Algae & Tentacles The Mouth Is A Resonant Field LP (Twenty One Eighty Two)
With a title like that, I was expecting all sorts of cakehole-based sounds ala Jaap Blonk, but the noise of Algae & Tentacles leans more in the Justice Yeldham direction (if I may reference another orally-fixated experimentalist), blending fields of feedback with crunchy potholes of distortion. “Voice and electronics” are credited to John Melillo (he being the complete and total personnel of Algae & Tentacles), and the end result is a vibrant, homespun noise record, something you’d hope to find in the distro boxes of Carbon Records or RRRecords fifteen years ago. The whole affair sounds like it’s happening live in front of you… there’s a delineated track listing, but each side flows from start to finish as fully-integrated suites, albeit suites that jump, scatter and swirl about. I prefer the more cut-up, rapid-fire noise jolts to the malfunctioning vacuum-cleaner drones, but there’s a nice balance between the two. For fans of Twig Harper, Cotton Museum, Bill Nace, pretty much any agreeable noiser with silkscreen-ink stains on their hoodies and a tableau of daisy-chained gear splayed out on the dirty basement floor.
Salar Ansari Feelings From The Future 12″ (Moozikeh Analog Room)
I missed the recent Movement techno festival but rolled through Detroit about a week later, the festival’s richly positive vibes still emanating off the architecture. That’s how I stumbled up this promo-stamped EP from Salar Ansari, a Movement-based release stocked at the very-fine People’s Records shop. It has the techno vibe I was looking for, one bursting with punchy uptempo bass-lines, rollicking auxiliary percussion and cosmic overtones. The a-side opener opts for lush chords and a female robot voice straight out of Benny Benassi’s Hypnotica playbook, which is a pleasant way to set things off. It’s tried and true tech-house ready to light up any sound system, be it a portable box or fine-tuned club setup. None of these four cuts seem to be titled (the info on the screened piece of paper accompanying the vinyl offers little more than a name and email address), but it’s the second b-side cut that hits strongest for me, a rapid bassline darting up through the skyscrapers like Spider-Man hot on the trail of Dr. Octopus with a suitably shuffling drum loop in tow. Sounds great on my modest home system, but I wish I got to hear it blasting from a makeshift setup outside Conant Gardens Party Store while Omar S details his mustang convertible in the adjoining parking lot. Maybe next year!
Eric Angelo Bessel Visitation LP (Lore City Music)
Solo outing here from Lore City’s Eric Angelo Bessel, whose name is almost maybe nearly an anagram for Angelo Badalamenti. Lore City are the traditional ethereal cold-wave shoegaze project – a duo with his wife Laura Mariposa Williams – and Visitation is Bessel’s solo synth project, because if you’ve got all that gear sitting around, why not? It sounds kind of predictable, perhaps even ho-hum, and while I can’t say it isn’t, I’m also finding plenty to enjoy within Visitation, probably even more so than the work of Lore City. His melodies float through a layer of clouds, with no rhythmic elements to anchor them, drifting like an entry in the Pop Ambient series without any semblance of dance-floor behavior. Basic, but in a non-pejorative sense. I think I find it appealing because Bessel isn’t trying to do anything or be anyone here; this is nothing more than a humble presentation of soft, swirling melodies, the sort of thing you can sit back into and simply appreciate without any sort of pretense or overbearing aesthetic. Keyboards can sound pretty lovely, especially when coated in infinite reverb and delay, which Visitation offers up with care.
Big Clown Beatdown 7″ (Swimming Faith)
At first glance, I thought that the band was actually called Big Clown Beatdown, a name I wholeheartedly endorse, but as you can see, the band is actually called Big Clown and the EP’s titled Beatdown. Not quite as good, but that’s alright. I also assumed Swimming Faith was a label that solely existed in service of label-owner John Toohill’s varied projects, but Big Clown are a Memphis group far from the snowy plains of Buffalo, NY. Cool of Swimming Faith to get Big Clown on wax, then, as they’ve got an interesting mish-mash of modern sounds happening here. Think of Big Business fronted by Olivia Gibb of Warm Bodies, those thick syrupy riffs colliding with wild squeaky warbling, and you’re on the right track. As far as I’m concerned, beefy, stoner-adjacent riffs sound great with pretty much anything – Big Clown could’ve gotten away with an amateur turntablist instead of any singer at all and I’d probably still dig it – but the mix of loopy, over-the-top singing, concise songwriting (there are eight tracks here!), firm rhythms and dense tone is particularly piquant. Pair all that with some Cleveland-styled elementary-school pencil art and you’ve got a winner, even if the name isn’t actually Big Clown Beatdown. I guess only a band actually from Cleveland would take it that far.
Blawan Dismantled Into Juice 12″ (XL Recordings)
Good god… every year a new Blawan EP seems to arrive from the near future to reconfigure my senses, and I’m starting to feel silly about it. Is it really that good, or am I somehow hypnotized by this guy, unable to rationally process what I’m hearing? I’ve sat with Dismantled Into Juice for almost a month now, and I don’t care if he’s Criss Angeling me, I’m absolutely enthralled by tis extraordinarily bad-ass cyborgian techno, this new one a standout even among the other standouts. The word “techno” can imply some sort of grid-based beat programming, whereas these songs eschew formality for something entirely fresh and demented. It’s extremely heavy and yet the 4/4 kick is more or less absent, preferring to follow bass-lines as thick and disruptive as an oil pipeline, sloppy-wet high-end slaps and soaring metallic savagery. Of the five stellar tracks here, two feature the vocals of Monstera Black, whose Rihanna-esque club-moan might very well be some sort of AI sonic hologram, which would certainly fit the sexually-appealing techno-dystopia that Dismantled Into Juice conjures. “Toast” is the highlight for me, leaving me feeling like I’m getting Three Stooges-slapped in fast-motion, but the whole thing is truly next-level, a term I don’t think I’ve ever felt compelled to use when describing any piece of music on here before. If there’s a more exciting and ingenious electronic EP released in 2023, I’m not sure my delicate heart will be able to handle it.
Bono / Burattini Suono In Un Tempo Transfigurato LP (Maple Death)
Sorry, it’s not that Bono! My hopes were up that Maple Death somehow coaxed the billionaire liberal into a one-off duo release, but this is probably a better result: Francesca Bono on a trusty Juno 60 synth and Vittoria Burattini on drums. It’s a fairly stripped down setup, yet these songs are recorded with power and gusto, filling the room with the synth’s meaty chords and the propulsion of the drums, even when the songs call for a moody atmosphere and restrained tempo. In the spirit of Goblin and Silver Apples, but streamlined care of the modern production and slick recording. The hype sticker references library music, and while I can see that too, the duo are clearly writing for their own pleasure, not commercial-grade production… there’s a piano in there too, and when they layer it over the Juno’s bass-lines and the swing of the drums, I find myself transported to an Italian movie filled with reprehensible protagonists and a bottle of J&B prominent in every scene. If the more popular Bono accidentally wandered onto the screen, you know he’d get tossed through a closed window within seconds!
Ben Carey Metastability LP (Hospital Hill)
From deep within a pile of colorful patch cords lies Ben Carey, a young wizard of ancient modular synthesizers which require the assistance of a U-Haul to transport. On his second vinyl full-length for Hospital Hill, Metastability, Carey digs into the electronic guts of a 1975 La Tribe Serge ‘Paperface’, which I assume to be like the Lamborghini Countach of synthesizers. The literal creator of this particular synth, Serge Tcherepnin, weighs in on the cover’s hype sticker even, stating that when it comes to synths, Carey “doesn’t play with them. He plays them.” High praise! From my vantage point over here, with only a vinyl recording to judge, I have no reason to disagree with Tcherepnin’s statement, as both lengthy sides of Metastability are lively and inspired, bustling with fabricated sounds like some sort of, umm, alien ant farm? But not like Alien Ant Farm. It still sounds like one person manipulating a large and elderly modular synth, but Carey coaxes more than just electronic burbles and wheezes from it, he puts together some sort of elaborate and compelling narrative through its wide spectrum of sonic possibility. Even if it remains an elusive mystery to all but him and Tcherepnin.
