Sam Hatzaras
2007-2012 [CS; I Had an Accident]

The strangest things come in the mail, oftentimes without me expecting them. Such is the case with Sam Hatzaras’ 2007-2012. It’s a weird blend of 90s hip-hop, 80s new-wave, and 70s new-age. It’s Wu-Tang Clan sowing the assholes shut of Human League and feeding them tiny bits of Terry Riley. It’s spiritual in its connectivity, combining smatterings of Hatzaras’ varied projects into a colorful palette of musical visions. I’m tripping hard with Enya as we desperately reach to grope Dale Bozzio in a slo-mo plane. That’s the beauty of all of this: It’s EVERYTHING. As the modern music world reaches into the past and future for inspiration, Hatzaras teleports in a phone booth through epochal atmospheres to collect a who’s who of sounds. 2007-2012 is a touchstone to so many sounds, perhaps the Dead Sea Scrolls deciphered. This is a trip that doesn’t quit. Who would want it to? I always wanted to know what went on in Wonka’s tunnel, and Hatzaras is finally opening his factory to me. All I had to do was crawl through the rabbit hole of my mailbox.

Links: I Had an Accident

Dead Fader

Work it, No

[12-inch; Robot Elephant]

Rare is the electronic musician who can render his music downright scary; Dead Fader accomplishes this and more on “Bosched” with little more than (presumably) an oscillator pad, a fat-as-fuck bass-smuggling beat, and the big, blue sky. How does he do it? Who fucking cares. “Fishsh,” the second cut from the Work it, No 12-inch is even more vicious, its bass blob sawing my earz in half as it fills the room with buzzing, nefarious low-end. Sensational raps, too, and doesn’t ruin shit whatsoever; always a plus. Observe as the track suddenly sinks a few feet beneath the ground, dripping from the speakers like pus, before righting itself and slow-rolling off into the night. Egad. Side B is less jarring, more witch-y, and still right up your alley if you like EDM, though it loses some of the runaway momentum created by the stampede of the first couple of cuts. Whereas “Bosched” and “Fishsh” stir up a ruckus without even trying, “Industrial Funk Stains” and “Das Hamster” try pretty damn hard and generate less heat per boom-bapita (a form of capita). Light orange vinyl never hurt anyone, and apparently you can get RER stuff in America now. It’s the dawn of a new rave.

Links: Dead Fader - Robot Elephant

Ether Island

Season of Risk

[7-inch; Not Not Fun]

Remember when Björk was angry? Not loud, but angry… That’s right, you can’t. She’s just a big faker, likely because the only thing to be angry about in Iceland is the Greenhouse Effect and that, despite the human population working to kill the ozone, it’s still cold as fuck. Ether Island is that angry Björk, outraged that no one gave two shits about the awesome swan dress they wore (where’s Björk’s Oscar for actually being a swan princess!?). Season of Risk is vengeful but also the kind of mind-blaster needed to break from the funk. It’s the primal screams after the unresolved hangs thick over the air. Whatever caused the demise of Mythical Beast is theirs to tell, but outcasts Corinne Sweeney and Jeremiah Cowlin have regrouped with kinetic fury. It’s a kick to the teeth, a knee to the groin, and a crushing handshake. Yeah, we missed this. Music is all emotions and it’s been lacking a shitty attitude reserved for aging rock stars and snotty pop idols off the stage. We want it on stage, in the music, and crammed down our throats. We’ve grown soft. Ether Island hasn’t. They are pissed. They are vengeful. Rather than become Dexter Morgan, they’ve splayed open the victim in front of all of us. They warned you: this is the Season of Risk. Heed it.

Links: Ether Island - Not Not Fun

Potions

One Buck

[CS; Pretty All Right]

I was thinking Potions’ One Buck cassette was going to be one long mouth movie circa Babe, Terror at first. Then the beat kicked in, and a strange calm took over my house as the Corpus Christi wind blew harder than Louis Armstrong in the background. So it’s like that, eh? Hmmmm. I prefer their more ambient moments, where tiny bells bounce off vast expanses of drifting-cloud tones. But stuff yr worries in a sack, mister, because the more bombastic stretches are acceptable as well, though the cheesy drip-drip gets a little scalding after awhile. Sort of like CFCF, old Daft Punk, and Aphex mixing serums, but a relatively inexperienced 12-year-old is manning the beat box: One Buck sounds good, but not too good, if you get me. A lot of different approaches are undertaken, not all of them successful, so fast-forward to the liquid-smooth formula adhered to late on Side A when you first get this, then proceed from there.

Links: Pretty All Right

Jad Fair

“NOW”

[7-inch; Joyful Noise]

Jad Fair goes over the artistic edge with “NOW,” his one-song contribution to Joyful Noise’s monthly Flexi Disc series. Fair has gone so far that he’s the yodeling minstrel meeting his untimely end on “The Price is Right.” (Yodel-ye-yo-ho!) “NOW” is a spoken poem, with little attention paid to the rubric tribal beat that plays like a children’s marching band behind Fair’s Lou Reed intonation. Equal parts cool and oddball, “NOW” is the sort of pumped-up self-help jargon overheard from the homeless, those who have more insight into the hardships of daily life than most of us will ever know. Despite the strange balance between childlike exuberance and Raymond Babbitt mantra, “NOW” resonates well beyond its means. It somehow keeps finding its way back onto the turntable, even if it’s missing the same drama and punch of Fair’s recent full-length with Hifiklub and kptmichigan.

