Dusted Features

This being my first exposure to KTL, a death-ambient collaboration between Stephen O'Malley and Peter Rehberg, I held the kneejerk skepticism of such a project close to my ears. But I was shocked and pleased at the fragility of the evil and darkness that poured out of this record. Expecting the full-on assault of some tracks from the group's various online presences, as well as the blunt trauma of Sunn 0))), the twisting, malevolent timbres of careful sonic manipulation were instead in effect, squealing quietly as a thunder of ominous drone and sundry electronic manipulations crept around like ivy. The first, shorter piece on this record (“Loud Game”) was commissioned for a theatrical performance; the longer one, “Sunday,” rests on its own blackened powers, metallic flakes falling off of its threatening, perfectly-still frame. I'm wholly impressed, and now feel the need to check out the rest of KTL's output; if 3 is any indication, this may well be one of the most satisfying projects of O'Malley's canon. Edition of 2000 in a tip-on sleeve, with a gnarly Savage Pencil etching on the B-side, and a sealed inner sleeve. Be careful you don't rip yours like I did mine.
(www.itsaor.net)

Los Llamarada's LP from earlier this year, The Exploding Now, didn't really prepare me for the heat they'd bring to this new single. These are studio recordings that unmask their murk, revealing a downright surly ownership of the blues. “The Very Next Moment” dribbles poison ink over a dominant, plundering, beaten-mean countenance, speeding up just enough at the end to recall Catholic Discipline with a more contained vocal presence, or the Fall or Country Teasers at their most misanthropic. Bad politics, baby. The loose banging out of Peggy Lee's “I'm Sorry” caps this perfect - yes, perfect - single off with a breathless female vocal rant, purposed above a ramshackle, gleefully scattered two-chord tumble. Part of the “new sound” you've been hearing. This world is a great place for a few minutes. Edition of 600 - up there with this year's best.
(www.s-srecords.com)

Decent/”pro” sounding West Philly d-beat hardcore, mashing it up in an invigorating, if familiar, manner. A spattering of guitar solos makes me think Bastard, but this is nowhere near as warlike or monstrous, though fine in its own right. Ten songs, all dealing with politics meant to open the crusty eyes of group house dwellers - certainly nothing here breaks the skin, but it's fast and now without power, and a pretty good time on the turntable, as I'd imagine they would be live.
(email to miskatonica@hotmail.com)

Harsh, anaerobic avant-thrash from France. Sort of like Melt-Banana, but with absolutely no room to breathe. The combination of guitar tone, vocal barking, and sharp, mid-fi recording make this one just about unbearable, no matter who you are. Kids' tantrums. Sounds like early Black Dice with the hardcore aesthetic already washed out. Not the jam. Numbered edition of 300 in a foldover, silkscreened sleeve.
(www.gafferrecords.com)

G. Lucas Crane and Jeremy Earl (participants in the Vanishing Voice, Non-Horse, Woods and Meneguar between them), after a brief warm-up, lock into tribal drumming and a ghost orchestra of reeds, drone, and delay. No vocals or anything that dicks up the purity of the concept at stake. Could have come out as some NYC-based art loft 12” (actually huffs the same Holland Tunnel fumes as imPLOG, methinks) and would qualify as really, really leftfield disco. Pretty goddamn rad l'il record. 500 copies, sold out, repress forthcoming.
(www.dntrecords.com)

Hard, yet completely sterile 808 jams from Canada. One features really unfortunate Pet Shop Boys-esque vocals. Only “Effexor Redux” gets up enough hustle to make an impression. The sound of someone's inheritance going down the drain.
(www.architectureofsound.com)

More like “Sound of a Solitary Man,” as one Gerald J. Schoenherr attacks two Bob Seger hits with a beard, an acoustic, and a determination to recast the Silver Bullet Band in his image. I'm no Seger hater, but I don't think either “Turn the Page” or “Beautiful Loser” needed any further fleshing out than in their original versions. Plodding and morose. Edition of 300 numbered copies in letterpressed sleeves.
(www.myspace.com/soundofsingles)

Fuckin' crazy, Wildman hardcore from Austin, TX. One of these guys is in that band Best Fwends. My respect for him has grown! Here are some guys who can see over “the crew” of '82 hardcore and get weird with it. Riffs shoot diagonally to the skies, vocals jam the measures with pained yowling, rhythm section rides completely off the rails. You'll be hearing from this bunch. Colored vinyl copies are gone, I think.
(www.derangedrecords.com

Man, what did I say about the Paisley Underground? Honey Owens is Valet and she could be the reincarnation of Kendra Smith (or even better, that lady from Dadamah, who have at least a vague sonic connection to Hollywood '83). Rambling, acid-twinged guitar bends and shimmies in the golden sunlight behind her. “Beachgaze Rendered” proves to be gorgeous, spacious, outdoor drone, tape loops chirping amidst the crests and slides. 500 copies, gold vinyl, really takes me back.
(www.burntbrownsounds.com)

