Holy Ghost [CS; Bridgetown Records]

Madeline Johnston, tape sorceress of Denver’s Tinyamp Records, dropped a real stunner for Bridgetown this past summer, one that has segued itself nicely into Autumn with an unimaginably soft touch and reverb-soaked everything gently drifting down, down, down; to the ground, to your body. Or deeper, really, this is surface-digging stuff, ballads with a voice and a guitar, simple lyrics repeated in trance-like chants to get all the way under the skin. Paper-thin, bare-boned and beautiful, Mariposa at once seems like she is barely there while also having a miraculously robust and powerful presence. Her voice is a snowflake — fragile, complex, ready to melt. Guitar chords swaying gingerly between two chords are winds, rustling the leaves or rocking the empty tire swing. But none of it is quite as chilly as I’ve described either. Holy Ghost feels like a familiar place, a dwelling you’ve occupied for years, full of fleece blankets and fireplaces, maybe a photograph or two — tools are simple and sparse, there for survival and nothing in excess or unneeded. “Did you ever feel at home inside this house?” Johnston asks waist-deep into side-B, and it’s not exactly an easy question to answer, let alone comprehend.

Links: Mariposa - Bridgetown Records

German Army

German Army

[LP; Skrot Up]

The more tapes/LPs I hear from German Army the more convinced I am that they are slowly decamping to a climate not unlike that explored, previously and currently, by Edward Ka-Spel. The misty fields, essentially spoken dialogues, seemingly aimless instrumentals (which, conversely, are anything but), and bleak landscapes reek of Legendary Pink Dots’ founder. My only question is where is this all going? German Army have slain so many enemies on the post-post-post-punk battlefield you wonder if they’re going to go the way of Disco Inferno and disappear before the population at-large can hear them. That would be a dick-kicking shame, as the swirling, colder-than-ice environs they cocoon us in are more comfortable than my descriptions would suggest. How does one express anger/dissatisfaction without screaming one’s brains out? Listen to German Army and find out, and don’t worry; the material is out there if you know where to look (i.e. Skrot Up, yo!).

Links: Skrot Up

Benjamin Finger

Listen to My Nerves Hum

[LP; Time Released]

Listening to Benjamin Finger’s latest is to do so with kid gloves, afraid the slightest mishandling or heavy breath will shatter the one and only copy of Listen to My Nerves Hum. It’s the still reverb of footsteps echoing in a museum, where every piece seems so well curated and painstakingly built that to disturb their resting place is to belittle the art. But that isn’t the goal of Benjamin Finger as dainty as his compositions may seem. Art is about participation, smearing the blood and guts onto the canvas or molding and casting with soft hands that will become rock. You need to listen over and over again but the feeling of scarcity will pass, to be replaced by sanctuary. You will begin to curl inside the grooves, caress the beautiful cover art, and be inspired. The album is no longer a stale exhibit hall but a bristling, interactive composition that cries out for your own flourishes and embellishments taken from your life. You will cook to these docile strains. You will clean with the sway of the airy spaces. Though great care should be taken to protect your copy of Listen to My Nerves Hum for just 300 exist, it’s meant to be lived in and not protected by bulletproof glass inside a sterilized bubble.

Links: Time Released

Lame Drivers

Flexi Book EP

[flexi art book; Self-released]

Can’t get this thing to play at the beginning of most of the songs but once that needle sets in all troubles evaporate. The flexi-book idea seems to be a relatively new phenomenon (Castle Face and Famous Class both did one) and while I have reservations about the aforementioned playability the art direction of this piece is outstanding. Lame Drivers are an extremely game band, capable of spitting out common-guy indie-rock without going all Meneguar on us (too soon?). If you like the ragged rawk of The Replacements and Cloud Nothings you will find a lot of kindred traits on this record, though there’s nothing sloppy about “Frozen Egg”; quite the opposite. Their instinctive rockist approach is pure and beguiling in a ramshackle way without giving up on its smarts, even when the singer is quacking up a bit out there. “We R Notified,” an intriguing tangle of random guitar figures, is another keeper for your trapper. Five flexis, five artists designing the lustrous pages in between, and one TMT reader who should get going on this before it goes hella-OOP (are you trying to make a schmuck of me?).

Links: Lame Drivers

Village Pistols

Big Money

[7-inch; Last Laugh]

It’s funny as FUCK how things turn out. I can guarantee that if, in 1981, if I had been a teen, and Mitch Easter had shown me this Village Pistols 7-inch alongside R.E.M.’s first single (which apparently was recorded on the same tape!) I can imagine my reaction, knowing my young self: “Man, love the Village Pistols stuff. Those other guys ‘r’ bitches.” That ‘those other guys’ would go on to be superstars doesn’t change a thing about this awesome little record, either. Village Pistols, infected with a scorching case of punk rabidity, explode from the speakers like napalm and will damage your genetic make-up just as much if not more. “Strawberry Fields Forever” is the kind of cock-knocker I always expect to get from a Last Laugh platter but it doesn’t make it any less a pleasure when it happens again, as it just did. OOF, fucker! The b-side yanks a little less crank but you’ll forgive it. Vinyl so tubby it’s trying to lose weight, too. So damn heavy.

