Washed Against The Rocks

[7-inch; Handmade Birds]

Dominick Fernow’s mutability keeps me fascinated. Even narrowing his oeuvre down to his Prurient moniker the range of styles is vast. Compare the ashen, nigh-drone, emptiness of Time Began in a Garden or The Golden Chamber to the sanity destroying noise washes of The Black Vase or Pleasure Ground, versus the polarizing clarity and rhythmic foundation of Bermuda Drain and you’ll get the picture. He appears to not care what you think or if you are even listening.

Washed Against the Rocks is no exception to his apparent disregard for audience, and be thankful for it. Yes, there are the migraine inducing pitches that we all bought the ticket for and that make the noise “purists” (how can that even be a thing) get tumescent. Also on display are beats, an ever increasing sense of composition, and something bordering on beauty. Noise may be all about mood and texture, but here is something treading dangerously close to emotion, something with a sense of time and loss. There is supposed to be another Prurient album coming sometime this year, and I’m not sure if I want it to be like this single or not.

Links: Handmade Birds

Tredici Bacci

The Thirteen Kisses


I wish I knew the story of Thirteen Kisses. But it’s in another language. It is a foreign story. I can see what’s in the story, the characters and setting. There is a woman with ravishing red lipstick and a large-brimmed hat with a flower poking out the back of it. She is very beautiful and from another time. Violins twirl from the back of her dress behind her as she walks by, trumpets and trombones lining the sidewalk for her promenade. And a man–dark, short hair lines his brow with a part to the side. He wears a suit, the sauntering drums and bass see him in a confident strut heading the opposite way, moving toward her. He is confident. He has a motorcycle. They hop on and go for a ride. And I can see all of this because the language is so clearly and fluently expressed – and we all know this language. It is the language of falling in love on gondola rides. It is beautiful and serene, but also fiery, fraught with peril. Tredici Bacci makes a movie out of it, with plenty of high drama, steamy love scenes and tense stand-offs. An opera, a stage of it, blood red velvet curtains towering over a damsel on her death bed, singing her last goodbye. No… No, I don’t know the exact story of Thirteen Kisses, remember? But I know this much: The story of Thirteen Kisses does have a happy ending. You’ll be dancing.

Links: Tredici Bacci - NNA



[CS; Constellation Tatsu]

For some reason, the retrospective design of the latest Constellation Tatsu batch has me remembering PBS programming of yore, particularly Secret City as it applies the similarly named Unicity. Thanks to an overindulgence in astrophysics (I need a break from the Ship of the Imagination), I was prepared to tune out this galactic artifact. But I couldn’t. It wouldn’t let me. It hurled by like a meteor on course to destroy my world, to make me rethink how I was viewing the astronomical. So I returned to the solace of Secret City, not so much for a drawing tutorial, but for the purpose of transforming lines and shapes all too familiar into new representations and ideas. Turns out Self-Titled isn’t another jettisoned trip into outer space but rather into the outer reaches of where we are and where we could be. Imagination is a powerful tool and though it can grow dull from neglect or run amok from too much use, making sure it remains part of your balanced daily breakfast is crucial to understanding. PBS really did transform me into a sinkhole of liberal idealization and free-thought. Otherwise, I might be some dweeb too cool to give Unicity a chance and rediscover a part of myself not out of nostalgia, but of necessity, to continue to grow.

Links: Constellation Tatsu


First Demo: 12/29/80

[7-inch; Dischord]

S.O.A. nee State Of Alert were active in the early 1980s and played Blur to Minor Threat’s Oasis, if you get me. They were rivals, ready to slit each other’s mother’s throats if that’s what it came to, dedicated to the tribe to the end. Hardcore never recovered after bands like S.O.A. either broke up or turned to metal, and Henry Rollins, so synonymous with anything but punk these days, along with his motley crew of locals is almost suspiciously game on First Demo: 12/29/80, his voice raspy and shitty and rowdy like a drunken beaver with a lethal chopper-tooth. It’s true, what they say: None of them rocked quite as hard as Bad Brains. But the fury they managed was ample evidence of their fruitful future, as Rollins rode this hard-ass rollercoaster straight into Black Flag and blew minds under their hospitality as well. At eight songs First Demo is a solid investment that gets better with every flip, fast, strong, and direct to your throat. Only $4 direct from Dischizzy, a name you’ve always trusted.