British guys getting deep. Emotionally deep, with digital delay and big windmills of stone-faced guitar crescendo. I'm old enough to remember when bands like Mineral and Ethel Meserve and Hurl were around. Are these guys? Either side seems like it'd fit on one of those HBO trailers where they present a montage of clips from all their shows, with really stirring accompaniment (as opposed to the gabbagoul shlop they were used to in The Sopranos' heyday). Well, anyway. Here's to licensing!
(www.myspace.com/cuckundoorecords)

Appealing, brutally simple garage strummin' from some guys in Chicago who have the right idea about this stuff. Four songs, two of which stay in the sugary-smooth confines of the late '50s malt shop, and two which come closer to approximating the Medway Sound. In both instances, the Yolks establish ownership of the sound through innocence and flawless repetition. Might take a couple of listens for it to sink in, but it shouldn't - that second one, “My Baby Ain't High Class,” with the organ is really sweet. Give 'em a look.
(www.myspace.com/theyolks)

LPs

Live destruction from a Japanese wrecking crew of two guitars and drums. The sticker on the sleeve boasts “vicious psychedelic no-wave from start to finish” and that's part of it; as the disc rolls on, the sort of tear-your-head-off moments give way to what I'd presume is the band's preferred track of communication, namely rock-solid Japanese psych with a violent, broken/”off” approach to starting, playing and finishing songs, rounded by excitable, off-time drumming, crazy vocals, and a yellowed, corroded guitar tone that gets meaner and more dominant with each passing moment. Ainotamenishis seems to have a lot of “character,” so to speak. They definitely carry that certain something which puts off those who insist that the music play through musicians, rather than the music reflect off of/come out of them. fine, so they have personality and so does their music? I'll take that. Their songs are all capped off by a unified approach, and the album doesn't play as if they're working through any purely improvisational elements. Rather, their orbit mimics that of the Dead C. or the Magik Markers, playing through themes more deliberate than the former, and far less scattered than the latter. But really, such navel-gazing is tough to reconcile when you're faced with a monster. And this one's definitely in that camp: truly gone, blazed, fucked, jammed out, undiluted hard fractured blues psych with as few concessions to good nature as it has apologies for ruined eardrums or cracked foreheads. They even get into a beautiful l'il folk-psych mode for a couple of tracks, proof that they've got all the control they need. One to watch, folks.
(www.holymountain.com)

Five extrapolations on musical themes by two guys who are just getting out there, trying to find an opening for their particular brand of musical conversation. The group sounds largely improvised, with that loose and comfortable presence enjoyed by the Sun City Girls, as was reflected in their '90s ramp-up of Majora releases - nothing too labor intensive, just guitar/bass/synths playing off of drums in a relaxed, open atmosphere. There were a few moments where the effort applied was a bit too overwhelming (opening track was that sort of letdown) but once these men found a groove and settled in, my attention was all theirs. “Moon Trek” in particular caught on big, sounding like a breezy cover of Kraftwerk's “Vom Himmel Hoch.” The last track, with a title too bulky to type out at this late hour, also provided stable musical respite from a long day of reviewing. And in the end, respite's all we want, right? 300 copies, paste-on sleeves. Good sounds. Jam onnnnnnnnn.
(www.milviason.com)

Second LP of liberating street punk from this Portland, OR side project, fronted by Paul Burdette of Tragedy. No Solution is missing the urgency of their debut, leaning away from UK street punk a bit and digging into some more esoteric forms (“WWIII” sounds a lot like early Wipers, f'r instance). Sadly, this comes at a cost - the simplicity of their debut was what made some of its best tracks even better, but things sound a little muddled this time, the band tied up emotionally in a political stance that rings true but doesn't suit the monochromatic numbskullitude of the real thing. Also, this one was recorded for $0 as opposed to $67 for their debut, and - somebody's gotta say it - you can really hear the money in the first one. This sort of sounds like a demo-quality recording. Noble, and not without merit, but not a great follow-up, either.
(www.feralward.com)

Vinyl pressing of the Factums CDR from a few years back. Very glad this has seen the light of day; this is a lengthy and winning debut from a Seattle group playing music for the underside of tables and theater seats, champions of visible filth and degradation and the banishment of effort. I keep thinking of that guy from pre-Human League outfit The Future saying “all we needed to do was push a button.” I get that sense here, one of early electronic forays into punk (Cab Volt, the aforementioned Sheffield acts, Severed Heads) and the dock-hardened genius of the Fall, drying out under a red sun. While lots of minimal synth practitioners try to make things as clean and boxed off as they can, Factums roll around in the muck, but don't overpower their songs with so much crud that the crud becomes the song. Editon of 500 copies in nicely oversaturated silkscreened sleeves.