Civilistjävel! Fyra Platser 12″ (Felt)
Back when Civilistjävel! first hit the scene (those halcyon days of 2018), they piqued my interest with their subtly occult electronics and grayscale ritualistic techno moves, as well as the allegations of being a long-lost ’90s project, which of course ended up being not true. Instead they released a ton of immediately-expensive records in the following years, and along with the exclamation point at the end of the name, the whole vibe left me prematurely satiated, but I figured it was time to check back in with this mysterious Swedish producer and see what’s up. And now, seeing as gothic industrial-techno has kind of faded out of fashion, Fyra Platser is a refreshing dose of the dark-ambient electronic style. I’d say it comes closer to the last few Andy Stott albums than anything else, as there’s a certain poise and elegance to Fyra Platser, if perhaps a lot more straightforward overall and a little more Ant-Zen than Stott’s adventurous productions. “Louhivesi” is the clear standout, featuring the commanding vocals of Cucina Povera, whose radiant and cavernous voice commands like the ghost of Nico on an enchanted misty isle. Even without her voice, these songs opt-out of muscular bravado or showy feats of testosterone, preferring to emanate grace and control, or at least the level of control a person can maintain at a midnight seance in the forest.
Da-Sein Sore LP (Galakthorrö)
Couldn’t resist the non-Arafna-related releases in the new Galakthorrö drop, Da-Sein’s third album Sore being one of them. I own their first two full-lengths, and while it’s perfectly entertaining dark-wave industrial (as it has always been), they could’ve just repackaged one of the duo’s earlier albums and I’d probably never realize it, I’m sheepish to admit. Da-Sein fits so seamlessly within the Galakthorrö universe, even looking like a younger version of Mr. and Mrs. Arafna, that it’s almost too on-the-nose, an uncanny reflection of the core Galakthorrö artists, but when it sounds as sensually sadistic and spiritually bereft as Sore, what’s not to like? Da-Sein do a fine job of weaving the cold-wave-presenting mortuary synths and low-key electro pulses with the boiler-room clangor of heavy industrial, certainly leaning closer to the cold-wave side of the equation but always with the appropriate level of tortured artistry. For such an intentionally numbing and despondent style, I still find myself getting excited by the static-y creep of a track like “Master Of His Own”, even if the aesthetic intent is to reduce me to some comatose form drifting down an underground canal. I’d wonder if they intended to mortify my flesh with this release, but of course they did – there’s a song here literally titled “Mortify Your Flesh”. Another reliable and fully-committed work from my favorite source for gloomy analog electronics.
FACS Still Life In Decay LP (Trouble In Mind)
Anytime I’ve seen the FACS name it’s been in the form of someone praising the Chicagoan trio, and now I’m finally peeping this group care of their fifth studio album, Still Life In Decay. It’s very Chicago-sounding in that sort of Y2K Touch & Go way; how can it not be, when you’re an arty math-rock combo recording at Electrical Audio? They’ve got that dry and icy presentation and sound, but FACS aren’t another cookie-cutter noisy/mathy post-punk group. Far from it! Their songs are patient, spacious and often hauntingly beautiful without the faintest whiff of corniness. While the drums are insistently taut and inflexible (which is a great way for these drums to behave), the guitars are pleasantly textural throughout, surprisingly soft and soothing at times. I’m thinking of those great Drose records without all the emotional spasming, Microwaves on sedatives, Slint furbished with today’s extended reverb studio techniques, or the music of New Brutalism as interpreted by those Ex Machina humanoids. The b-side gets particularly gauzy, content to let the essence of song fade out of form, reduced to luxuriously rich tones that shift like sand. It’s those two lengthy b-side tracks that resonate with me most, as FACS are most fascinating and sensual at their calmest – the guitar solo on “New Flag” falls in and out of consciousness in the most gorgeous way and I’m right there with it the whole time.
Fairytale Shooting Star LP (Quality Control HC / Toxic State)
Top-shelf Euro-sounding American hardcore is a hot commodity and Brooklyn’s Fairytale are one of today’s finest purveyors. I loved their 2021 debut EP and Shooting Star builds on that nicely, jumping right to the full-length format without sacrificing any of the intensity of a hardcore EP. Part of the trick has got to be the recording, coming from the D4MT Labs crew and really dialing in the perfect mix of power and crispness with an authentic crust-punk vibe. The songs never stray far from the d-beat, but they use that as an artistic starting point rather than the full and final concept. It’s a sick beat, perfect for fist-pumping splashes of basement beer, but Fairytale find ways to modify the style, whether its through a wretchedly acidic guitar tone, manic cymbal-work (“Possible To Grow”) or, on the song titled “Fairytale”, a beyond-extended instrumental d-beat passage which draws into focus the music’s hypnotic properties, twisting time in their fist. Must’ve been wild to play, and it’s certainly wild to listen to, all with a singer whose banshee wail falls somewhere between Nog Watt and Detente. No state but a toxic one!
Greymouth Parked Up LP (Sophomore Lounge)
Parked Up is the first vinyl full-length from Greymouth following a number of singles and I want to be friends with anyone who eagerly awaited it. Music as unfettered and frantic as theirs fits any format, from a split five-inch to a USB duct-taped to the ceiling of a convenience store bathroom, so it’s just nice to hear so much undiluted Greymouth here, all in a row. For those not hip to their style, the band is a duo of guys (both named Mark) who more or less utilize guitar (electric and acoustic), percussion and voice, but it’s all completely ramshackle and at the mercy of what seems to be rudimentary/haphazard recording techniques, with plenty of unidentified noises passing through. I swear, some of these songs might have other Greymouth songs playing quietly in the background, as if they were listening to themselves while recording, or the remnants of an old song bled through the four-track tape. Imagine The Shadow Ring as interpreted by Fat Day, or Instant Automatons if they were actually a Dead C side-project? As I understand it, this duo is New Zealand-raised but stationed in Japan, which sounds like a pretty fun overall existence, if an occasionally destabilizing one. Fun and destabilizing, that’s how I’d describe these wacked-out songs too!
The Hammer Party Earth Abides 12″ (Psychic Static)
I met a couple of the guys who played on this record when I got it, both of whom independently were like “yeah, I played on that piece of crap” when referring to Earth Abides. I’d say they were being unreasonably hard on themselves, although the negative mindset was probably advantageous when slamming down these four heavy noise-rock tracks. Like The Hammer Party’s full-length, their songs follow a somewhat traditional path with explosive bursts, back-and-forth riffing and pendulous rhythms. It’s a somewhat native trait, as this Rhode Island group features Dan St. Jaques of noise-rock visionaries Landed on vocals (and Six Finger Satellite’s Pelletier lends his sax to “Walk The Walk”). Whereas Landed’s songs toed the lines between frustrating reality and unfettered fantasy, Earth Abides is fully grounded in the drudgery of the real world, with “Flat Earth” taking conspiracy theorists to task and “Federal Reserve Blues” managing to summon the low-level misery of tax day through only a small handful of words. St. Jacques’ voice is croakier than ever here, downright Beefheartian at times! His weathered throat ably suits the tunes, which operate in the same general territory that Shellac, Lubricated Goat and Teenage Jesus have all been spotted at various times through the years. Hate to argue with the members of The Hammer Party, but Earth Abides ain’t half bad!
Haus Arafna Dunkelheit Bleibt 7″ (Galakthorrö)
Arafna Cultura Forever! I don’t think goth-tinged German electro-industrial music gets any better than Haus Arafna, the long-running project of, umm, Mr. and Mrs. Arafna, released consistently and exclusively on their in-house Galakthorrö label since 1995. Curiously, this is their first release entirely in German, and while I’ve always enjoyed their intriguingly dark English lyrics, I don’t need to understand their words to get the message. “Dunkelheit Bleibt” is a stiff industrial march, the rhythm pounded out by not traditional percussion but some sort of commercial-grade metallic malfunction. Eerie synths creep at chain’s length while Mr. Arafna barks his orders. As they say in Germany: bravo! “Welt Verzicht” uses the same palate (hell, they kinda always use the same palate) but at a slower pace, more agony than anger as oxidized metal clangs through a dim basement hallway. You can tell that Haus Arafna really labor over the fine details, content to make sure every aspect is perfectly in order and unconcerned if it takes a number of years between releases to get it right. They’re not one of these cold-wave fest-circuit groups churning out constant “content” in an attempt to stay relevant – they’re the damn masters.
