best introduction to the work of the two bands, these fine selections demonstrate the range of sonic abilities contained in a simple guitar-guitar-drums trio format.
Monastic machinations and metallic meditations from this mysterious project on small Oakland label. 6 mantras range from industrial hums and clicks to misty mountaintop drones. Cataclysmic reverence and peaceful apocalypse. Like the omnipresent whirr and buzz of our post-modern lives. Om
Raging rompin-thronkin headache jazz for underground inebriated pub creep rabble rousing.
The Gustafsson sax lion roars just as mightily as he ever did, but is seriously set at odds here against the gang of hippos that is Ich Bin N!ntendo. Winther’s thwanged and frayed guitar gutting is bent and bowed beyond belief while Johansen clamors and crashes around the drums as any ten ton animal would. Nergaard sets himself firmly and heavily in the center, keeping the savage beasts from tearing each other apart. But of course the tension breaks and they gnash and gnaw into one another in a bloody fit of multi-meter time smashing. It seems the hippos have taken control when Mats tears out from under the hubbub for one final scuffle.
On the flip side only Winther remains, hobbling about in a drunken stupor after their barroom brawl. Johansen jumps out and signal a start to their liqour soaked victory march, slogging in soggy trousers out through sludge and slime littered alleyways where they black out amidst the garbage. Yet again, they come to and begin the battle all over again, with full primal fury and mind deadening ritual.
Brooklyn label Prom Night introduces collaboration between Brad Henkel on trumpet and Dustin Carlson on guitar (Jeff Kaiser does mastering), with the first composed by Henkel and the second by Carlson. Spacious tone poem extensions of overlapping synchronicity go through various phases of primordial evolution. The interaction is absolutely amelodic yet finds resolve in the most unlikely places. As these two organic entities meld seamlessly into one another, like the joining of solitary cells, human life is born with the power of language to contemplate its place in a seemingly empty world. Soon the acknowledgement of existence births man’s first tool, fire, and with it the inevitable inception of destruction. The second piece brings echoes of breezy steel string chimes disturbed by spouts of gusting wind on a still night. The luminous twilight casts an ominous glow over the lonely street trumpeteer blowing his bugle ballad. Our raconteur reenters to disrupt and dismantle, this time with startling??spontaneity and unexpected entropy. Sparse, contemplative and challenging, this is jazz stretched to the point of breaking.
A storm builds yonder, looming over hillsides on the horizon; a dark brooding yet delicate storm that seems to gently brush over in its ferocity. This is the sound of Ora Cogan’s haunting and ethereal brand of post-americana. Her somber, expansive style places her somewhere between Grouper and Gillian Welch though she grazes the same pastures as The Be Good Tanyas, even covering one of their songs (5). The back up band of bass, drums and bowed guitar provide a full backdrop for her songs to thrive without getting in the way, even helping build the songs into almost rock ballads. The Way??showcases especially her painfully beautiful vocal styling, singing so perfectly off-key that it tears at the gut and guts out tears while tracks like Summer Wine??allow her to show off her songwriting expertise without the band. She disappeared in the Canadian wilderness for two years after recording this, I kinda want to do that after just listening to it…
Char blackened metal rigor mortis writhing in pits of doom and despair. Imperial is the tortured screeching soul who reeks of nihilist misanthropia as only a true New Jersey-an could. Slithering arachnid feeding frenzies on guitars, sometimes getting a little math thrashy (3,8) but with plenty of headbangers to face punch for sure. Bass emerges from the din at times and the drums are bleak as you would expect any monotone black metal to provide but some nefarious variety leaks in, with a goth zombie dance party on 5 and some overblown power noise flooding track 9. Also some spooky industrial interludes on 6 and 10. All in all some quality brutality. Dreams from the ghost at the bottom of the well. Let go of the earth…
Philandering noise gypsy out of Chicago molds three amorphous mouthfuls of electrostatic eruption to excavate your earhole and annihilate expectation. The first brings back-of-the-head piercing tears seared over pan-fried bio-luminescent drone. Then hypersporadic overdose of dirty crack feedback that dares withdrawal, writhing on the floor in broken seismic seizure. The album closes with a long gut shattering rumble laid low and bare for cerebral insertion. consensual violations of unreality. self-induced tone deaf dissipation.
