Survive

HD015LP​/​540​-​046​/​LLR010

[LP/CS; Holodeck]

There’s something uplifting to be argued in favor of isolation. Cut off from the world, instinct takes over. Senses keenly improve. The strong are able to maintain their humanity while tapping into feral abstracts. I doubt Survive is taking itself this literally with its recent Blade Runner incarnation, but it’s safe to project that in our doomed alternative timeline, the music of HD015LP​/​540​-​046​/​LLR010 will help us remember the methods of survival: lonerism. It’s a moonlit dash from one safety zone to the other, all the while finding the bare minimum of necessities to eek out another day. Though it seems stark – perhaps even dark – there’s hopefulness in the vision. No one wants us to end up in the dark, victims of our own fascination with the post-apocalyptic. But should it ever come to pass, those who find the will to [S]urvive will find themselves proud of their transformation. It’s a sad future but their is brightness for those who see it as the new beginning it is. Survive are giving us the tools of preparedness in case the day comes.

Links: Holodeck

Poet Named Revolver

Meets Gruesome

[CS; No Kings Record Cadre]

It shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, but as it turns out Lee Noble’s old band was fucking incredible. Also featuring Trabajo’s TJ Richards, as well as No Kings cohort Stephen Molyneux as members of the quartet, I guess the really surprising thing about this is to find that Poet Named Revolver was, interestingly enough, a pretty straight-forward guitar/bass/drums indie rock kind of combo. Of course, it was their experimental tendencies that made these guys so much more interesting than so many other players in the game around that time… and listening through these fantastically composed and executed songs, it’s also a surprise that this band didn’t exactly take off. Meets Gruesome, their sole album, is an earnest, heartfelt collection of rockers that bleed with sincerity. It’s full of clever song structures, pivoting sections that gallop over quick-tempo ragers and sweep across light, heart-breaking balladry, all with a nimble ease, a master of its own obstacle course. There’s a bit of a folk-bent here with help from some banjo, accordion, and harmonica arrangements peppered about, but the tendency to include these textures doesn’t minimize the electric power that runs through this record’s coarse veins. And for as big and bold as those chords strum, and as hard as those drums persistently pound, the band also maintains a thin, lean musical frame, which is the perfect construct to house the singer’s voice. Not sure which member specifically it is who’s crooning here (and it may be that different tracks on the album feature different voices), but each tune is sung with the quaking tenor of a young Isaac Brock, pretty and perfectly in tune for the softies, and appropriately hoarse when barking out over a particularly rowdy chorus.

This album was originally released on cassette by Nailbat Tapes back in 2008, and this new edition of 50 copies is criminally meager. Sorry to review a sold-out release, everyone (especially since it’s such a crusher record)… but I felt like I just had to get some words down on this one. Check your favorite distros, or heck, buy the digital record from the band, and godspeed!

Links: No Kings Record Cadre

Samin Son

Orira

[8-inch lathe; PseudoArcana]

I’m not sure how to put Samin Son’s music into context for you if you’ve never heard Tonstartssbandht’s vocal drones, Tstartss’ Andy Boay’s solo stuff, certain Old Tyme Relijun ditties, or other NZ lofi luminaries like Pumice, so I’ll go the tried/true route of describing the sounds for you in a ridiculously creative way (my ego goes here: _____): Imagine a shaman blowing his voice through a megaphone into a tunnel spanning the Pacific Ocean. The sound emerges at the other end fused with the salt and mist of the ocean and spreads out over the land like morning sunlight. Farmers, worried the unfamiliar aural nectar will harm their plants, spray a metric ton of insecticide on every acre of plants, debilitating most crops and forcing the scientists of earth to come up with an evacuation plan circa Interstellar. Officials find, however, that the only way to propel their shuttles far enough into the galaxy is to harness the endless energy found within the salty, misty clouds of sound, so they harness it and eventually save the world (and they don’t even have to miss out on their daughters’ entire lives). THE END

Links: PseudoArcana

David Karsten Daniels

The Four Immeasurable Minds

[CS; Carpi]

With the sharp witticisms of Sharp Teeth, Daniels had a hold on me. It was an incomplete look into the psyche of relationship that sometimes felt too personal; a loud drunk telling a sober bartender all their troubles with increasing volume. Nearly 8 years and a few releases later, The Four Immeasurable Minds is the introspective thinker at which Daniels has often toyed. It’s not just the mellowed approach that puts Daniels closer to Rameses III than Conor Oberst. but the choice in how to express a thought. We’ve all tried to catch those words we wish were left unspoken. Here, a feeling is the better emote. The cassette’s Buddhist backbone can be at fault for its meditative spell but why suffer foolish anger when such a majestic beauty falls into your lap. Rather than toss out a few passive aggressive lyrics (such as the high and tight “American Pastime” from Sharp Teeth), The Four Immeasurable Minds captures the breeze of chin music with a brilliance long gone from the grueling sport. Easily the strongest Daniels has been to date and hopefully a sign of a shift in perspective. Not that his pop tendencies were aimless (quite the contrary), it’s that the insight is better used in these contemplative gems. 108 tapes seems too small, so let’s hope a stateside private press puts this on vinyl for a full aural experience.