Klon Dump Let’s All Be Influenced By The Same Things At The Same Time 12″ (Klon Dump)
Klon Dump hooked me in with 2021’s Klon001 and this new one, what with its shade-throwing title and funny center-label faces, wasn’t going to pass me by. I’m not sure what he’s on about exactly but I find his vibe appealing, and for as explicitly mocking as this EP’s title is, these two club cuts are pure inclusive fun. “Let’s All Be Influenced” is a high-energy house bop, with some sugar-free acid lurking under the shiny chord changes. Reminds me of Steven Julien when he gets on a disco tip, energetic dance music for roller-rinks and breakdance routines. “By The Same Things At The Same Time” (see what he did with the titles there?) is a little more mysterious, working ’90s trance and Cybotron’s retro-futurism into something that could’ve conceivably made it to Perlon’s desk, as the whole thing is still elastic and minimal tech-house (even including the robot vocal). It breaks down entirely about three and a half minutes in, locating an entirely new bass-line punctuated by buoyant acid swells. Taken as a whole, the track feels like a pleasant space-shuttle between terrestrial planets with Tin Man as concierge offering light refreshments and mood lighting. It seems likely that I’ll go wherever Klon Dump wants to take me.
Christian Mirande Beautiful One Day, Perfect The Next LP (Regional Bears)
Shout-out to the All Night Flight record shop newsletter, as their almost-comically effusive praise for this Christian Mirande album made it irresistible. It’s funny that it took a wildly exuberant British guy to hip me to the work of an experimental musician in the same lil’ city where I live, but that’s how life sometimes works in this globalized era. Anyway, onto Beautiful One Day – it’s a weird one! The first side is comprised of nine brief, deeply strange pieces, mostly consisting of tweaked sinewaves, silence, interference, some talking… and not much else. Very Cage-ian in its approach to sound (and lack thereof), to the point where I started wondering if I was duped, the victim of some obscure hype that none of my loved ones would ever understand. Mercifully, Mirande balances his Subotnick- / Docstader- / Idea Fire Company-inspired modular experiments with the flowing title track, encompassing all of the second side of the record (though listed as four parts). This side is clearly, surprisingly music, opening with some drifting tones overlaid with a playful field-recording and expanding into a slow-burning jazz-funk groove, replete with live drums and bass. It’s a true dazzler; as the track dissolves into sustained organic plucking like a drop of food coloring in a glass of water, it imparts an unexpected comfort, like your personal favorite Radiohead b-side or Aguirre Records release that no one seems to know but you. Taken with the knowledge that some Mancunian music enthusiast is absolutely freaking the hell out over it, Beautiful One Day, Perfect The Next is an audacious and tender ray of sunshine.
Nusidm The Last Temptation Of Thrill LP (Bruit Direct)
Just when I thought Nusidm and the various works of its creator Glen Schenau were too uncompromisingly eccentric to find a label to call home, the mighty Bruit Direct steps up in what is undoubtedly an appropriate pairing. Nusidm’s 2021 album was a righteous entry in the crowded field of post-punk no-wave, cutting its own choppy path as what I thought might be the first “free-dirge” record, and The Last Temptation Of Thrill is a stellar follow-up, a sharpening of Schenau’s warped blade. Nusidm remains a fully deconstructed rock group here, with songs that have me picturing motorized limbs flailing without bodies, the sort of thing you’d expect to find lingering in Boston Scientific’s dumpsters. From the warbly bass-guitar to the clattering drums and steel-wool guitar, each instrument behaves in only loose accordance with each other, pushing onward to somehow form a song in spite of themselves. I’m still hearing the most out-there moments in the Slugfuckers’s brief discography, or perhaps The Pop Group drained of all funk (imagine if you can!), or Mars deprived of air (just like Mars the planet), though the language of Nusidm is ultimately more feral and cracked. “Run To The Shops”, for example, opens with a couple minutes of the drums all by themselves, clanking contentedly while the rest of the band goes on smoko. Is there even a band, or is it four Glen Schenaus wandering around the room?
Obituary Dying Of Everything LP (Relapse)
Congrats to Obituary on their twelfth studio album! I’m not even going to pretend to be familiar with half of their full-lengths (I’m a The End Complete and Slowly We Rot guy), but judging from the gruesome cover paintings and violent album titles that span their lengthy discography, it would appear that this long-running Florida death metal group has yet to waiver from their death-metal mission in nigh thirty-five years of existence, or even center-parted long hair for that matter. Theirs must be a fairly unique reality, one that is so dedicated to essentially the same thing for such a significant amount of time, and one that I presume will only come to an end in the event of, ironically enough, their deaths. (Though, with two prior members already sadly deceased, it may take even more than death to halt Obituary.) Anyway, Dying Of Everything is here now, and it sounds almost precisely as I’d hope and expect: grinding mid-paced grooves, heavy blasts, evil-yet-intelligible vocals in the Tom Araya vein, a production as slick and precise as it is thunderous and imposing. A track like “Without A Conscience” is pure metal comfort food, with exquisite bass-drum placement and grooves as beholden to ’90s Deicide as ’80s Crumbsuckers. It’s followed by a rumbling intro filled with literal gunfire for the appropriately titled “War”, a grotesque mosh perfectly suited for the entrance theme of an occult-based pro-wrestler. You’ll have better luck knocking off Jason Bourne than putting an end to Obituary.
Bill Orcutt The Anxiety Of Symmetry LP (Fake Estates)
We all love Bill Orcutt, the true American treasure that he is, and rightfully so! He blew our wigs off with Harry Pussy and glued them back on with his numerous solo guitar outings, but I want to call attention to what might be my favorite version of solo Bill Orcutt: computer software mode. He did it with A Mechanical Joey a year or two ago, editing a Joey Ramone count-off into a vivid cascade of sound, and he’s doing it again with The Anxiety Of Symmetry. This time around, Orcutt takes six female voices singing the corresponding six notes in a scale and whips it into a dazzling vocal orchestra. Very much in the spirit of Philip Glass and Roberto Cacciapaglia, but also similar in atmosphere and tone as like, Jimmy Eat World’s Clarity and Howard Hello’s Don’t Drink His Blood, two lightly IDM-infused emo masterpieces of the Y2K era. Throw a pillowy kick under it, get Ben Gibbard to whine a pleasant melody and boom, new Postal Service album! I kid (slightly), but only because The Anxiety Of Symmetry is such a gorgeous and deeply pleasant album, too complex for my brain to fully comprehend but effortlessly easy to enjoy.
Post Moves Recall The Dream Breath LP (Moone)
No known relation to Post Malone, Post Moves is a Western Mass guitarist who takes a collage-y approach to composition. By the mainstream’s standards, it’s weird, but within our little Yellow Green Red world there seems to be a number of folks messing around in similar ways these days: turn the buzz of a guitar into a drone care of some effects pedals; layer a field-recording of children playing; fingerpick on an acoustic in a lightly jazzy manner; stack various twinkly melodies until the whole thing is bursting with color. Whereas many of these artists like to conjure tropical beaches or intergalactic vistas with their guitars, Post Moves renders images of faded barns, fields of clover and chicory and creaky rocking chairs on a front porch with his music – I’m pretty sure I heard some banjo in there, for example. Imagine a faded old stack of VG-/G ECM records in a bin marked “free” outside a bookstore/health-food co-op in some sleepy mountain town… that seems to be the vibe Post Moves is seeking (or seeking to tastefully update) here, even if the colorful artwork and graphic design elements reveal Recall The Dream Breath as the work not of a hippie boomer but an art-schooler born in the ’90s. The perfect soundtrack for the curvy, tree-lined drive from Northampton to MassMOCA, one I’d assume Post Moves has made countless times himself.
SG Rilla Mane My Cadillac 7″ (Wah Wah Wino)
Lots of labels profess to do whatever they want, but Dublin’s Wah Wah Wino professes nothing while displaying fully dedication to their own unique internal logic. Case in point is this new seven-inch single from Houston rapper SG Rilla Mane (aka Slim Guerilla), a gorgeously syrupy cut of authentic Texas rap. I’m certainly pleased to make SG Rilla Mane’s acquaintance here, as “My Cadillac” is an instant hit. The beat is out of this world, based on a sampled slice of new-age jazz guitar(?) that’s as pristine as a white leather couch straight from the factory line. It’s just too good, sounding like something James Ferraro would’ve sourced for a new vaporwave project, but instead the sample is laced up with a rich low-end and an indifferent beat for Southern hip-hop perfection. It’s nice to own on a seven-inch, but I wish I had this on a scratched-up CD-r and a 2005 Honda Accord with subwoofers in the trunk from which to blast it. The b-side is a Morgan Buckley remix, which chops and speeds-up the original into a pile of noodles; it’s fun, but there’s really no way to improve upon the original, and Buckley wisely doesn’t seem to try. “My Cadillac” is a stunner regardless of how it’s presented, though, and further proof of the wide-ranging tastes and voracious musical appetite of the Wah Wah Wino crew.
