Brother JT

Lo Bias Hi Noise

[CS; Summersteps]

A 15-year collection of lo-fi recordings that puts your right at home with the familiar 1980s typeset of Lo Bias Hi Noise’s cover. A cornucopia of festive rock music from the Philadelphia (non) fakeout. There’s not a (Cleveland) steamer to be found. Each song features a wallop to the back of the neck; JT delivering a donkey punch to the slumbering corpses of yore. Wake up! Get your heads back in the game! Rock is not dead, just a catch phrase for shock jocks and past-their-prime VJs to ask to musicians who no longer get it. But our Brother gets it. Each song on Lo Bias Hi Noise a daisy chain of ecstasy.

Links: Summersteps

Dylan Shearer


[LP; Empty Cellar/Castle Face]

My first instinct upon hearing Garagearray is doubtlessly going to be disappointing to those who read my rave-up on Dylan Shearer’s last record, but I have to put this out there: If it sounded like he was sinking in quicksand circa Porchpuddles, now he’s fucking DROWNing, and it’s tough not to worry just a bit. Is he OK? And while I think the music suffers just a smidge for the downcast mood, this is still, bar-none, the most beautiful solo-acoustic songwriting you’ll find, right up there with Damon McMahon, John Dwyer’s quieter work as OCS (don’t worry, it was before you were a fan), and a few others on my list of bluesy, sadly unrecognized post-millennium masters. And while Garagearray doesn’t contain the dizzying peaks of Porchpuddles, it’s more consistently engaging, buttressed by the presence of Petey Dammit and that guy that used to drum for Comets On Fire. Every single song is a weepy winner, evoking so much emotion you’ll have to stop and consider why his voice disturbs you so. I mean, yes, I think the sadness causes one to stop and listen closer, but there’s something more lurking in Shearer’s larynx, a powerful antidote to passionless living. I’m having trouble expanding upon this thought, and the best artists do that to me; all my tricks of the music-dude trade fail to stick, all my too-practiced descriptors and jargon falling by the wayside like ashes from a bobbing smoke cradled in a bike-riding San Franciscan’s mouth. Now, I told you all about how Shearer most closely resembles Syd Barrett (and I’ve reinforced this opinion through people I trust, blind taste test-style, so don’t fuck with me) last time around, and I noticed a few un-creative writers read that review and decided to present a weak rejoinder or two, tossing out names like Ray Davies (utter shite) and Kevin Ayers (damn, not so bad). In light of that, allow me to reiterate my original point: Shearer doesn’t sound like Barrett, he just happens to effortlessly channel what Barrett might have gotten around to if he had emerged at the other end of his trip. I think that just about sums it up…

Links: Empty Cellar/Castle Face

Campbell Kneale / Antony Milton / Kiyoharu Kuwayama


[LP; Pseudo Arcana]

Birchville Cat Motel and A.M. (aka Antony Milton) toured together in 2006, and at some point decided to record a few eternal drones together in a studio in Japan. Being ahead of the drone curve as they were (you didn’t see it everywhere until a few years later) it’s amazing how current this tasty lathe-cut LP sounds. Campbell Kneale, Milton, and Kiyoharu Kuwayama achieved a sacred space that oddly seems perfectly suited for the lathe format because there’s no NOT hearing the performance, no matter how much a bit of hiss might obscure it. Soft melodic detritus and deep, uneasy tones gel handily with furious bouts of cello and bowed-guitar, and… frankly I’m not at liberty to tell you exactly what they do to get those shrieking-donkey/rubber-duckie noises, nor those electric crackles (though I’m guessing a guitar input jack might have played a role?), nor a lot of other things I can’t identify. The proceedings get seriously evil about 1/4 through the flip, almost like a Crucial Blast CD-R-only release or Ultramarine cassette. Jesus, the girth of the drone groove is massive throughout, but this nightmare doom on Side B is deeper than a water well; CKAMKK burrows into the skull like a right-angle drill, with ‘CK,’ ‘AM,’ and ‘KK’ killing it on all cylinders. I have a thing for lathe-cuts so, you know, I uh, appreciate that such a great long-running enterprise like PseudoArcana is putting so many out (stay tuned for more on those, including a record by Keijo and 7-inch by Samin Sun; speaking of which, a record I won’t be able to Cerb about, Pororari River Mouth by Paintings Of Windows, also on Pseu-Arc, is fucking brilliant; A.M. strikes again!), though… Sixty copies? That’s not enough, you ragamuffins! Yet it’s somehow appropriate that only five-dozen of us will get to feel what I’m feeling right now.