Links: David Karsten Daniels - Carpi

Chicagojazzen / Dammit I’m Mad

Golden Oldies (Split)

[CS; Oma333]

My biggest fear here is having to pick a favorite between these two well-matched split tape partners that Stockholm’s Oma333 paired up for this cassette: both artists strike a post-rock chord with your old friend Strauss, presenting just enough familiar elements in a just-weird-enough way to make me do a double (or triple?!) take. What, you mean I don’t have to choose? Joy. Flip, then more joy. Flip again…. and just guess: Joy. Chicagojazzen, which is music impressively written and recorded by just one person, is what you hear first, and there’s a whole bevy of instruments that flood your ears in stereo, from whining, wailing guitars, to slippery synthesizers, horns, harmonium, some really tasty syncopated drumming (live, and also some glitchy electro-drumming here and there), bass, a voice (or a self-chorus of them), all arranged into smoothly flowing compositions fraught with sections of improvised filler that makes soloing feel more like a harmonic element to accompany the groove, rather than the other way around (which is kind of weird, and of course great). Dammit I’m Mad is what I believe to be a band that fills out the opposite side. This one is both a little rowdier and also a little more chill, with sultry melodies slithering through major and minor 7 chords and a distinct Jaga Jazzist flavor - just a dot of sweet but doused with lip-puckering sour, and all of it done wicked-fast. Scales and rhythms ricochet their way through tricky timing, each track full of measures you wished you’d been counting along with a second ago, but are gone in a flash, quickly followed by a sharp stab of feedback and noise for… what was that anyway, like seven beats? I don’t know. Lost, don’t care. Stomp along, slap me silly and flip it again. Flip. Joy. Flip. Joy. You tired of this yet? Me neither.

Links: Oma333

Brandon Seabrook

Sylphid Vitalizers

[LP; New Atlantis]

One of the many things I adore about the New Atlantis label is its ability to furnish recordings that feature prodigious players without — seemingly ever — resorting to the wankiness that often accompanies solo guitarists into their bedrooms. Brandon Seabrook isn’t strictly a guitarist actually (he sidles up to the banjo), and there’s nothing isolated or lonely about Sylphid Vitalizers, as it employs halfway acceptable drum machines and a frenetic pace to its endless benefit. You might catch Seabrook closing up shop with a drone or two, such as on “Mucoidal Woolgathering,” but he’s here to wreck shit, not drift you to sleep. And wreck shit he does. The tension here resembles that of string ensembles stretched to the absolute snapping point, dive-bombing then jutting their noses straight up to the heavens. “Cabeza Spasms” even had me thinking I’d thrown on that crispy Microwaves vinyl (speaking of which that’s a sick one too), with its spitfire drums (though I’m assuming these are still mechanical) and geeked-out guitar noodles. Perhaps the most eloquent moments of Sylphid Vitalizers occur when Seabrook thinks no one’s listening, such as the second half of “Cabeza.” Here he sets aside the programming and shredding, opting for a mellow suite of sorts that soothes as much as it puzzles. Fantastic work all around, from a fleet-fingered fellow that is most likely just getting started. Look for his full-group efforts too, such as Seabrook Power Plant; surely a lot of strings are seeing their brittle end at the hands of that ensemble, as well.

Links: New Atlantis

Elli and Bev

Might Not Look Like It To You

[12-inch; Quemada/Albert's Basement]

I believe the term you’ll be looking for is earnest. The imperfection of Australia’s exports often lean toward the obscenely off-tune. Not out of it, because frankly there is no such thing to the music consuming public. There are a range of “talent” shows and underground oddballs to prove as much. So it becomes a chase for finding what’s real versus what musicians have been told is marketable. Music is not a commodity despite being just that; so it takes patience to find something genuine. Or a knock at the door from Natalie and Karl of Elli and Bev. The doomed, affected vocals over gloomy melodies is the rain and the clouds and the dusk. Tangible emotions tied up in musical reaction. I can dig it. Maybe that was the root of punk. Perhaps it was why Buddy Holly had to take one for the team. Pretty sure it’s why Seattle wrapped up its environment into a vision quest. Auto-tune and a handful of repetitious producing teams with the golden ratio of 3 minute pop hits has stripped that FEELING right out. Don’t give me your shit about Taylor Swift and her teenage break-ups. Thankfully I can be left bare by the end of Might Not Look Like It To You. Not depressed. Not unaffected. Just as I was meant to be. At the very least, it’s earnest and that matters. Maybe not to you – not right now – but you’ll remember how it was to FEEL all the FEELS and be fine with it. There’s no shaking it off.