The Sheaves Excess Death Cult Time LP (Minimum Table Stacks)
Not sure where all the wacked-out DIY post-punk record labels have gone in the last few years. I realize it’s a harsh financial environment (tapes are so much easier and safer, not to mention digital), but damn it feels good that Minimum Table Stacks is dropping a surprisingly thick stack of vinyl since its inception last year, and it’s all worth hearing. The Sheaves’ debut album Excess Death Cult Time was a cassette-only affair care of Moone last year, and now I’m uncomfortably blasting it on the format it deserves. Weird band, this: from Arizona (and featuring personnel from Soft Shoulder and Humiliation), The Sheaves play a brittle, ramshackle form of traditional 1979 British DIY. The album sounds like they all met at a Fall show in some university hall and decided they could do it too, even though they aren’t teenagers and are baking in the American desert, not soaking in a Cardiff bog. Fans of Shoes This High, Homosexuals and Puritan Guitars take note! The drums are dry, the guitars sound like their strings haven’t been changed since being purchased second-hand and, most compellingly, the vocalist has a voice entirely his own. I’ve come up short figuring out which member is the singer via online sleuthing, but it’s gotta be whichever one has yellowish-green skin and is wearing a deteriorated funeral suit, as the vocalist sounds like an actual zombie, only partially aware of his presence as the singer in a rock n’ roll band. It’s just the right amount of ludicrous and enhances these already-cool tunes into a modern post-punk gem.
Staubitz & Waterhouse Out And About LP (Gertrude Tapes)
The experimental bonafides of Mary Staubitz and Russ Waterhouse are undeniable, she as the inventive Donna Parker and he as half of the inimitable Blues Control to mention but one detail each. They’re a duo in life and music, and as a recording project they’ve turned their focus to field recordings, of which Out And About is their vinyl debut. It’s an overcrowded field with a very low barrier of entry, the field-recording biz, which makes the peculiar joy of Out And About that much more exceptional. These recordings generally speak for themselves; any editing is tasteful and minimized, allowing the richly human scenes they stumbled upon to shine uninterrupted and with startling clarity. “Jazz Conversation” is self-evident by its title – a heated discussion of jazz superiority over the clinking of glasses and ringing of phones, like a Sopranos outtake but real – whereas “No Recess” documents some antsy faculty members trying to quiet a school cafeteria with the mixed results we’d expect from our youth. Track titles give us some clues, but certain sounds will forever be unplaceable (what was that ungodly buzz a few seconds into “Night Sweats”?) to anyone besides Staubitz, Waterhouse and those who experienced them firsthand. Much like skilled photographers manage to render exceptional images from the banal, Staubitz & Waterhouse reflect the sounds of our world back to us in fascinating and unexpected ways.
Terrine Standing Abs LP (Bruit Direct)
Seven new tracks here from playful French experimental producer Terrine, whose work has always toed the line between the absurd and the serious (before falling over into the absurd). Standing Abs is no exception, and the first time I’m picking up on the aesthetic correlation between herself and another of my favorite European post-techno provocateurs, Lolina. They both operate in a simultaneously po-faced and hilarious mode, toying with their electronics in inventive new ways while never fully revealing their intentions. Warped synths, shuddering electronic beats and a vague sense of inside-joking are all key to the process. They both frequently use song titles as punchlines too, and with “Carrageenan Do Dad Jokes” and “Bâton XXL Will Make A Record One Day” on here, that tradition is maintained. Whereas earlier Terrine records took on more of a collage approach, using scraps of found-sound along side a wide range of instrumentation, Standing Abs feels more unified in its software/hardware, somewhat tightened up and more focused, at least relative to prior albums, with acoustic piano improvisations providing the heart and soul. I loved those early, extra-messy approaches to album-building, and I love this one too, sounding like Misha Mengelberg trapped inside a cell shaped like the Aphex Twin logo.
Terry Call Me Terry LP (Anti Fade / Upset The Rhythm)
Melbourne’s Terry keep things Terry-centric with their fourth full-length, Call Me Terry. I understand them as kind of an indie-pop cousin to Total Control, though with four albums and a significant stash of singles and EPs under their collective belt, they’ve certainly carved their own niche. In a Mikey Young-based or tangentially-related constellation of bands, The UV Race always felt like the spastic little brother who leaves plastic toys on the floor, whereas Terry are the cool older sister, wearing a beret and reading French philosophy at the breakfast table. Call me crazy but that seems to fit the vibe of Call Me Terry, which goes fuzzy and simplistically-poppy while still maintaining an undeniable level of cool. Reminds me a bit of Dan Melchior’s many garage-pop endeavors, but the shiny-happy subversiveness of “Gold Duck” feels like it could’ve worked on that last wonderfully-weird Total Control record too, if I may repeatedly bring up a different band in this review. While not the sole project of many of its members, Terry is without a doubt its own distinctive group, somewhere between the obscure pop beauty of The Bats and the charming insouciance of Swell Maps, replete with customized melodies, clever song-play and the breezy confidence that only comes with knowing you’re a really good band.
Water Damage 2 Songs LP (12XU)
Nice follow-up here from Austin-based perpetual groove machine Water Damage. If you weren’t already sucked down the cosmic drain by their debut, allow me to provide some basic info: they are a drum-centered octet featuring members of Spray Paint, Black Eyes and Marriage alongside the Texas rose Thor Harris himself, and they improvise lengthy curls of instrumental drone-rock. They find a note, hold it, and crush it like a beer-can on their forehead, all while the multiple drummers lock in on some simplistically spacey groove and the rest of the crew hums along. Very much in the manner of Tony Conrad with Faust and France (who, if you haven’t heard, you gotta check out France), the type of music that’s probably easy and satisfying to perform with the same spiritual gratification extending to the listener. The first side drones confidently over a patient break-beat, sounding like a family of air conditioners crossing the river Styx without incident. The b-side is immediately more psychedelic, as the beat is mostly the same (if sweetly dubbed out) and someone found a set of triangles or something, unleashing some chiming metallic tones over another supremely dank groove. Once the keys come in, it feels like MF Doom could unleash an otherworldly verse, though “killer cut to rap on” probably wasn’t a consequence Water Damage foresaw. Seems like Water Damage can conjure these infinite jams at will, only limited by the length of the tape… heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were jamming out a new one right this very moment. Makes you think.
Water From Your Eyes Everyone’s Crushed LP (Matador)
Refreshingly quirky experimental pop (but not hyper-pop) here from Brooklyn’s Water From Your Eyes. They seem to delight in messing with their prospective audience – I mean come on, their name is just a clunky way to say “tears” – and to be honest, it’s a delight to be messed with by them! They seem to come from the ’90s indie lineage of Stereolab, Broadcast and Pram, but they also kind of up-end it in a playfully modern way, using the full capabilities of digital editing to warp the mix in ways not reasonably possible in the ’90s. It’s like these songs want to be upbeat indie-pop in their heart of hearts, but there’s a Daniel Lopatin-esque dissolution happening all the time, where voices melt, samples override the melody, rhythms arrive from left-field… basically anything to shake things up. I’m reminded a bit of Katie Alice Greer’s solo debut, in the way both artists insist on pairing catchy melodies with absolutely mangled instrumentation / experimental non-instrumentation, but Everyone’s Crushed is shiny and polished even in its roughest moments, as if the Empire Records soundtrack was forced into one of those elastic latex bodysuits Arca has laying around. I like it when they go completely inaccessible, but tracks like “True Life” and “Barley” bring the restless energy of Erase Errata to the populist bop of like, a Moby remix. Recommended from top to bottom!
You should know by now that I love the double seven-inch format: so rich with possibility while constrained by time, it’s perhaps the perfect format for concise experimentation that also demands concentrated listener attention. Body/Head are a versatile noise-guitar duo, as capable of putting together a coherent and diversified album as they are writing a “single”, and this new four-track EP is an excellent addition to their portfolio. If you’re new to the group, they’re Kim Gordon on guitar and vocals and Bill Nace on mostly guitar, though the b-side “Get Lost” integrates a throbbing pulse. It’s an unusual ingredient in the typical Body/Head framework but an appealing new complement to Nace’s warbling lines and Gordon’s intermittent vocals. No sign of that pulse to be found on the c-side’s “Tripping”, which cracks open more space for Gordon’s train-of-thought vocalizing and the rumbly tickle of their guitars, eventually purring like hungry kittens. All four tracks offer faith without tidy resolution care of the fractured melodies that swing in and out of focus, culminating in the Roy Montgomery-esque strum of “Bites Her Tender Mind”. Warms my heart to see that they actually pressed 550 copies of this (all numbered on the back), to think that our underground vinyl community might support the ability to shift half a thousand pieces to open-minded consumers who appreciate the strange and patient sounds of Body/Head. Come On, people!
