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


Supreme Commander

[CS; Dungeon Taxis]

Rarely are we afforded a glimpse into the Nega, the world as it would exist if we were born where toilets flushed in a different direction, football is played on a field shaped like a football, and summer happened during the winter. Not only is this the reality of label Dungeon Taxis, this is also the spaced nega-Earth of Kraus. Supreme Commander is nonstop sludge; rock ‘n’ roll brought back from its pissy grave. It’s angry, so it’s all fucks and shits in heavy reverb and distortion. Middle fingers play mindless solos as Jimi and Janis hurl their flaming skulls across an Apocalyptic sky. Flesh melts and hell opens up, because even though we allowed rock ‘n’ roll to be buried decades ago under layers of disco balls, boy bands, and fashion magazines, Kraus’ Ouija board reach-out has brought it back around to give us one last burning reach-around. It feels all so pleasurable, but the pain of an existence spent being tortured by demons are oh so worth it.

Links: Dungeon Taxis

Noish & Xedh

rlhaaa to

[CS; Pilgrim Talk]

The reason I hate writing about so-called “abstract” music also happens to be one of the reasons I love listening to it. It can’t be hastily described in terms of a blanket buzzy genre or reduced to a formulaic hypothetical (“sounds like if X artist and Y artist combined”) — that is, if it’s well made, which rlhaaa to very much happens to be. Described by the label as a “deconstruction of field recordings,” understood in a Derridean sense to mean an album created outside of the false dichotomy between the non-music of the “field” (“real” world) and the “music” of the deliberately produced sound. A tall order for sure, but explored here in a truly absorbing (and fun!) way regardless. Though all the sounds are electronic, the duo uses such a broad palette that even the more conventional static-flutters and bent circuits sound completely vivacious and fresh, avoiding any sort of predictable narrative for itself so that each subsequent sound is interesting in its own way. To me, the strength of this cassette lies in its cultivation of potential, that the sounds on the tape are the spillover from the potential sounds surrounding it, which continue to the horizon in all directions. Can I break my own rule and describe the packaging as Shawn Reed meets Sylvie P with a smidge of Tyfus? Either way it’s a huge compliment, with the cover here depicting either a resurrection, the apocalypse, or just a really good party, which may be the best way to describe the music as well.

Links: Pilgrim Talk

Puffy Areolas

Gentleman’s Grip

[7-inch; HoZac]

HOT SHIT! What a wild way to spend $5; Puffy Areolas suck the energy of the entire rock world into the room with wild psych-riffing straight out of a Ghost/Acid Mothers/Psychic Paramount record, garage-rock swagger seemingly guaranteed from HoZac releases, and wild echo-cavern vocals that tie the bundle up perfectly. Talk about breaking out of the garage/psych/exp mold. Not one piece of the Areolas’ puzzle is out of place, and yet they break just about every rule in the book. What comes out the other end of the sausage grinder is a muddled mix of Zumm Zumm, The Makers, Pissed Jeans, Bad Brains, Royal Trux, and Lyres, and in no way do the preceding comparisons do this band any justice. Hell, even Mr P would like this. I know we don’t grade the releases we cover at Cerberus, but this is an E-Z “5 out of 5.” HOT-FUCKIN’-DAMNNN.

Links: Puffy Areolas - HoZac

Nathan McLaughlin

Echolocation #4

[CS; Sunshine LTD.]

The latest installment in Nathan McLaughlin’s Echolocation series is dedicated to the “mid day meal.” And yet, it doesn’t substitute as a five-hour shot of energy found among the ruin of saccharine and faux-health alternatives stacking shelves at the dilapidated convenience store. In fact, this is no soundtrack of convenience at all , adding much to the 2:30 feeling. We love that 2:30 feeling. The normal begins to break down. Eyes heavy with nap seeing the world differently. Perhaps Echolocation #4 is the sound to those weighty midday holiday meals, where we stuff ourselves and collapse wherever visiting family has left space. McLaughlin distorts reality, turning it into sinewy waves of retrospection. This midday has become a Dalí, dripping with the drone of sleep deprivation. Not even our fine Spanish friends can find solace in a siesta under McLaughlin’s ripple. This is by far McLaughlin’s best in the series, finding a rhythm unmatched in tone and mood. Raise our wine to a blurred reality.

Links: Sunshine LTD.

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.