Links: S.O.A.

Various Artists


[12-inch; Holodeck]

Extremely limited (150 copies per volume) and barebones, BRAINCLUB is a culmination of outsider Austin. As I type it, the sumabitch in me scoffs because how more outside the lines can the Texas oasis become? It’s known just as much for its event horizon as it is for its neon lights and huge music showcases. Yet here I stand stunned at what I’m learning about a town that I have some experience with but has yet to hold me to her bosom as so many before and after me. Cerberus familiars crop up on this 7 track follow-up (Silent Land Time Machine, Ex-Person) but it’s the exotic sounds that make me see Austin a new light. Bill Converse opener “Baboonatic” is 100% Silk turned down 25%, because I can only handle about 75% Silk (less for Rayon). Pizza Hut is likely to get its pizza cred disrupted by fervent coverage of that Home Alone kid’s VU pizza shits and giggles take-off, but “Rockets” is a white-sauced delight for fans of avant 90s bands that were gone before they ever began. That makes Pizza Hut far more respectable and blog worthy than a filthy animal. Malcolm Elijah may be the keystone, combining a rich tapestry of notable sounds past and present into a composition not too far remove from early Sean McCann (before McCann went head first into classical). A new presentation to something familiar, though that is the M.O. of BRAINCLUB at its heart. A quick listen of outsiders truly disrupting from the inside. They are part of Austin, unafraid of the connotation or stereotype. From that perch, they’ve taken expectations and turned them into blown up bucket list goals. Smart men and women messing up all your Cheerios.

Links: Holodeck

Paddy Hanna

Leafy Stiletto

[CS; Already Dead]

The reels of this Already Dead Tape can barely contain the blood-boiling, neck vein-popping enthusiasm of a singer like Ireland’s Paddy Hanna. As the billowing bass rumbles the cones of your speakers and the driving drums nearly derail the entire thing, Hanna’s vibrato falsetto flutters its way out into oblivion. And the music almost suffers for it, the vocal missing a couple of the higher notes by an eye-squelching hair at the most-intense, barrier bending moment. But it’s a necessary trade-off and the kind of buy-in that’s ultimately needed for an exceedingly sweet pop tune like opener “Rosslare Tapes” to succeed like it does; if you can tell that they don’t really care, then why should you or me or anyone else? And that’s one thing you can’t really question of Hanna: his commitment to his songs. Whether he’s on acoustic or electric guitar, draining his pipes on a harmonica, strumming his way across a ballad or banging out a burner, you can bet that nine times out of ten he’s being damned cheerful about getting the chance to do it. And none of that really describes the cleverness of the songs themselves, the quick turns of phrase, or the sheer knack Hanna’s got for crafting impossible-not-to-hum-along-to melodies. It’s the kind of music that comes with built-in hooks and invisible string to magically lift the corners of your mouth when you hear it. Lips permanently pursed in a whistle, toes restlessly tapping; this is what becomes of the happy tunes of Paddy Hanna.

Links: Paddy Hanna - Already Dead

Les Halles

Invisible Cities

[CS; Constellation Tatsu]

The life and times of Bob Ross has transformed into a calming center. Fans of the PBS known painter have found themselves in deep ruminations about the cosmic beauty of evolutionary design. Those brushed evergreens look bright contrasted against the white fluffy clouds and sunlit blue sky. Ross continues to teach new generations about the inherent self that resides in all. But what does Ross’ meditations jam to, because this is a not a man built on Dylan and Baez. Though very much a product of now, one can’t help but think of the zen instructor when listening to the triumphant hums of Invisible Cities. At once New Age and mystic as it is tangible and face-front, the latest Les Halles cassette is a similar study in the forms of our physical world and how with each mistreatment of the environment, we are scarring ourselves. Though it sounds ridiculous to devote time to repairing our souls in a world overwrought and rotting, there is no solution to our ills without self-examination. Les Halles may be a bit too serene in its reflection, but it serves as a means to find your nearest purveyor of punk, noise, and nihilism. Whatever gets you thinking about our smallness and largeness. It wouldn’t hurt to worship a few happy trees either.