Links: Pseudo Arcana

The Pen Test


[LP; Moniker]

My wife loved the pen that accompanied the latest Pen Test LP that she stole it from me. As penance for my greed at coveting the object myself, I ‘punished’ myself by listening to Interstate on repeat, searching for a stray though to connect a previous review to a new one. But I felt that would be wrong, because Interstate stands on its own. Not an easy feat when your head is swelled 20 minutes long with the titular track. It’s a hypnotic and not entirely too removed from the dreamlike stasis of the band’s recent 7-inch and yet it sounds like reveille. But where the head is heavy with deep thought, the album’s feet are locked in strident movement. The four quick steps post-“Interstate” are dancers. They unpin the wallflower, and force it into spastic candor. A band proving itself to be unafraid of deep thought and indulgent pleasure.

Links: Moniker

U Sco


[12-inch; New Atlantis]

GAAAAH! New Atlantis, I’m so sorry we lost touch because you recently made my month. So much top-tier stuff in 2014 alone, much less the last few years. I always wonder where they find their talent. U Sco? What the fuck kind of band name is that? All is answered once the needle hits the crevices of Treffpunkt and those churning piles of bass, drums, and guitar rip through your pulsating woofers. I don’t want to oversell the aggression, because U Sco can go softer and even a littly jazz-ish, but the modus operandi is absolute peanut butter-jelly SQUISH-SQUASH with these fellas. Lots of little flourishes and playful winks, with a hint of speed-dose up and Up and UPPP!!! I hate referencing Don Caballero twice in one week but there it is; also Omar Rodriguez-Lopez (old solo stuff), Upsilon Acrux; you know, the regulars. I figured Mick Barr would be a good call as a reference, guitar-wise, though this guy plays his six-string closer to the vest, investing in linear riffs and breaks while fulfilling his rhythmic duties aptly. The bassist gets a little flashy, but I’ll forgive it because I’m a drummer; if I were a bassist I’d be suckin’ this guy’s dick. Oh, and that’s the thing: The drummer absolutely SHREDS up his kit like a chopped lettuce salad and tops it all off with atmosphere when need-be. These Portland boys, they just don’t stop, it seems, as every time I turn around there’s another noteworthy metal/indie/noise/etc. band emerging from the rainiest damn city I’VE ever dealt with.

Links: New Atlantis


Ensemble Faux Pas

[CS; A Giant Fern]

Imprinted in your cerebellum are the moments most worth a memory. Tied in a bow of emotion and senses, those instances set free from their wrapping by a familiar smell or minute glimpse of déjà vu. I want to impress this upon you because it’s bound to happen when listening to Micromelancolié. There is no happenstance in the name or the idea behind it. Ensemble Faux Pas emits confusing yet pleasurable signals to the brain. These remembrances are best as happy accidents. A gathering that goes against the plan, establishing its own set of standards out of the ruins of what was expected. The sound of a distant dog’s bark; the cool breeze blowing in a distant melody from wind chimes. It may all be the things of poetry but when you find a scheme that speaks to your situation, you clutch it dearly. Do not grasp Ensemble Faux Pas too roughly, because it does have a fragile container. But if it should break, you will still have those fond, but faint (and fading) recollections of day passing into night. That first love. That first child. That first dance.

Links: A Giant Fern

Hakobune / Oliwa / Former Selves / Panabrite

Oceanic Triangulation

[2xCS; Inner Islands]

Not sure when the last time I said something like, “Man, it’s been a great year for four-way splits” was but… man. I was a little wary of taking on the task of telling you about some of them. I mean I have, what, 200 words to describe four different artist to you? Impossible, right? I’ve already used, like, almost barely just even a quarter of them already (or something)… But I guess I just don’t need a lot of them. All four of these guys are so perfectly matched on this tape it’s obscene, and the release’s title, its simplistic, stylish artwork — it all comes together into the blue and yellow, night and day, ebb-and-flow, tide-timed, super-mellow slice of psycho-spiritual relaxation that is as expansive and wide open as the very oceans each contributor’s music so effortlessly represents for your imagination’s drowsy eye. All sides present us with the proverbial drift — smooth planes of celestial plain created by delicate swathes of synthesized major chords… in other words, what each of these people does completely the best of anyone else out there today. What I like about this split is how each contributor is distinctly themselves while at the same time you very much get the vibe that they know their neighbor. When Panabrite, for example, finds a few minutes in the middle of his piece to let the crystals of melody melt themselves down for a minute or two, he can sound a helluva lot like Former Selves. And that kind of stylistic queue makes this release seem like such an essential document of the state of synth-based ambient. A prism of disparate players, each with their own takes and approaches, each aware of the incredible beauty going on around the world. These are terrific times, dear readers, and Oceanic Triangulation is one of the age’s true gifts.