Links: Last Laugh


Rat Talker

[7-inch; Army of Bad Luck]

Holy shit, part of me wants to skip this one over and save myself the critical sweat but hey, reviewing curiosities such as Hawks’ “Rat Talker” builds character, right? (Right?) So fuck, let me see if I’ve got this straight: Leftover Crack/Choking Victim + Blood Brothers vocals, production pried from the skeletal hands of a stoner-doom production, riffs that actually are more hard-rock than punk, and a drummer that thinks he’s running the show, fillin’ and drillin’ and bee-boppin’ and scattin all over the place? Really? (Am I asking too many questions in this review? Oops, there’s another one.) And… fuck my mother I think I just… Yep, I just heard a bass, AND guitar, solo. I’m not even sure where to turn at this point. Since I can’t help but think my vexation is a positive sign on some level I’ll go ahead and slap a thumbs-up sticker on this dick-kicker’s dirty bumper, but I’ve got some advice for you, pal: tread lightly. There are a lot of things happening on this record that you haven’t had to contend with in a long, long while. I’m a changed man.

Links: Army of Bad Luck

Puce Mary

Ultimate Hypocrisy

[CS; Self-Released]

Sometimes you want to make love and sometimes you want to get fucked. Noise can fill a hole similar to the way hair-pulling, slapping, screaming, I-don’t-care-if-the-neighbors-complain coitus does. Like the hickey you have to hide the next day and the bruised shoulder that aches each time you move, the piercing tones, rib-cracking thuds and raw-throated vocals of Noise are a perverse pleasure; it says “you’re alive, you’re human, and you’re dirty.”

Enter Puce Mary, whose sound has late 70s Industrial’s sexual preoccupation with a vein of dark purple malaise running straight to the tip. Degradation, submission, loss of self, and cathartic release all make an appearance from the cover of Ultimate Hypocrisy to the supplicating female voice that warbles “I was willing to do what he said.” Perverse curiosity forces you to lean in while high-pitched whines drag you backward; this music has you on a leash and it’s taking you where it wants. It does what it pleases. It’s not a kink thing, it’s not a Noise thing; it’s the dark pool seeping under the door in our heads we think we’ve locked up so tight.

Links: Puce Mary

Frozen Teens

Oakland Footsteps

[7-inch; Starcleaner]

It’s so easy to forget just how enthralling punk-rock can be, simply because it’s done incorrectly so often. To be simple is not to be stupid, nor vice-versa, and there’s a delicate balance to the genre many aren’t even aware of. Frozen Teens skirt this invisible line skillfully by way of an infectious strain of pogo-punk that propels itself forward naturally and is imbued with enough gold-star melody to earn brownie points. “Footsteps” lulls you to sleep with a field-music intro then smacks you in the grill with a power-poppin’ punch and a shitload of ride cymbal and toms. It’s a juicy one, but “Oakland” is the gusher, almost like Fresh & Onlys (which I certainly appreciate) in its incisive simplicity, albeit delivered with the pedigree mentioned above. Such a contrast to the flip you wonder in which the direction the band is headed… [To be continued.]

Links: Starcleaner

Hobo Cubes / Taiwan


[12"; Pleasence]

“O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won”

Hobo Cubes is the raging storm, sending waves crashing across the bow in an attempt to topple our metaphorical historical figure. He watches as the shipmates languish in salty sea waters, neither laughing nor crying at their dismay. He bathes them in Neptune, carefully picking the precise moments to unleash great tides and yielding to eerie calm when the boat may capsize; when our figurehead may take his final bow.

“O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills…”

Taiwan is our fateful ship, cast adrift into a storm in which is shan’t survive. Yet its crew will not wilt in the face of innumerable odds. Though their fate is sealed, it does not stop the momentum being built below deck. As Hobo Cubes whip ferocious sine waves about the stern, Taiwan triumphantly say goodbye to the cruel but lovely world in jubilant song. Our heads hang low, our flags at half-mast for the passing of our dearly departed but it was not in vain. The Hobo Cubes sea is dangerous but worth traversing; Taiwan will build another sturdy ship and sail the seven seas again under the eastern sun.

Links: Pleasence

Transplant Mountains / Chapels


[CS; House of Alchemy]

The Transplant Mountains, a sick little UK outfit, offer up such a sick side of sax-throttling dissonance you wonder where Chapels can even go from there. But I’ll get to them in a minute because the Mountains deserve more exploration. Aside from the static crackle and sax, I don’t know what I’m hearing, at all, of course, so I’ll just describe the feeling: Abject terror. Then meth flashes corrode everything and you’re stranded in the desert like Walter White accompanied by the guy from Sax Ruins. From there it’s a long stretch of tension before a soothing drone takes over. What an enchanting lil’ neon forest of noise they’ve constructed. Wonderful-sounding mix, too, for a tape. Now, Chapels: This is a lot like that RCBNN noise tape at first. Then, I think I… yes, I think I hear a band in there, maybe. Whatever it is, it disappears into a sea of mid-level layercake that sounds synth-based to these ears. Wherever they get their juice, I like it, though I could use more distinction between the elements that make up the tracks. This one gains momentum as it progresses, however, so follow it to the day of your judgement.

Links: Transplant Mountains / Chapels - House of Alchemy

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.