Some may know Father Murphy, the sinister psychedelic pop group out of Italy that seem to be descending deeper into the dark side. Well here we have part of a set of remixes Aagoo Records are putting together of their last album, Anyway Your Children will Deny it, featuring here pieces by??Indian Jewelry and Philippe Petit. The Indian Jewelry side does a pretty loyal rendition with wind organ setting a raspy, repetitive hearbeat that layers on drones as it progresses. The track drops out to an airy breeze of wind that’s barely audible for the last minute or so. Philippe Petit’s side is a brooding cello drone that plods on while adding unsettling smatterings of subtle found sounds. Both tracks work great for somber or nefarious transitions, mic beds or mixing. A CD release to come contains more remixes from the album, surely more treats.
Pummeling thrash jazz from this fiery skronk trio out of Switzerland. Unearthed recordings from cassettes, 4-track and vinyl recorded from 1984-1987 remastered by Weasel Walter (of course) definitely reflect their Brotzmann/Borbetomagus influences. Drums and bass set a primal pulse for the sax to tear through unrestrained, sometimes uncontrollably unleashing his bestial instincts with fits of snarling vocals. BOMBA and WATCH slink back into the shadows for more brooding, restrained attacks like creatures lurking in the shadows of volcancic caverns waiting to pounce while the Buffbunker track is more of a smoky noir groove wandering black and white streets on a rainy evening. Leaves an awfully nasty taste in my mouth…mmm good
A collection of live tracks from the decrepit army of degenerates that make up +DOG+ headed by Steve Davis, lord overseer of Love Earth Music. The tracks here offer different flavors of this collective of noisers from all around California, including the Liver Cancer guys, Lob from Instagon and others. Not entirely the rhythmic industrial noise with subtle manipulations and alterations that we get on studio material; instead, we have a lot more harsh, brutal assaults of feedback, screaming and destruction. The vocals sound like they come mostly from Bobby of Liver Cancer, with his deep groaning and roaring, with some spoken word and fuzzed out audio samples thrown in the mix as well. The first track here, recorded at The Lab in SF is just that, a chaotic storm of electrical ruin. The two Test Patterns tracks incorporate the subtle factory sounds and on Pt. 2 move into harsher territories, with a sample of The Aristocrat’s joke thrown in for good measure (FCC!). Humiliation and The Shadow are more hurricanes of audio annihilation, with slightly more distant recording quality. A great addition to our extensive collection of +DOG+ material, revealing an even more rank and rabid side to these rotten rascals.
Tape warp trickery and co-opted surf grooves are just the beginning of the basic elements these prolific rockers used to create their own noise-laden trashy brand of garage. Segall and Cronin grew up together in Laguna Beach where it seems they absorbed to the bone the clash of idealistic beach vibes within dirty dejected Los Angeles. And here they laid it all out on vinyl, 10″ to be exact, released on Kill Shaman Records in 2009. Of course, with Segall saturation on the college radio charts, In the Red had to pick that limited release and throw it on CD here for all of our convenience. Loud, brash and unflinching guitar rock that is supremely overdriven and yet simultaneously danceable, hanging out with the power-pop kids at High School and even they’re scuzzy and thrashed. I Wear Black and Doctor Doctor show us these guys definitely dosed heavy on 70s punk and classic psychedelia, even paying tribute to the classics with Pink Floyd cover on track 7. The album closes with 10 minute “side long” title track that takes some acid washed Britpop for a joyride up to the clouds and down along cresting monsoon waves. Fuck CMJ and Pitchfork, this still rocks my buttocks!
I challenge you to play this and not dance just a little bit… A collection of underrepresented soul and R&B tracks compiled by WFMU DJ Mr Fine Wine meant to get your groove goin and entice a party. All pulled out of the King/Federal archives, with tracks from 1955-1964, we got some familiar faces like Hank Ballard and Freddy King but a lot of lesser known cats as well, like one gem by a certain Tiny Topsy. All utterly scrumptious, from the spicy Latin instrumental opener led by drummer Cozy Cole to the whistle-response sing-along and Doo-Whomp snap-bass boogie of Mel Williams and Eugene Church; gettin dirty at the Swingset with Bill Doggett, then chick-boom-a-clackin with the percussive layering from Little Willie John, and of course some gut-wrenching harmonies and rhythmic roundabouts a la Tiny Topsy. These tracks will make you wanna grab your woman, sway your hips and throw your hands in the air. Twist, shake and boogie!