Links: Inner Islands




After a wet, wild intro, the trapdoor opens and the true Nun shows up: Uptempo coldwave with modern flashes of pink, green, and yellow. Smears of synth and signs of drum-machine damage (though it might be a dude playing an electronic kit, in neon sunglasses) apparent; no motive for the gruesome squelches of “Kino” offered, either. The future is grim, lives are going to be lost, so let’s play these cartoon instruments until they melt… Can you dig that? Can you dig Nun, by Nun? Then (stay with me) you’re dancing impossibly fast and you wonder if Dark Entries is having a house party. And you forget, for just a second, that the singer is talking about political, real-life shit, and there it is: The contrast between causing a serious ruckus with lyrical persuasiveness coupled with dance-drive beats that NEVER-EVER stop: That’s what makes Nun tick as a unit. Whether they’re going fast or slow, they sink their teeth in and ride their drumz hard. The keys/synths need to be emphasized as well. Darkwave can be a cold, clinical practice, and the synth systems of Nun offer a lot of balancing warmth and aural allure. So who’s going to want to show up for this one, you ask? Wierd people, for one; Geometrik folk, for two; there’s a lot more to that I’m sure, but I feel I’ve provided a contextual framework for you to capitalize on/mine the gems of. (HA!) Another AVANT! joint you’ll want to hit up, hard.

Links: AVANT!

$.99 Cent Dreams

Spei Res

[12-inch; Draft]

The beauty of a flea market is the selection. Dusty treasures in need of some elbow grease sharing space with artifacts best left to rot. Adam Diller and Matt Crane scoop it all up; it’s all goods made for re-purposing. If the spate of post-apocalyptic pulp has taught us anything, it’s that those good with their hands and quick with their minds will rule what is left among us. Diller and Crane, you are our proven overlords. Spei Res truly reflects the hope of its title – an album brimming with kitchen sink aesthetics but much like the playful creations of Pee Wee Herman, the science behind $.99 Cent Dreams can’t be explained yet is fully enjoyed. It just works when it seems it shouldn’t. Songs that fill up with junk become antiquities to hoard. The duo have picked cleaned every bit of Americana arcana. I’m really floored by this, so much so that I’ve found a sander and have begun to clean my floors to make them proud again. Next will be the ceiling fixtures that, despite their appearance as King Midas’ nipples may in fact be the $.99 cent cache I desperately seek. All I know is that I can’t look at objects as they once were, as I can no longer hear music through the same prism I once occupied. How dare this come too late into my life? I should have been a searcher earlier in life. But better late than never.

Links: $.99 Cent Dreams - Draft

Katie Gately

Pipes (Blue Eight)

[CS; Blue Tapes]

Katie Gately unlocks both the beauties and horrors contained within her own voice, as if her throat were Pinhead’s puzzle box, opening up the gateway to a brain-busting nightmare of obsessive-compulsions. Pipes is composed entirely from her own processed pipes, chopped/screwed/chiseled/mashed/smashed/smeared into jigsaw pieces and reassembled into a series of bizarre sonic sculptures. The music’s pacing is obscenely rapid, so it can be difficult to grasp the various hooks and passages in passing, an impatient composition with sections of rhythmic bounce dissolving quickly into eardrum-crushing drones, then onto streaks of distorted harmonic bliss and then exotic/erotic melodic-minor meandering, then pummeling barrages of vocal shrapnel. Maybe in that order? I can’t be sure. Notes ping-pong between different textures and stereo channels, whirligig swoops of sound jump off of plodding bass like an aerobic trampoline, and me…? I’m in the middle of it all, completely fucking exhausted. Gately distinguishes her work between “sound designs” and “music,” on her website, but if you ask me, Pipes is an indication that more often than not, she’s doing both at the same time. A truly inspired, utterly unique musical approach, Gately’s vocal collages reconfigure the instrumental qualities of the human voice in ways I don’t think any of us are really ready to fully comprehend yet. Music that has evolved two generations beyond what we know. Maybe we’ll call this a masterpiece in a billion years, but for now it’s an astounding anomaly we can neither categorize, nor juxtapose with anything else happening today, so I’m not even gonna try. But I’m willing to say this much: Pipes is absolutely amazing.

Links: Katie Gately - Blue Tapes

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.