It’d be nice if more unsigned bands followed K. Campbell’s lathe-release model. I’m sure it’s significantly more work than just uploading WAV files to Bandcamp, but if you saw how attractive Campbell’s seven-inch singles presented (and how surprisingly good they sound), you’d want to make one too! I’m a little surprised this Houston singer/songwriter hasn’t joined forces with a label – maybe it’s by choice – because his music is perfectly pleasant emo-leaning indie-pop, guitars strumming to the sounds of flowers blooming and romance sparking. “Smoke” cuts the difference between The Promise Ring and Teenage Fanclub, kinda subdued and smooth with some twinkly Jimmy Eat World-ish keys and none other than a tasteful saxophone lead. Who doesn’t want to hear a song like this? “Somebody Else” has more of a swing to it, calling to mind later Weston with hushed vocals and lyrics describing a tender defeat of the heart. The plastic slab upon which the songs were cut is appropriately firm and real-feeling, although there’s a weird little bass-y wooshing noise on the b-side (which, as far as I’m concerned, enhances the listening experience). There are still ways to circumvent the miserable music industry’s machinations if you try hard enough, as these Poison Moon lathes (and well-designed hand-glued sleeves) display.
Wild reissue here from the proudly Canadian Celluloid Lunch label, collecting recordings of the hyper-obscure (and hyper-Canadian) proto-punk squad Da Slyme. I love this early form of punk, the one where it’s played by guys who look like Captain Beefheart and Dr. John because it wasn’t yet clarified that they were supposed to look like Billy Idol, who push the amateurish idiocy angle to its furthest lengths. (Did Da Slyme bring their own toilet on stage with them, for example? You betcha!) It’s PG-rated cute in this day and age, but I’m sure songs like “I Wanna Pick My Nose” and “Lick Linoleum” had some uptight audience members bolting for the door back in ’78. Many of these tunes (of which there are no less than twenty-six!) have me imagining a teenage “Weird” Al as a member of Puke, Spit & Guts, the very earliest Electric Eels rehearsals and certain Killed By Death hallmarks (Child Molesters for sure) without the shock-value Nazi regalia. There are also lots of fake(?) radio-ad spots made by the band that aren’t a far leap from what Howard Stern was getting into at the time; I’m sure Dr. Demento inspired everyone I’ve mentioned thus far. I have zero interest in listening to any broadcast tapes of Dr. Demento at this stage in my life (or any stage, for that matter), but would I want to blast Da Slyme’s electronic-interferenced mongo stomp “Radio Junkie” over and over at full volume? Without a doubt!
I recently learned that the SST group Trotsky Icepick initially intended to change their band name for each album release while using the same album title over and over again, a hilariously self-sabotaging move that feels in the same spirit as Debt Rag. The trio of Lillian Maring, Marissa Magic and Max Nordile previously released records under the name Wet Drag, and it’s a funny little switch that reminds me of MDC changing their acronym or Die Monitor Bats insisting on a different spelling with each new release. Debt Rag’s aspirations seem to exist far from any form of conventional “success”, happy to shoot themselves in the foot for a good joke rather than pander for likes and digital playlist inclusions, and I’m a big supporter of that kind of attitude! Their music follows suit as well, a defiantly guitar-less trio of drums, bass, keys and hollering, certainly in line with Nordile’s work in Preening and Magic’s in girlSperm, if slightly more abstract. Lost To The Fantasy shares the spirit of other Bay Area post-no-wave freaks like Numbers and Inflatable Boy Clams, somewhere in that unique sweet-spot where the contrasting aesthetics of the avant-garde, Riot Grrrrl and Subterranean Records intersect. Much like the cover art, they don’t rip it up in order to start again, they simply leave the lumps and slather it in another thick coat of Pepto-Bismol-colored paint.
The March Of The MF’s? Don’t tell me this Philly hardcore unit has gone crossover! Thankfully that’s not the case, and if anything, Delco MF’s have turned up the intensity following their excellent debut, popping whatever blood vessels remained intact after the first go around. It’s only a few seconds into the fifth track, when vocalist Jim Shomo shouts “go fuck yourself”, that it feels like anyone in the group finally took a breath, such is their unrelenting hardcore-punk speed and intensity. Their songs carry the frantic haste of DRI and Deep Wound with a Midwestern backbone and a caustic vocal approach, as sandpapery as Steve Peffer in his 9 Shocks Terror days. Even the title track refuses to move at a pace remotely resembling a march, a violent pogo sure to rip some tiles off the ceiling. They could’ve easily fit another six songs on this seven-inch, so briskly does it rip, but the point isn’t to write a lengthy saga, it’s to burn off our eyebrows and speed away in the MF-mobile before we realize what’s happened.
The promotional material for Dream_Mega’s debut full-length likens it to “Terry Riley doing Cro-Mags covers”, and while I don’t hear that in the slightest, I applaud the Post Present Medium promotional squad for going big! Dream_Mega is the solo project of Joel Kyack, whose groups Landed and Six Finger Satellite never went any less than big, and while I don’t hear even the faintest of transmogrified NYHC riffs here, it’s a compellingly weird listen all its own. If anything, I’m reminded of Excepter in the way that Dream_Mega disassembles slow-motion electronic grooves and pushes the pieces around, dipping in between quantized and unquantized realms, sober one moment and blackout-drunk the next while always gazing towards the skies (or electrical wiring). Dream_Mega’s beats are slow, towering and weird, as if Thrones entered the Swishahouse and was never seen again, and they take their sweet time to roll through, giving the proceedings a vaguely mystic feel, like staring at Scientology’s Flag Land Base and finding secret patterns in its geometry. Vocals (when applicable) are used more for oddball purposes than anything that could be connected to pop music, certainly in the prankish realm of Six Finger Satellite though not a “joke” per se, which has me wondering what it’d be like if Black Moth Super Rainbow ever made a record for Southern Lord. (I just checked and they haven’t… yet.) 
Very cool pivot here for meticulous techno producer Avalon Emerson, seemingly a natural shift while also impeccably on-trend. The story is that she got sick of endless travel / late nights DJing and retreated to a London studio with a friend or two, trying her hand at vocal pop. Much like her success with trance-infected house and techno, this indie-Balearic pop sound is a perfect fit. Opener “Sandrail Silhouette” is an excellent place to start, shimmering and easy-going pop that swings like Madchester in the chill-out room, complete with an earworm violin hook that would make Richard Ashcroft drop his martini. The rest of the album tries out various related outfits, all suited to Emerson’s lightweight vocals and exquisite programming, culling from contemporary R&B-infused pop, Kate Bush, Jessy Lanza, Phoenix; there’s even an extremely John Mayer-esque soft-rock guitar solo on “Entombed In Ice”. I almost expect him to start crooning some backing vocals as the track fades, but maybe Emerson’s saving him for the sophomore effort. The pieces are all firmly in place, but Emerson succeeds by allowing her own personality to shine through, singing songs that matter at least a little bit more than the inoffensive playlist-fodder of certain contemporaries. The funky, retro soft-pop of “Astrology Poisoning” sounds like Grimes if she married Vampire Weekend instead of Elon Musk, complete with what seems to be a funny swipe at the Goop lifestyle and more of that sweet, sweet Mayer-styled guitar. Complete with a fantastic cover design, & The Charm is gonna live near my stereo for a while.
Been a minute since I’d been properly Barone-d, but this one comes from just over the bridge, care of southern New Jersey (we call it “South Jersey”) quartet Eyes Of The Amaryllis. It’s a pretty communal affair, rough around the edges in a friendly way, and includes Jesse Dewlow aka People Skills. Much like Eyes Of The Amaryllis’s vinyl full-length debut, Lunchtime On Earth features four fractured folk ditties, recorded and mixed in an appealingly disorienting way: one guitar sounds like it’s in your ear and the other down the hall, and why is some of the percussion so far away while certain hits jump out of the speaker? Imagine Garbage & The Flowers given the Graham Lambkin treatment and you’re in the ballpark of these sounds, although this sounds like a real-time, temporal affair, not the work of handy editing so much as an unorthodox mix. “The Straw In Your Head” is a fine example, with guitars scraped, plucked and popped more than strummed and an unintelligible vocal warbling through some sort of effect. Makes me think of Mad Nanna too, this quiet and unarmed DIY folk that borrows from the free-form approach of noise without any of the harsh electronics or atonal feedback, though Mad Nanna’s recordings sound like Quincy Jones productions compared to this. Which, of course, is half the fun. 