Links: Constellation Tatsu

Back Magic

Chorus Line to Hell

[LP; Milvia Son]

I was scared to listen to Chorus Line to Hell again after a short break because there was the slight chance I wouldn’t enjoy it as much the second time. Nope; I’m still bowled over by this spooky little rock-duo album and its hand-crafted care. Back Magic break all the rules. They’re spare even for a duo. It might even sound like less than one dude in this band. Yet they play the scarcity of sound to their advantage, their sloppy but never ill-considered riffs soon requiring you to hang on every fret slide a la Slint. I can tell you all about it, of course, without in the slightest way knowing how the guitarist is achieving this. The drummer is terrible and that’s why he’s so good, tapping out beats like a smoke from a hard pack: casually but with great importance. I’ve got a few comparisons to project onto BM like so many insecurities but none of them are duos so don’t even think that way when you approach Chorus Line to Hell. The set-up is a non-issue. I go into a lot of reviews wanting to like what I’m hearing as much as I like this, and leave dissatisfied. Wish I had a hook-y ending for this, but I don’t… More of you should kick as much dick in as Back Magic!

Links: Back Magic

Sima Kim


[CS; Spring Break Tapes]

Intertwined is an island in the center of your mind, a place to where your ego can swim, narrowly escaping any dangers presented by the shark-infested surrounding waters of that day to day hell we so lovingly call “Life.” A brain vacation, pure and simple – your job, calendar, phone, enemies, all barking and gnashing discriminate teeth in your ego’s general direction, sidelined and silenced for the moment so that basking in the sonic rays of Sima Kim can commence uninterrupted. It’s part and parcel of a genre of music famous for being exactly what I just described, but the importance of having these little musical getaway gateways simply cannot be overstated, and Sima Kim nails it without resorting to carbon-copy construction. His gently ebbing sounds of glitch-glittered static arrive as reminiscent-only, manufacturing good vibes and lifting listeners to the fluffy clouds of imaginative thought with treble-heavy swishes of color that are as weightless as they are transparent. Four original works and four reworkings from outside perspectives round out the whole shebang with nary a millisecond wasted. Great for when you just can’t be wherever it is you find yourself wanting to pull your hair out… Which for me is, like, right now. And most times come to think of it. I guess that Sima Kim is just good. Always.

Links: Sima Kim - Spring Break Tapes

Can Can Heads

Butter Life

[LP; Karkia Mistika / Verdura / Bottom of the Pops]

Can Can Heads finally wriggle their wormy way back into my lair with an LP so skronky you can smell the sock sweat. Why does sax work so well with punk, from The Stooges and James Chance on up to Puffy Areaolas? Not sure I even wanna know; sometimes acquiring too much insight is tantamount to lessening one’s enjoyment. Going down that road will only lead to heartbreak, and Butter Life is a record I want to cement an iron-clad relationship with, no strings attached (save the fibers of my very heart; treat me right CCH!). Considering how many disparate ideas they splatter against the wall, the success rate Can Can Heads manage is astounding. I’m not sure if I hung the ol’ Swell Maps rung around their neck last time I reviewed them, but that’s the highest compliment I can give so they’ll have to deal with it. They’ve got that sense of reckless experimental abandon it’s so hard to find in punks who also can nail it straightaway if they wish. In other words, Can Can can play it hard and fast and even precise, if they want, but what fun would that be? Not near as much, correct. Gold star! So much more to go over with you though; can you stay after school? I’ll teach you about Fad Gadget, Colour Bük, very, very early Scritti Politti, The Residents, Wire, Notekillers, OCS/Thee Oh Sees, The Fall, ShxPx, Beefheart, and all the other bands your Rock History instructor never hipped you to in college for some astray reason.

Links: Can Can Heads

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.