Links: Jad Fair - Joyful Noise

Good Willsmith

Is the Food Your Family Eats Slowly

[CS; Hausu Mountain]

“Bands just don’t make complete albums anymore.” A miserably ignorant statement (similar to thoughts along the “Music isn’t good anymore” bullshit spectrum) that Good Willsmith eradicate with Is the Food Your Family Eats Slowly. Although we’ve had one miserable Matt Damon/Will Smith mashup in the form of Bagger Vance, this promises no Jazzy Jeff and Ben Affleck carryover to dilute the talent pool — a poor name for a well-thought-out and eerily COMPLETE album. The apocalyptic drone and electronic thunderstorms build upon each other like Panabrite without some of the harsh edges and fidgety detours. This is focused and bred for premium punch. Some real Jason Bourne, Mike Lowrey shit. This is a soundtrack to brawn that will need franchising.

Links: Good Willsmith - Hausu Mountain

Nihiti

Faced With Splendor

[12-inch; Lo Bit Landscapes]

Is this the same Nihiti that has put out a few full-lengths of busy, beat-munching, dare-I-say skittering experimental/electronics-tinged bliss? Faced With Splendor is all-acoustic, all-mellow, all the time, replete with trumpet toots, string swishes, and mini-jangles that couldn’t be more different than what I’ve heard of their long-players. Maybe this is Nihiti’s Jar of Flies/Sap? Rest assured: The water is warm. Strums over drums, to start, and I don’t miss ‘em a bit in this case, as they could easily muck up what turn out to be decent arrangements when laid bare. The aforementioned strings swoop in/out, as is the wont with most folk-related projects you hear these days. At times, they are a bit upfront for how superfluous they are; you could prune them from a few of these tunes with little, if any, consequence. No denying these melodies, and the mood is grim but not played to the hilt, which was a good choice. If all Nihiti’s albums sounded like Faced with Splendor, there would be the all-too-familiar risk of a polite, “No, thanks!” but seeing as this was a slight detour, it sort of sweetens the pot a little to know they can turn their backs on their “sound” for a bit and keep it together.

Links: Lo Bit Landscapes

Lakes

Crossed with Leaves

[7-inch; Quemada]

I can’t read these words. The black mascara is too thick. The clothing is too dark to see through, my turtleneck turned into a mask to hide from Sean Bailey — even as I transform into him in a strange Kafka nightmare. Crossed with Leaves is a car crash of Goth influence. It vibrates with the sexual energy of Depeche Mode, it barks with the precession of Bauhaus, and breakfasts with the ghost of Ian Curtis. Despite its morose Goth-folk, “Crossed with Leaves” and its B-side “Night Lark” are compelling. It’s the old moth-to-flame attraction that ruins us all. We become Bailey’s willing souls for the moments he unleashes Lakes upon us, only shaking ourselves free after the last bitter notes melt into the abyss; we here the abyss calling to us, even in silence.

Links: Quemada

Black Sky Chants

I’ll Sleep Until I See the Moon

[CS; Aguirre]

Closely linked to the more tropical (so sorry to employ that overused term, but when in the Galapagos…) output of Sean McCann, Black Sky Chants’ “I’ll Sleep Until I See the Moon” commits all the crimes I’ve accused so many tape-bakers of, yet I can’t bring myself to charge them in an underground court of audio law because they do it so goddamn well. Imbuing drone with this level of atmosphere seems so easy to so many, yet I’ve taken in dozens of cassettes that just can’t compare. The vivid mix doesn’t hurt either; it’s like I’m in the aquarium with them, flicking my tongue at flies and basking in the wind-blown mist. Without a knob-job this crisp, well… Who am I kidding? I’d still be on board, but it’s nice to get a surround-sound experience many 7-inches can’t even touch. RIYLin’ all over Riceboy Sleeps, Cedars Of Lebanon, early NNA, and many more I will never hear (so many regrets).

Links: Black Sky Chants - Aguirre

Mole House

Hey Come My Way

[7-inch; Quemada]

The picturesque forest scene on the cover of Hey Come My Way makes sense with the first jangled strums of this 7-inch’s namesake. “Hey Come My Way” is hazily yelled lyrics and repetitious chords emanating from a rustic shotgun shack, a band turning abandonment into homeliness. A-side complement “Taylor’s Mistake” is equally stoned, with a droning croak and uninspired melody becoming quaint as it marches into the light of day. “Coming Back + Coming Over” is high-end speech-song, a drunken chant above more jangle than an overcrowded charm bracelet. The canopy allows Mole House to be their sloppy selves, and the results are endearing. Stashed in a brown paper sleeve like the malt liquor downer it is, for easy sipping.

Links: Quemada
  

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.