Lots to live up to if you’re going to be a noise-rock band named after one of the coolest things Nick Cave ever yelled, but Ireland’s Hands Up Who Wants To Die give the old crooner something to respect. Nil All is their newest, and while many of these sour, knotty songs sound like the territory of anguished men in sweaty three-piece suits, pictures of the band show them in white undershirts with their heads in their hands; the music sounds like a terrible celebration while their delivery is very much based in the morning-after. I’m sure they get compared to the other notably seething Irish noise-rock group, Gilla Band – I’m doing it now, in fact – but Hands Up are more traditionally masculine-disgruntled, mostly sticking with traditional rock instrumentation. Of course, the bass-guitar sounds as if it’s only got one string (with only a few available notes on that string), the guitars are richly affected and a piano adds some lounge-y flavor to Rory O’Brien’s vocals, so they’ve got their own bag of tricks. O’Brien falls somewhere in the lineage of Tom Waits, Eugene Robinson and of course Mr. Cave as he fully commits to every line, be they a whisper or a scream. Might also be his dry (and wet?) heaving that introduces “Nausea”, but one of the benefits of listening to records is that you’re protected against any unexpected fluid exchange, at least until Third Man invents the necessary technology.
RIP Frank Kozik, not just for his art but because without his underground contributions the sound of a band like Hozomeen might’ve never gotten its due. I guess I shouldn’t say “band”, as Hozomeen is the solo project of one Graham Thompson, whose resumé boasts a long list of groups, the only one of which I’m personally familiar being Ultra Shit Inferno (thanks to a split single with the ever-outrageous Sloth). Hozomeen sure sounds like a band though, as these songs take stoner riffs and drag ’em through the noise-rock mud, like Tar or Cows covering Orange Goblin and Queens Of The Stone Age. Like I said, tried and true Kozik rock, the sort of thing that should have an eye-popping Satan daddy rolling flaming dice on the cover, but somehow in a way that actually seems cool. Thompson makes the right choice and lets his tunes breathe (along with a toned-down design aesthetic), often loitering on a repetitive instrumental groove, his distorted shouts taking a back seat to the power of the down-tuned Sabbathian riff. “Lack”, for example, seems to have all of one note, and is all the better for its patient rhythmic deployment of such. No wheels reinvented here, only polished on one of those ’70s custom vans that you park at the beach and hotbox until it’s time to get, I dunno, some really good tacos or something.
Never hurts to have a fresh indie-pop song about the summer that also arrives just in time for the summer! In the hands of perpetual indie song-machine Fred Thomas and his Idle Ray group, you can rest assured “Corridors Of Summer” is worth your time. Don’t expect an upbeat and beachy jingle, though – “Corridors Of Summer” is sleepy and resigned, with bandmate Frances on vocal duties, intoning as though she’s in wistful remembrance of summers past. Makes you want to grab an acoustic and strum along from the comfort of your couch, the song all too welcoming the listener to sing along to its private little melody. “Unremarkable Things” is the flip, with Thomas on plaintive lead vocals, and it feels like it’s gonna be an even more somber affair than the a-side until the instrumental crescendo kicks in with electrified guitar soloing and unchained drums, reminiscent of how Tony Molina ends basically 90% of his songs (a path more bands should consider following). Only a dash of light cutting through Idle Ray’s clouds, but just enough to make you look up. I know Thomas has a million projects, many of which I’ve followed off and on for years, but this is my first encounter with Idle Ray and I’m thinking I need to go back and see what 2021’s self-titled full-length is all about.
Skipping out on nearly all of the ’00s and ’10s, Jeromes Dream are seemingly back in full swing. The first time around, I appreciated their commitment to over-the-top characteristics (beehive Spock hair, screaming sans microphone, drummer on verge of crying at all times) as well as their messy, tantrum-laden songwriting approach to emotional hardcore. Their songs sounded like Orchid run through a briar patch, covered in little welts and scratches, far superior to Midwest no-fi cousins Usurp Synapse and less jocularly bro-ish than Neil Perry. Of course back then, all these bands existed on cheap webpages and in photocopied zines, and now the ones who still play screamo with any level of success seem more like hip brand marketers, closer in DNA to Liquid Death than the crusty punks loitering in front of a DIY house venue. Rest assured there are multiple limited vinyl “colorways” for The Gray In Between, and while I get that it’s a game that has to be played as a matter of survival in 2023, I still pine for the time when the priorities of being a screamo band felt different, more punk. Musically, the necessary parts are firmly in place here, filled with sharply breaking rhythms, chirping feedback between hits and ominous acoustic strumming (compare “Often Oceans” here to the tail-end of one of my favorite Jeromes Dream tracks, “Its More Like A Message To You”), though not as much rabid blasting as before, and a subtle lean towards Explosions In The Sky-oriented grandeur in the riffs. The fragile magic, fleeting as it may be, is still there too, if somewhat dulled by time and the state of new vinyl in 2023. 
It’s cool when a metal record opens with a big long ominous intro, but you know what’s even cooler? When it directly kicks in with a full-scale bludgeoning, the whole band attacking in unison from the very first millisecond onward. That’s pretty much how …So Unknown rolls for its duration, the Philly group’s sophomore effort and first for big-time metal label Century Media. They’ve had a cool thing going from the start, an over-the-top beatdown aesthetic delivered with death-metal vocals, violent metal-core riffs, crowd-killing mosh parts and a muscular technicality… probably the meanest modern band that will find its way into the YouTube algorithms of teenage Turnstile fans. Like previous releases, Jesus Piece continue to wield downtuned riffs redolent of Crowbar and his majesty Dimebag Darrell, though it’s all tuned to a hardcore pitch, or at least close enough. Long hair or short hair, either way you’re catching an accidental sneaker to the back of the skull when Jesus Piece are on stage! Rather than try to make any big stylistic shifts (rest assured, no one even attempts to melodically sing here), Jesus Piece offer a beefier version of their sound, with subtle and tasteful moments of the eerie anguished calm one might associate with Korn and plenty of painful breakdowns sure to help you max your reps at the gym. Wrapped up with cover art befitting a late ’90s Euro-import Morbid Angel bootleg, I don’t see how …So Unknown could’ve worked out any better for Jesus Piece.
Been digging the output of Total Punk sub-label Mind Meld Records lately, not only because Total Punk respects their name enough to not release semi-punk records under their banner but also because their taste in Not Quite Total Punk has been stellar thus far! That Glittering Insects album rules, and this new one from Oregon’s Lavender Flu is a gloriously ramshackle guitar-pop spectacle. I’ve enjoyed this band ever since they kind of morphed out of The Hospitals and their brain-numbing Hairdryer Peace album, and while Assorted Promenades is still full of haywired electronic bursts and slippery tape distortion, it’s also a meticulous outsider pop record. Reminds me of that last and criminally-overlooked Psychedelic Horseshit album, the way in which head ‘Flu-man Chris Gunn grabs at all sorts of wonky bargain-bin sounds and effects to create his own hand-glued Pet Sounds, and how surprisingly listenable it ends up being. It’s like if Ariel Pink got into Flying Nun instead of MAGA, or if Beachwood Sparks signed to Siltbreeze instead of Sub Pop, though of course The Lavender Flu has been fine tuning their sound over multiple albums and years. Somewhere in here, there’s a Moby Grape cover, but I’ve always fared poorly at Moby Grape trivia, and all of these tunes sound right on par with each other, swirled like one of those comically over-sized lollipops you see spoiled kids with pigtails and bowties licking in cartoons. 
I’ve Seen A Way is the compelling full-length debut from Manchester’s Mandy, Indiana. Don’t let the screamo-y name fool you – while the music of this group is often jagged, turbulent and susceptible to uncontrolled spasms, their inspiration seems to come from the post-9/11 dance-punk and electroclash scenes, not Witching Hour or Hydra Head. There are occasionally guitars in there somewhere, strongly reminiscent of when Liars broke off the disco-punk rails and started integrating experimental electronics into their fold, but oddball sleazy electro-dance such as Mu’s incredible Afro Finger And Gel is even more aesthetically prominent. Living in Manchester you’re only a stone’s throw from a puke-bellied dance floor, and it’s clear that Mandy, Indiana have it in their blood – it comes as no surprise that Giant Swan’s Robin Stewart provided some help on the mixing board. Thus, they flip from a SURVIVE-styled arpeggio into waves of electronic distortion over a club-friendly 4/4 snap the way a hardcore band goes from a fast gallop to a split-second cut and mosh breakdown. The precise production is compelling enough on his own, but the manic and consistently French vocals of Valentine Caulfield push a track like “Pinking Shears” from notable to inspired.