From the toxic slime of future trash and rubble, this sci-fi skronk opera leads the mutant armies of ghastly creatures to take over the decrepit earth. LuLu Gamma Ray, Roxy Monoxide and Bonus Beast, three gothic humanoids dancing around organ keys and screaming through trombone and sax bells chiming the end of illusion, disillusioned by the death-glam being doled out indiscriminately. These incantations are all that remains in this post-apocalyptic circus of radioactive deformities where the freaks run the Rockabilly Horror Show. Horrifying and massive as the giant cyst of our atrophied spirits, waiting to be popped and let all the juice of our dementia drip free.
With 10 releases under their belt, this German duo has explored a lot within their realm as IDM masters, but managed to maintain their particular flavor of humor and unpredictability throughout. WOW takes a distinctly club focus, with plenty of housey bouncy and dipping deep in the acid vial to pull out some heavy, dripping bass. While definitely dabbling in some dubstep wommom, they don’t rely too gratuitously on that, maintaining their subtle giltch sound and playful intelligence. Good production that leans more towards lush than clean per se, necessarily so in order to catch all the nuanced sound layering of crunch and glitter alike. Conceptualized and recorded in just a few weeks, it indeed reeks of spontaneity, like sea monkeys on pogo sticks in a videogame fairyland.
An archival review of the evolution of experimental duo Graham Lambkin and Darren Harris, presenting all unreleased tracks and, save a few alternate takes, all new material. The Shadow Ring existed from 1993-2003 evolving from the bleak, broken guitar jabs amidst disembodied drawling poetry that they executed for their first few years, and gradually adding different electronic elements (from Tim Goss), subtly squelching organ drones and their pitch manipulated, warbling troll vocals, creating entirely new forms without losing any of their haunting, alien vitality. This will definitely crawl under your skin, whether it be through the despairing motifs of post-industrial apocalypse around??Squawk with Me or the mutant voices creeping out of sewer depths on??People.??From the John Peel intro ??this album details the genius that these folks injected into their distinct non-music. Though challenging, this is lost treasure for those that know and love their distorted, demented demeanor.
Some more lost treasures from the Merry Prankster archives of tripped out recording experimentation. We have two LPs here. One is the Sound City Acid Test??recording session from 1965 at the La Honda compound full of interviews and strangeness revealing the mission statement and mischevious meanderings of the Merry Pranksters. For more info on this, check the 12″ already in the library. What’s new to us here is the LP Red, White and Blue Meet the Black from 1966 that details the relationship between the Pranksters and the Hell’s Angels surrounding the events of the Vietnam Day Protests in Oakland/Bezerkely. Two side-longs of primitive psychedelia and campfire blues storytelling with interviews, fake news reports and general tribalistic trippery. Ponderous poetry and stream of consciousness poetry rapping about outlaws, beatniks and bums, pacifist protests and pill popping, communism and crazies, all the leftover crumbs of society. The pieces blend jam sessions between Ken and Ken and then jump in and out of chaotic collages of improvisations, vocal layerings and all sorts of found sounds. A perfect picture of the early days of acid tripping and duping the man. Dig it.
3 piece from Denton, TX bring us some skull-crushing sludge noise as massive as everything else that crawls out of the Lone Star State. Lone stars they are indeed, purging pounding doomcore wrought with piercing electronics that permeate the brutality, swirling about the swamp like an oil spill. Basically some gut heavy muck with tape manipulation and the works to really twist your tummy in knots. Kinda like if Acid Mother’s Temple were a bunch of rednecks with anger issues. Gravelly crust vocals marching in mud caked boots get buried deep in the pit only to shake free of the dirt and spit melting fire. They recorded this to 2-track tape out of their van or something. They call it “The sound of the Human Machine shutting down forever.” We can only hope…
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