No Titles [CS; No Kings]

I’m beginning to question the drinking water in Tennessee. While the state has produced its fair share of wackos and people-hating wunderkinds (and we’re not just talking about Nashvegas), it’s also breeding a new mutation of experimental musician. Perhaps it isn’t the drinking water but some sort of food or grain found in select outliers. Maybe aliens stole select children in the night between the years 1980 and 1995 and only recently have they been given passage back to earth to spread the peaceful message. Could it be these are not people at all, but sentient beings bearing warning to the beginning of Skynet becoming aware? Whatever the case, I’m going to make damn sure I heed the warnings of Joseph Volmar. As Clearing, his slowed Blade Runner ambiance is a gentlemanly call that only a Southern could extend. Its lengthy strands of icy truthiness may only be decipherable by a chosen few, but I hope that, even in misguided interpretation, the heart of the matter is still reaching the neural receptors it’s meant for. Now if you’ll excuse me, all this chill drone has made my butt hurt and a strange radio transmission is coming from my nipples.

Links: No Kings

Gary Lucas

Music for the Eden Project

[7-inch; 5nakefork]

Nothing wrong with Side A; acoustic, finger-lickin’-good string pickin’ and a-pluckin’ and all. But Side B, well, that’s where former Beefheart/Jeff Buckley strongarm Gary Lucas digs deep and comes out as fresh as Steve Hillage was upon leaving Gong. Maybe he’s been listening to a lot of 6OOA, Plante, and Nels Cline, or maybe this is where nature took him; either way, double the dose, because this approach works wonders. It was meant to accompany an exhibit yadda-yadda, but this 7-inch stands firm on its own. I’m not even going to ask whether the “no overdubs” claim on the back-jacket is true; I’m just going to say that if Lucas is ejecting this sort of maelstrom in one take, I’d be hesitant to even trust him with 100 studio hours and 16 tracks. Thick, soupy, these drones are, the sort of spiritual sound a million tape-toters would kill to even approximate. Oh, and remember, there’s also a decent Side A + translucent orange wax.

Links: Gary Lucas - 5nakefork

Vermillion Father

Go-Kart Kamp

[CS; Space Slave Editions]

There’s a deviant comfort in pissing in the pool. That bit of untraceable underwater warmth — who wants to leave the pool just to dry off, find a bathroom, piss, come back out, and re-acclimate to the water? It’s just unruly and better to be uncouth. Vermillion Father’s Go-Kart Kamp pisses all over our aqua jets with a jubilant smirk. Can’t be mad, so just enjoy the warmth. This cassette is two long-burners, the self-titled and chill A-side shimmering like water on a blindingly sunny day, the B-side, “DJ Squalls,” heavy with industrial vacuums cleaning the besmirched vessel and making it inhabitable once again (and nothing about this deep drone resembles the lanky, lightweight actor). It’s a warm cassette full of sun, urine, and booze for a lazy afternoon spent by the local watering hole. Just don’t mix up your Bud Light for a bottle of piss.

Links: Space Slave Editions


The Priest

[CS; Rocket Machine]

Ever have one of those “I drank too much booze and codeine” days, where your mind continues to reset itself? Like, you’re at work doing overtime, and you can’t do one more proof because words are colliding on the screen. Or say your computer mouse is being controlled too fast, and searching for Yolandi Visser nude on Google Image becomes slightly work-appropriate. Parked now, maybe eating the blunt you’re smoking will help you keep it together that much more. If only the break lights on lights on lights didn’t keep flashing, cause 75 MPH on the LIE is easier than traffic, right? Only, you don’t pull over. UNDERPASS. You still don’t pull over. School bus panic. Continue to drive. AM pop crackles over the radio, The Priest (reeling on your portable cassette player since noon) is at max via the player-speaker, and harmony/darkness has been reached. Get home, and you’re still talking to your friend from high school over the phone, but not really. You just don’t want the neighbors looking at you funny while you walk the dog and blare drone. Br’oh, keep this together and you’ll never fall asleep. Pretend this exists. Continue with your shit. The Priest will shroud you in sizzle; Ajilvsga will assure this.

Links: Ajilvsga - Rocket Machine

Wind in Willows

Deepness in the Sky

[CS; Ginjoha]

There has always been a magic shrouding Japan. But there has never been magic shrouding anything in Russia, just a darkness perpetuated by the unknown. Anton Filatov marries both on Deepness in the Sky, pairing the hopefulness of Japanese culture with the black recesses of Russia. From the swamps of the former Soviet Empire to the neon perma-glow of Tokyo, Deepness in the Sky has its own spotlight to show the path to enlightenment: the subtle drone illuminating Filatov’s steps as he marches toward a better tomorrow; layer upon layer of sound scaring away the tyrannical and attracting the innocent. It’s a triumph in feel-good music, a gaping hole ready to be filled now that years 1958-2009 have called it a day. There is magic again, and Filatov has used it to make a shaded earth glow.

