Abyssal Farmers
Find a Name to Call Me [3-inch ; Kimberly Dawn]

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

Links: Kimberly Dawn

Smokey Emery

Quartz EP

[7-inch; Indian Queen]

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

Links: Smokey Emery - Indian Queen

Олд Комм

Ventspils

[12-inch; Discrepant]

What a scintillating ride Олд Комм’s Ventspils is. At 45 RPMs it’s clear as a whistle, too, a crucial element considering how subtle the elements at play (few of which I can identify) are. From where I’m listening the second movement, which stretches out over 12 minutes as opposed to the relatively brief Side-A audio (six minutes or so total), is the pony to bet on here. Angelic synths drift into soft voice samples, instrument loops (wacky sax, etc.), classic drone elements, electric rubber-band-balls of energy, and laser vortexes that have no ending nor beginning. Just what your typical Mego/Spools enthusiast is looking for, taken down a notch and mixed into a warm bucket of fuzz. The first movement is a lot scarier. If you think you can get the keys into the ignition in time with this cut barreling toward you good luck. Whereas the flip is a sound-art experiment, Side A sports a steady beat and a more traditional array of soothing synths, though the end-result is anything but typical and oddly satiating. I’ll admit I checked the record player to see if it was skipping and I’m still not sure if it was. You’ll wanna check this one out if you’re a storm watcher.

Links: Discrepant

Bill Orcutt

Tic Fit / Bored With The Moon

[7-inch; Palilalia]

This one slipped through the cracks because I didn’t know what the fuck it was. No name on the label or sleeve and I had forgotten Orcutt HQ had sent a package over awhile back. So… you’re welcome? Ugh. Anyway, the former Harry Pussy founder really stretches his rubber soul out on this one, emoting vocally without lyrics to loose guitar strings that sound ready to SNAP and take out someone’s eye/ear. When I hear something this uncompromising I always know Mr. P has already been-there-done-that, but a guy’s gotta eat, know what I mean? “Bored With The Moon” is like a violent, abusive version of the palette used on that first Panda Bear record, primal and straight from the head like the best stuff often is. It’s like I always say: It’s nice to play solo guitar, but if you have vocal chops on top of that you can bust open more doors and raid more riches. (Seriously, I always say that.) This appears to be a tour-only edition of 200 but there are copies to be found at Discogs; 13 of them in fact. Recommended, and better late than never.

Links: Bill Orcutt - Palilalia

Various Artists

Whatever It Is You’re Doing Now

[2xCS; Mirror Universe]

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

Links: Mirror Universe

Gert-Jan Prins

Gert-Jan Prins

[10-inch; The Spring Press]

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

FINISH HIM!

Links: Gert-Jan Prins - The Spring Press

Blanche Blanche Blanche

Scam / Press Dumps

[7-inch; Adagio830]

Ummm, Blanche? What happened baby? I thought we had a good thing goin’. Those keys/synths were soundin’ real nice, and now you gotta go and fuck with the formula just as everyone was coming around… I must say, however, that I like what I’m hearing from this ramped-up version of Blanche Blanche Blanche with Chris Weisman on guitar and synthster Zach Phillips now manning the drums like Peyton. It’s more of a scrappy, fun-‘n’-slappy hayride down Punk Lane than anything, Sarah Smith’s vocals unchanged and aided by others in the band for the first time (at least to my knowledge). “Press Dumps” falls apart like a shattered glass rainbow then picks itself up piece by piece until the train is back on the track, barely. You get a more visceral thrill from this one, very kaleidoscopic and vibrant, with an endless arpeggiator (OK I don’t know what the fuck that is; you got me) bludgeoning the middle of the mix with a skull-hammer as Phillips gets out-of-control on the demon drums. Good for them. Next?

Links: Adagio830

Tim Feeney

Weakness

[Book + MP3; Full Spectrum]

Cerbs makes an exception of the digital front because we’re readers (or pretend to be with frou frou glasses, pocket protectors, and a stack of books which are really just shells hiding nudie magazines). So when a dude goes out of his way to write 16-pages to accompany a lengthy composition, we take notice. So allow us, subservient and faceless, to tell you a bit about Tim Feeney’s work. The music? Yours to hear right now for free because art is not chained to the physical. And that’s good because not everything should be sent as digital files over fiber optics to screens millimeters away from our faces. It’s the multi-page confessional that not only draws upon the music but lends it much needed context and soul. Feeney discusses his dedication to the craft of drumming and how, either due to fear or disinterest, he became rusty. He wanted to become rusty to see how those pocks that only the untrained ear may miss became music all their own. It is a treatise on all our worries, and though an insular bit of non-fiction–not only to the music but to all of us–it is kindred with those fears in all of us. In the end, this is 16 pages and 42 minutes of deep shit, so don’t waste it by doing chores or texting your crush while this plays in the background. Give it your undivided attention to reassure Feeney and yourself.

Links: Tim Feeney - Full Spectrum

Grand Trine

Bohemians

[7-inch; Almost Ready]

Goddamn it motherfucker, this is more like it. I don’t want you to tune your guitar, or check your ‘levels,’ or bitch to the sound dude about how the bass takes away from the vocal; what I want you to do is tear those brand-new jeans of yours a little. Grand Trine made the Cerbs cut a few years ago with a proper 12-inch on Divorce, but I’m just gonna come out and say it: This is way better. The ballad on the b-side is the perfect counterweight to the bombastic jail-cell rock on A, like powdered Jagger being snorted off a tabletop then taken for a nice cruise by a greaser cover band. The overall presentation of “I Need You Baby” is like Ramones as interpreted by Woven Bones, while the flip is quite simply a catchy-ass ballad, no more no less. Thick riffs, super-thick vinyl = good times had by all (but mostly me).

Links: Grand Trine - Almost Ready

Mad Nanna

My Two Kids

[7-inch; Soft Abuse]

Self-titled A side is loud, overpowering pop-rock from our favorite Melbourne personalities (that don’t mix it up with Fuifui Moimoi). It’s the counterclockwise version of Pavement (hello rumored Australian resident Spiral Stairs), more slop than structure but it’s still as catchy and slacker-fun as the dusty old outfit. B-side “I’m Not Coming Here” is more of the same but there’s a stronger energy, as if the cloud is lifting in the basement and there’s fun in playing again. Perhaps you’ll even feel the need to pick up the nearest guitar and strum a bit. Maybe grab that empty bucket of pickles and beat on it with less enthusiasm than NYC street performers. In the end, you’ll match the timbre of Mad Nanna but you’ll still need to harvest the soul. No one’s got more soul, more of a can-do-even-if-we-can’t attitude. It’s why I love Mad Nanna and always will until they break my heart once and for all, with one final drag and a kiss-off.

Links: Mad Nanna - Soft Abuse

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In this ever-expanding musical world, there's a wealth of 7-inches, cassettes, CD-Rs, and objet d'art being released that, due to their limited quantities and adventurous sonics, go unnoticed by the public at large. Cerberus seeks to document the aesthetic of these home recorders and backyard labels. Email us here.