Confusing German electro unit Montel Palmer are at it again, this time in the form of a handsome seven-inch single. I fell in love with their five-track one-sided flexi-disc last year and backtracked to their most recent album, Catastropheland, which revealed an anomalous group with endless musical pathways. On this new single, things are relatively relatable and laid-back, calling to mind the solipsistic house of Rat Heart and the self-amusing studio hijinks of the Wah Wah Wino crew (the duo of Gombeen & Doygen in particular). “Südstadt” rides sullen chords over a persistent electro kit, with murmured vocals puttering in and out, as if the mic was left recording in the studio when the janitor came in to clean up Montel Palmer’s mess after they left. It’s not particularly dance music, and the b-side “Gammy Eyes” is even less so, slowing the pace and serving up some bilious guitar, like a private-press R&B instrumental that started to grow mold after days without refrigeration. That same vocalist appears again too, resulting in a track that feels like Mike Cooper melting Torn Hawk with a giant magnifying glass in the tropical sun. Freaky easy-listening, the sort of thing you’d want to pair with a cocktail that sounds absolutely disgusting but a friend insists is good. Wasabi carrot mimosas all around!
Antinote remains my go-to for worldly chill-out dance vibes, as if the rest of the globe is a turbulent gray sea and Antinote is this tiny white-sand island with thriving palm trees and a baby-blue lagoon. If you’re not sure what I mean, you might as well throw on The Missing Person by Nico Motte and watch as your disgusting work coffee turns into a frozen piña colada before your very eyes. Motte’s tracks are languid and sensual, soft and sugary bouquets that call to mind Miami waterfront hotels and Mediterranean small-plates… easy-going house for bare-feet patrons. There’s an undeniable whiff of late ’80s soft-core cinema sleaze too, but Motte never lays it on too thick – nothing is over-the-top or ironically corny. A track like the appropriately-named “Slow Burner”, for instance, is serious fun, vintage synths shuffling over a digi-riddim layered with fresh melodic leads and the pleasant sense of stress leaving the body. Motte even makes the squeaks of a newborn baby sound reasonable in a nightclub context with “The Burning Sets”, perfectly comfortable alongside his synthesized pan-flutes and vibraphones. If some time spent with The Missing Person doesn’t improve your life, you’re already too well off.
I can’t pretend to understand the internal processes leading to contemporary noise-rock weirdoes landing on the same legendary label that brought us Albert Ayler and Patty Waters, but it’s cool that it ended up that way! Painted Faces is the work of one David Drucker, a Brooklyn-based home-recorder who has a prior ESP-Disk’ album to his name alongside a wobbly stack of DIY CD-rs and cassettes (as would any noise artist worth their salt). From the sound of things, Drucker has a whole host of oddball gear and fangled instruments and he takes them on a hairy ride of sonic exploration here. They don’t sound like collages – at least by my pedestrian ears, things seem to be happening in real-time – but I’m not sure I’d call some of these tracks “songs”, either. “Pieces” sounds too formal for what’s happening too, so I dunno, let’s just call it music! (But wait, is the atonal moaning/feedback duet of “Playing The Field: The Ambassador Prowls” music? Ahh…) Things definitely seem to come from a LAFMS or Crank Sturgeon mindset, these scattered and belligerent sonic sketches where a sense of outlandish comedy never seems too far away, teetering on the edge where one accidentally-unplugged pedal could cause the whole thing to come crashing down. I’m not sure what Henry Grimes or Paul Bley would make of it, but I bet they’d at least crack a smile.
Man, you’re gonna go ahead and come up with a dope hardcore band-name like “Planet On A Chain” but have it say “POAC” on the cover instead? Imagine if labelmates Sick Of It All went with “SOIA” on the cover of Blood, Sweat And No Tears instead of their cool-ass name on full display? Just wouldn’t be the same. Anyway, let’s move on from that minescule gripe and get to Boxed In, the debut LP from this group of life-long hardcore punkers – they’re ex-members of Tear It Up, Dead And Gone and Look Back And Laugh to name but three prior projects. I’m pleased to confirm that the musical tastes and personal approach of these four folks has not evolved or “matured” in the past two decades, as they still play a rowdy and tight form of hardcore-punk that melds first-wave Southern Cali hardcore-punk and the Y2K “bandana thrash” revival with precision. Definitely sounds like a band that could’ve shared the stage with Gordon Solie Motherfuckers, Paint It Black, Deathreat and Life’s Halt, and I’m almost certain that its collective band members have already done so over the years. I also find it cool that Revelation decided to release it, as Planet On A Chain and their accompanying live photographs from Rob Coons (speaking of hardcore lifers) are a bit crustier/punker than the clean-cut Nike SB Dunk style I’d tend to associate with the label, but sonically as true to the ‘core as can be. Good work, everyone! 
Intriguingly scant information is to be found on PRC’s Elastic Time on the world wide web. I understand they’re a Detroit trio and am semi-intelligently-guessing that this is their debut. As it’s recorded by Fred Thomas and engineered by XV’s Shelley Salant, they’re clearly clued into some cool likeminded folks, and who knows, they might even share personnel elsewhere! It’s not uncommon, you know. In listening to Elastic Time, such a connection makes sense, as their songs are rough and vaguely esoteric garage-inspired indie-rock. The bare-bones recording is traditional and appropriate, the sort of sound that if PRC was to record a music video, it’d be them playing in some plain room with a swirling eye hovering over them and modest analog effects. Reminds me of Great Plains, Cheater Slicks and V-3 at times, or at least if you take those groups as a sort of jumping-off point into the darker indie-rock of the ’90s like Un and Come; had PRC existed in 1995, they would’ve certainly found a favorable home with Siltbreeze, let’s say. They might even in 2023 if they keep at it! The way the vocals are delivered over impatient scraggly guitars makes it feel like each member is staring right at me without blinking, which I appreciate, and they mix it up enough to keep things interesting – check the hopeless slow-burner “Mellow” and savor the way that buzzing one-note synth keeps creeping up. Detroit bands have an uncanny knack for sounding like Detroit bands and PRC is no exception.
Never a dull moment in Shackleton’s laboratory, and this new one under this also-new The Purge Of Tomorrow moniker is particularly exceptional. It’s Shackleton himself, and while I can see the appeal of picking new names for new projects, The Other Side Of Devastation sounds like Shackleton even if it doesn’t quite behave like a typical Shackleton production, should such a thing exist. These two side-long pieces are extravagant and hypnotic, calmly rhythmic and richly layered, with every little particle sounding perfectly polished and in place, like a gothic antique store filled to the brim with sparklingly creepy rings and jewels. I’m reminded a bit of Shackleton’s epic Music For The Quiet Hour release, as dance BPMs are entirely forgone in service to moods both trippy and occult, various voices passing through the glistening sound-field as if on their way to another world. Very much in the spirit of Coil, Nurse With Wound and even David Lynch, but so distinctly Shackleton. I see this release is tagged as “dark ambient” on Discogs, and while I can acknowledge that The Other Side Of Devastation would work well on the sound-system of a new-age body-piercing salon, there’s a blissful lightness to both of these tracks that feels apropos for a sensory-deprivation floatation tank. Either way, this is some sublime body music.
Pyrex are a trio hailing from Atlanta and Australia who wound up together in Brooklyn, three locales rich with vaguely dirt-baggy dudes making aggressive noisy post-punk clatter. Though their quaint kitchen-accessory name has kind of an egg-punk feel, these guys are well-oiled and raring to go with nary a bloopy keyboard or kooky vocal in sight, stomping through tom-heavy beats, repetitive down-picked chords and hoarse vocals. Imagine if Metz had their sights set on signing to Goner, or if Spray Paint and Lamps got together to try and play the closest thing they could to hardcore-punk. It’s a pretty no-frills, music-first affair, from the almost non-existent artwork, one- or two-word song titles (sans lyric sheet) and only three black-and-white live pics of each member on the insert. I dunno, I tend to appreciate punk bands that opt out of artifice and pomp, who just lay the music out and let you decide, but the simplicity of the music, aesthetic and delivery here is all so streamlined and/or non-applicable that I find myself wishing Pyrex would let us know at least a little something about themselves. What makes Pyrex Pyrex instead of a hundred other similar bands, you know? Total Punk is a label stuffed with garish weirdos who want to leave a strong impression and Pyrex seem sweet and shy by comparison. 