Links: Quemada/Albert's Basement

Keijo

What Is Going in the Country

[Lathe-Cut LP; PseudoArcana]

If you thought Jandek too commercial, you might want to delve into the surreal world of Keijo. The wisdom of decades of experimental blues noodling (the guy is, apparently, of many moon) comes through clear as day on What is Going in the Country, as do the idiosyncratic impulses of a guy that has probably never played a song the same way twice; a band mate’s worst nightmare but a closet collector’s dream. He was into drone and throat-singing earlier in his decades-and-counting career (weren’t we all?), so it comes as a surprise to hear this restrained acoustic-electric performance. Then again, there IS a drone-like quality to these eccentric little music boxes, a sense that the continuity of the spiritual raga will conquer all notions of ‘should we move on?’ I’m not sure it always does, and to be honest I’m listening to, and becoming annoyed by, Keijo even as I write this, circa “Lonesome Whistle,” which seems to go on two forevers too long. And that’s sort of what What is Going in the Country is about, maybe. It’s not pretty, it’s not tactful, it’s not prone to changes in mood or pitch, and it doesn’t owe the listener any of that, either. And if you give them half a chance, tracks like “Come and Gone” and “Maybe Someday” will woo you cunningly, the former with a Tonstartssbandt-in-live-jam-mode strut and the latter with a post-Pearls Before Swine folk feel. That’s all beside the point, though: Accept Keijo on his own artistic terms or walk out and go to another gallery or plop down cash for another great-sounding, limited-to-80 lathe-cut from the sweet shores of New Zealand; do what you want, because Keijo will still be doing his thing, just like he always has, echoing into the underground void.

Links: PseudoArcana

øjeRum

There is a flaw in my iris

[CS; A Giant Fern]

Ask longtime friends and they’ll tell you it’s a rare situation when I have nothing to say. I’ve toned down my loud, continuous speech as I’ve gotten older but I still can’t make myself not be apart of any conversation among friends. I am an attentive listener, however, which may explain how I came to this profession. A love of words I would never say in real life, tied to the observations I hear and the ones I speak. øjeRum is most definitely a listener. Very attuned to the feelings underneath what we say and project. When he does speak, its gently but he’s better with a j-card canvas and a beautifully tuned guitar that captures both the sparkle and fade. It is no coincidence There is a flaw in my iris captures the flawlessness in noted flaws. Those unique blemishes that we show only with those we are closest. It’s why we need øjeRum; the ugly into the romantic. My booming need of voice given a depth and solitude.

Links: øjeRum - A Giant Fern

Garrincha & The Stolen Elk

Life is Wasted On the Living

[LP; Weird Forest]

Garrincha, sweet Garrincha, I had no idea you were so much fun. Haven’t heard from Weird Forest from so long and here they come, a knock-knock-y knock-y at the door with Life is Wasted On the Living, and I’m overjoyed to be in on this rich little firecracker. Rarely does indie-rock bat its synths and programmables around with such playfulness, like a baby kitten tossing yarn about without regard to time or temperament. It’s almost a Mudboy fantasy smeared with actual mud, or a continuation of Spirit They’ve Gone, Spirit They’ve Vanished in a weird, warped way, two dudes workin’ it out while no one’s watching (but they will). Even when a track first draws a (?) you’ll come around if you give them the benefit of the doubt; OK, not ALWAYS, because “Sex and Stars” is bad drum-machine nonsense and MicroKorg tomfoolery. Setting that aside, the fireworks I mentioned before are real, and there’s a sequence in particular I want to draw attention to because it elevates to levels rarely recorded by humans. It starts with “Friends of Enemies” on Side A, which takes a noise tornado straight out of Oz and whirls a stunning cyclopean noise monster for only a few minutes before the plaintive guitars of “Brokedick Dog” (yep) take shit down a notch. I love this cut because it’s so casual and like, “Well shit we weren’t even going to jam but I sat down and played something I’d never play if I were in my right mind so we’d better get this down” on that ass. They’re almost going US Maple on this one folks, putting experimentalism over its back and burping it till it belches. YAAAAAAAK!@@! As long as this piece has gotten, that’s only Side A, and the material I had been pining to cover all along rests among the purple-pink laser kingdom of the flip. It’s a majestic place, shinier than heaven and twice as mythical. You’d step over your own mother to get there, yet you’d also sacrifice your own left arm to make sure she makes it, too. Lush, green synths as far as the eye can see. However, what that-… yep, a dark troll cloud is straight stalkin’ your ass. It’s crazy, yo, and we’re out of time. You’ll just have to go on without me; don’t tell anyone who sent you.

Links: Weird Forest
  

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