(www.siltbreeze.com)

Absolutely ripping Polish metalcore with big doom and black metal elements lurking behind. I live in a predominantly Polish neighborhood, but all I ever hear blasting out of cars is really shitty Euro club music, or what amounts to Eminem (or one of his eastern bloc protégés). Why never bands like this, then? Sounds like a thicker, angrier take on German bands of a decade past - ABC Diabolo comes to mind, particularly in … well I can't really figure out what exactly the title is, but you're with me, right? Also the vocals are of a particularly gruff, throaty caliber; none of that ball-pinching of the '90s. Great sound, impeccable approach, brutal as hell. Some limited edition copies come with a silkscreened wraparound sleeve and colored vinyl, but I haven't seen the stats. All's I can tell you is that this was a really worthwhile surprise.

There are too many bands out there futzing around with progressive rock, with “no wave”/”now wave” tropes, with neon-colored wackiness; bands that aren't putting the music out front; bands that have slid down the slope of being “off” (a slope which descends into Mike Patton's open mouth). Gay Beast, a guitar/synth/drums trio from Minneapolis, is not one of these bands, yet they play with all those parts in full swing, a real platespinning act of dynamics, abrasion, and genuine melodic innovation. All mistakes are studiously avoided and pratfalls are timed for maximum effect. All comedic qualities of the band are insular and intrinsic. Their attack is vicious and weird, processing their robotic fortunes under sheets of electronic duress, but their balance is impeccable. Bands like Gay Beast used to get me excited, but none have had such a gloriously bent and creative batch of songs to match up with the innovation. If handled correctly, Gay beast should tap into, then later usurp, the whacking off of outfits like Hella or Lightning Bolt or Deerhoof, or at least play in the same league. Very, very exciting stuff here, which hides its hand with masterful skill, and which plays down that which could easily wreck a less-capable band. Vinyl edition of 500 numbered copies in a silkscreened sleeve.
(www.dntrecords.com)

Second solo effort from Phil Boyd of the Modey Lemon, playing around with a handful of folk and pop idioms, from protest song and stormy ballad to sunny British folk, or something approximating Elliott Smith. He's a commendable guitar player who can work wrong notes and subtle left turns into his playing, but he doesn't sound so incredibly attached to the music insomuch as the styles. A great record is going to come out of Phil soon (and with the Modeys, already has) but this isn't exactly the one. It's a bit too bright and innocent for these times, and for his proven abilities within both psych and garage, a little too simple.
(www.enamelrecords.com)

Double-vinyl reissue of two CDs by this Japanese trio, all ladies, trying to get open in a rock trio setup. It'd be easier to group this band with psychedelia than progressive rock; their brand of strict, rhythmic long-form jamming doesn't budge too hard from its origins, stretching out a canvas for guitars to scrape and bass to rumble over. They're really good about getting into that groove, which saves a lot of the looser suggestions across this set (in particular tracks like “Pop Group” or “This Heat” or “Sonic Youth,” which borrow sounds if not ideas from these outfits), and I'm sure they could work this to their advantage in the live setting. It's good, it's mind-expansive, and it's trancelike, and it's also working off of those punch-in-the-stomach flecks of shrapnel that fall out of a band like Lightning Bolt, so it's definitely not good for quiet time. It doesn't have the sort of hustle that would suggest they would try to reinvent themselves, though. Brought to you in part by a big legal settlement between Fall Out Boy and that dude from American Nightmare. 500 copies, white vinyl, gatefold sleeve.
(www.theheartworm.com)

Winnipeg hardcore coming off neck and neck with earlier Fucked Up, carrying a big chip on its shoulder and a clean, machine-tightened studio sound. I'd imagine this music is better suited to the live venue, as the record doesn't have the sort of dirty punch that'd put it over the top. But there's definitely a couple of winners in here (“Whip and Rein” puts a flying chokehold on Slip It In-era Flag, while “The Last” emulates side 2 of My War a good deal), and it's worth a unforced listen.
(www.fashionableidiots.com)

Exhausting free guitar/drum pound crap from New Zealand, low on ideas and really dropping the entry level down to where, truly, anyone can play this stuff, musical skills be damned. Might be labeled by some as an outcropping to the bathroom function of Menstruation Sisters, only with that project the actual instruments are pretty well obscured in the mix. Here you get to hear every scrape, every buzz, and the effect is somewhat lost. I'm not above primitive non-music by any means, but this one stalls out early on and never picks itself back up. Edition of 500 in silkscreened sleeves; a blemish on Siltbreeze's otherwise spotless resurgence period. I think this record is a test to make sure people are actually listening and not just talking about bands.
(www.siltbreeze.com)

By Doug Mosurock

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