Much like science itself, there is simply no slowing the progress of Buffalo’s Science Man, an ostensible solo project from John Toohill of Alpha Hopper (among his numerous other projects). The endlessly-busy punker has a steady stream of releases on his Swimming Faith label, many of which have recently bared the Science Man name, like this new seven-song EP (the program repeating on both sides). Science Man seems to start from a point of garage-punk and pushes the intensity into a realm befitting grindy hardcore (if that isn’t necessarily the final outcome). The vocals are unintelligible screams, the guitars are bouncing into the red and the drums, which I believe used to be the work of a drum machine, sound like a real kit this time around (though it’s all so buried in the distortion that my investigation has stalled). Kinda sounds like something Toxic State would’ve released in 2014, and it’s just as covered in stamped ink and screened cardstock as Toxic State likes to do it. These are definitely songs, but they come at you so overblown and frantic that it kind of just blends into a sound, perhaps too frantic for its own good if you’re the type of person who wants to experience some sort of memorable rock moment. If you just want your paint-peeled a bit, however, Science Man has a firehose of this stuff, ready to aim directly at your face.
When I think of Slovenly Records, I think of retro-inspired international garage-rock, and when I see an album titled Full Sun and described as “High Desert psychedelic punk” on the front sticker, I’m thinking of Meat Puppets and Destruction Unit. That’s a lot of thinking for one person, and I’m pleased to confirm that my expectations were fully upended by this sharp full-length debut. Reno’s Spitting Image have been at it for over ten years, yet Full Sun is their first vinyl album, and I have to say, I deeply appreciate bands that don’t rush things. In their case, they got to put together a dynamic and interesting collection of moody post-punk / hard-indie tunes, utilizing the tuneful shout-alongs of DC’s first wave of emo, melodic grunge riffing and American downer post-punk bootstrapping. I’m reminded quite a bit of Waste Man, another scrappy group who synthesize a variety of underground motifs and sensations into a potent and modern brew, as much of Full Sun also has me hallucinating Guy Picciotto playing in a Wipers cover band with the guy who does Smirk, or Deaf Wish loosely re-interpreting the Gun Club catalog. Years ago, Full Sun would’ve been one of those hidden gems with a Dutch East India logo on the back, stuffed in a dollar bin and scoffing at all the uninformed browsers who passed it by. As for now, it’s immediately listenable on Bandcamp, at least until the company that owns the company that owns Bandcamp decides to downsize and scrapes it from the internet. At that point, back to the dollar bins we go!
It’s way too easy to take tripped-out punk lifer Timmy Vulgar for granted. Much like the Doordash delivery guy, he’s out there sweating through the grunt-work to make life better for the rest of us (or at least less monotonous), in his case by hitting the road with various freak-rock outfits and producing a constant stream of stellar recordings. Timmy’s Organism has been his main pursuit for a good number of years now (though some of his records with Human Eye remain personal favorites), and seeing as he never quit making music, it can be easy to pass one or two albums over, thinking you’ll just catch the next one. I know I have! But I’ve got Lone Lizard here with me now, and it’s a pleasant reminder of what this man can do. It’s a hard-rock record through and through, though the punkness lies in the approach: hammered-out riffs, noisy psychedelia, a sloppy thrill that meets the people on their own terms. These songs are more crafted than some of the appealingly-warped acid sploodge he’s provided in the past, landing somewhere between Hawkwind, Dust and Buffalo, hairy-chest rock n’ roll that’ll knock Jack White’s top hat sideways. If anyone can combine the seemingly incongruent states of spiked leather and psychedelic-print polyester scarfs, or bald and long hair, it’s Mr. Vulgar, truly a lone lizard for our times.
Hot damn, best funky Balaeric dance single of 2023 thus far! “The Evenings” is right up there with Pender Street Steppers, M83, Tensnake, Alek Lee, all my favorite smooth-as-silk downtempo electro-pop, perfectly teetering on the edge of silly/serious with some severely sumptuous leads and snappy Nile Rodgers-inspired bass licks. Al Usher’s partner in love, “Jeanette”, provides the vocals here, with a sophisticated and vaguely European enunciation ala Ann Steel that seems to be about parenthood, but in a completely non-cloying way? All the pieces are weird and yet they fit together perfectly. “The Visitors” steps up the energy ala Lindstrøm & Christabelle, like a DJ night on a yacht that projects Jane Fonda workout tapes on a white wall next to the complimentary chardonnay station. I could listen to tunes like this day and night. As the Misericord folks surely know what a winner they’ve got here, the flip contains a tasteful Ewan Pearson edit of “The Evenings”, leaving all the winning parts in place, as well as an instrumental if you want to try your hand at Jeanette karaoke. No one sings the phrase “functioning alcoholic” like she does, but it sure is fun to try!
This is the first record I’ve seen that is “reissued” by a new label after being “released” “digitally” by a different label. You don’t have to call me old-fashioned – I know I am, to a fault perhaps – but the idea of digital-only labels stumps me a little; can’t you just do it yourself at that point? Bandcamp is where it’s gonna end up, and Bandcamp is free! Actually, I took a look and maybe the original label also released a highly-limited CD version with an accompanying book? Hmm… anyway, I’m glad that someone (namely 12XU) found War & War worthy of a big twelve-inch black vinyl slab, because that’s how it found its way to me and it’s a cool one indeed. The first thing I noticed is the overall sound they’ve got going on, as if the lows are maxed out on everything, from the guitars to the drums to the vocals, not so much a heavy record as a consistently booming one. It’s a cool feel, kinda lo-fi but mostly just deep sounding in a Mary Chain way, and it’s an interesting fit for their garage-y, downer-twee indie-pop. Sounds like Crystal Stilts if you were listening to them play with your head in the kick drum, but I was never big on Crystal Stilts and I really dig War & War, so go figure? Kinda has a soft, almost indifferent K Records vibe as well, and each song carries its own weight, from upbeat fuzzy jams to slower meandering grooves. Times New Viking on ketamine, maybe? All I know is that I haven’t gotten “Poor People” out of my head since I first heard it, which is a pleasantly troubling state of affairs.
Much like the novel coronavirus, Why Bother? have evolved quickly in their short existence, starting off as kind of a monster-movie punk outfit and becoming something more bleakly human and developed. A City Of Unsolved Miseries is their newest and most melodic, still calling to mind The Spits, but a Spits with black eyeliner smoking outside the party, not in the kitchen doing kegstands. Some songs are very much in that Midwestern Killed By Death spirit, but others (like “The Quiet One”) have a home-recorded 4AD style, recalling the very best that Blank Dogs had to offer. It might sound tricky to reconcile the contrasting punk approaches of silly and serious, jumpy and morose, but Why Bother? make it feel like a natural meshing, calling to mind the brief time when Buzzcocks and Joy Division shared club stages and social scenes, or out-of-place one-of-a-kinds like Debris and The Gizmos. It’s fun when punk bands side-step codification and just kinda exist on their own, not worried about making sense so much as honestly expressing their inner freak. You could follow the pre-established aesthetic guidelines that make listeners comfortable, but, uh, why bother? 
Gnarly debut effort here from Berlin improv duo Wirecutter. Micha Hoppe is on the drums and Sid Werner is on the diddley bow (plus both touch some synths) and the vibe is like 75 Dollar Bill reimagined as a black-metal group, or Will Guthrie collaborating with Tongue Depressor, or Aufgehoben tasked with scoring a new Mandalorian soundtrack. It’s gloriously wretched stuff, Hoppe’s drums sounding like they are being beaten out of shape and Werner’s endlessly deep squall evoking some form of primal flatulence, as if the Earth itself groaned from a case of irritable bowels. Certain moments of fury call to mind Lightning Bolt at their most feral, but Wirecutter quickly stray from full-scale assault to tonal exploration, the diddley bow consistently pushed to its heaviest pitches, teetering on the edge of what could be considered “tuned”. I love when free improv conjures sweltering swamp dungeons crusted in years of filth – Wolf Eyes ostensibly the masters of the technique – and Wirecutter are immediately up there with Little Faith, or should I say down below.
Back to top