Links: Wind in Willows - Ginjoha



[CS; Fabrica]

I’ve witnessed so much craziness there gets to be a point where a band can’t offend me. Cassette culture, however, is full of surprises, shocks that hit you in all sorts of ways, day after day after torture-rewind day. EarthMasters don’t seem to carry a single qualm relative to songs, lyrics, climaxes and hooks — this is audio dedicated strictly to the ongoing concern of how far out can experimental works go in a musical stratosphere proven to have no true boundary. A forest-walk (Crombie-style) is what this fizzy brew blows up to. The devilish swoons from loping and loud to tinkly and taut soon form a creepy cocoon around your ears; if you wake up and it’s 500 years in the future, you’ll have EarthMasters to thank.

Links: EarthMasters - Fabrica

Velvet Elvis

No Rules in the Wasteland

[CS; cae-sur-a]

Sometimes you’ve gotta follow the Big Chief in the sky. You’ve gotta find your inner spirit animal. This ain’t no Fight Club sliding penguin bullshit; this is truth. It’s inside all of us, and often it doesn’t take the shape of an animal at all. For Velvet Elvis, it’s clearly the fiery depths of psychedelic metal. The rattling thunder of Uriah Heap, Deep Purple, and Black Sabbath — it is Ozzy and Dio in an eternal battle over hell because they’ve already disposed with Satan. Flesh melts to jelly; bone becomes coal to keep the hot furnaces boiling. Whatever depths of the inferno Velvet Elvis has mined, what they’ve come back with is a metallic demon manifested as a beast capable of ripping your face off with the single shred of a guitar, elegantly depicted as a bird with untamed hair and a B-cup. I’m certainly not fucking with it.

Links: Velvet Elvis - cae-sur-a


Celebration Noire

[CS; Handmade Birds]

Several possible connections popped and fizzed like mentos blasted from a two-liter upon first hearing Celebration Noire. Several of them are extremely muddled; luckily, the whole shebang-bang comes together via tact not often found in music this sludgy and random. Extreme-instrumental, is what I call SVR’s flow; do I hear a golem black-metal shriek? Yep, that’s not normally something I’d expect to hear stuck in the middle of a traffic jam of casio beatz, wood block, insistent sweeping string swathes that seems to almost dive-bomb the arrangement (albeit in a peaceful way), and odd jabs of effects that form a huge, constantly changing visage for the screamer to bounce his blood-curdling hell-hole hollers off. Without warning, we on the outside of a train, trying to hold onto the side of the beast, wind whirling us around and blasting us in the face as a light rain causes electrical aberrations to form and zap us in the head-hole, melting us into neon-colored wax that will be spun in the name of the lord on 12-12-2012. Party.

Links: SVR - Handmade Birds


Muryoku Muzenji, Koenji, 2010/Happy, Wellington, 2009

[CS; Dungeon Taxis]

Matt and Nick are pissed you didn’t give xNoBBQx the time of day. They had an album on Siltbreeze, for fuck’s sake! And you didn’t buy it; you didn’t even illegally download it from a “third-world,” half-English/half-non-English blog. So they went and destroyed themselves. They took their music too. All that’s left is this testament to destruction. It’s noise. There’s nothing left of the old xNoBBQx. I’m surprised the x’s are still attached. It’s a beaten and broken band. So rather than have you reject them again, they are doing the rejecting. That grating you hear? It’s the sound of their hearts being ground by your deceit. That bitter hammering? It’s the sound of the boys beating themselves senseless until brain matter or Athena emerge from their skulls. You did this to them, so you better sit down and listen to this to make amends. Next time, they might stop whipping themselves long enough to give you back your dirty garage rock. Until then, enjoy some righteous noise and be a better pal.

Links: Dungeon Taxis

Cosmic Letters

Cosmic Letters

[CS; Animal Image Search]

As if in the past, at some point, culture lived only in the sky. Not as a creature, but culture on some form of molecular level. And only in the sky is where this environment roams, at the brink of space and atmosphere. From here, social progression evolves two ways. The first is when molecules break a part from this arena and fall to earth, either as soil, rain, or maybe even something more animated/alive. The second is breaking off into the universe, straying away from earth, and becoming a part of something wholly and overwhelmingly baron. Where ghost becomes existent in this culture, and in human culture, is where these molecules return to earth from void. To bypass their way back, without burning or disintegrating, these beings use the Cosmic Letters system. The processes takes and is ultimately worth 400 lifetimes both submitting and finding your way back to the Milky Way. Traveling through dimension, beings, thunder, gas-masses, etc. Coming back to reel yourself once more through this world. Shit, maybe some of us should have chose space over earth.

Links: Cosmic Letters - Animal Image Search

Cerberus seeks to document the spate of home recorders and backyard labels pressing limited-run LPs, 7-inches, cassettes, and objet d'art with unique packaging and unknown sound. We love everything about the overlooked or unappreciated. If you feel you fit such a category, email us here.