Pierrot Lunaire

This Love of Mine

[CS; SicSic]

A big old double tape of crazy from California’s John DeNizio, who goes by Pierrot Lunaire in Weirdo Cassette Tape Land. He serves as mayor there. I like to imagine that’s his little world pictured on the cover, he the conductor of the local band which is full of strange creatures trumpeting flatulent notes and fluttering their way through alien scales, drummers pitter-pattering away with toys, a blown out saxophone moaning in mournful howls. Interjections of synth-whatsits, vocal groans, and windy whooshes of noise, all of it haphazardly built on a volatile and unstable surface, ready to topple if something so much as sneezes. Barely listenable, but it engulfs in a whirling pool of mysterious improvisation and psychedelic wonder. There’s also an old phonograph in the back of the room playing Benny Goodman, doused in everclear. Pierrot Lunaire creates the kind of surrealistic nightmares your great grandparents might have on their death bed upon contracting the Ebola virus at the ripe-old age of 102. Hallucinations aren’t just a side-effect of the music; they just come with the territory.

Links: Pierrot Lunaire - SicSic



[LP; Moniker]

Perhaps no LP of 2012 took more chances than this one. Always-out-of-place soul-croons splayed atop spindly post-punk riffs, funk bass, shifting beats, legions of effects, and storm stress? Not what anyone would have asked for last year or any year, yet here ONO are, and there Albino was, dropped into the past from the future naked and confused like Kyle from the first Terminator. Perhaps that Pere Ubu has a thrilling new record out is not a coincidence, no? That’s the closest touchstone I could find (Wilderness, Xiu Xiu, and Blackout Beach also ring a bell), though the process of proliferation in the tape world has no doubt produced something roughly in this vein that I haven’t heard. You don’t even get the chance to catch your breath either, at least not until the third track, wherein ONO embrace a more barebones template and succeed at sewing subtlety into their arrangements. Take away the vocals and some of these tunes are Portishead-esque, while the singing reminds me of some of those experiments Excepter were into early on, not to mention a male version of Niobe. Three-hundro copies on white-flecked-with-black wax for you croc hunters out there.

Links: Moniker


Any Exit

[CS; Moon Glyph]

Are you fucking with me? Am I fucking with you? What’s this 80s slacker elevator cool bullshit doing in my bass heavy rock and soul? Any Exit, the latest from Edmund Xavier/Glenn Donaldson/Skygreen Leopards lives up the project’s heady internet total recall. It’s a throwback to minimal Liverpoolian house-gaze. Though I just made that up, it seems Xavier has created awesome music to this mangled genre identifier, filling a need nobody expected they had but soon to discover they did. Hit the club all in white and stare at your shoes through the end of the night. Then cruise home in the dawn with the comedown of “Pink Dust.” YOLO. TLTR. LOL.

Links: Moon Glyph

The Drunken Draculas

Dead Sounds

[CS; Old Monster]

Keen observers of our fair website may recall my hard-cool excitement over Richard Swift gone garage a long five years ago. It’s a trend I’ve continued to tail from a host of regional acts all hammering out three chords in grungy basements and dusty backyards, all trying to recapture an era none of us lived in but have read much about. Maybe we’ve even bought a few dog-eared records from yard sales and pawn shops. It has led me to the Drunken Draculas (or them to me, if you will). It’s a twisty, half-played mess of vibrant bass, oaken vocals and silly monster references (“The Tranny was a Zombie,” “Old Ass Troll,” “Dracula Stole My Gal”). All two minute blisters that begged to be popped so the 60s ooze all over your boil covered body. If you found this during a bin (dumpster?) dive, you’d be holding a classic that never existed. As it stands, 2013 is the year of half-assed garage rock and you know you’ve been waiting for it. No more outer space zones and intricate geometric trigonometry bullshit. Just guys and gals in small confines beating and strumming and strumming and smoking and smoking and blistering. It’s been prophesied in these very pages. The little critters of nature, they don’t know that they’re ugly…

Links: The Drunken Draculas - Old Monster

Luminance Ratio / Oren Ambarchi


[7-inch; Kinky Gabber]

Oren Ambarchi personifies what we tend to dig over here at TMT, “Curfew” yet another reason to get acquainted with the Sydney-borne guitarist/percussionist, though there’s not much most would recognize as guitar or percussion (it’s there though). It’s a thick, milky drone, abetted by crotales, bells, and cello, all set to eternal-drift mode. I love Brian Wilson, but fuck ‘im; this is a middle-aged symphony to god. There’s not much Ambarchi can’t do, simply put. Luminance Ratio’s side whips itself into more of a Six Organs-style trance, with wisps of percussion sliding subtly in and out of the background as an ominous tone hovers like a shark of a storm cloud. When the wind whips up in Corpus Christi as it has these past few days you need immense records like this to pin your soul to the ground and blow back against the gales, and the luminous red pressing doesn’t do much to impede the joy within. Hand-numbered, hotcakes on the side (disclaimer: no cakes, hot or otherwise, come with this 7-inch).

Links: Luminance Ratio / Oren Ambarchi - Kinky Gabber

Rosy Parlane


[7-inch; Touch]

This one’s a game-changer. Seeing that my mom’s a kiwi, Rosy Parlane would be getting extra cred from me in the first place, recording in Auckland as the ex-Thela/Parmentier participant does, but he doesn’t need any charity. “Willow” overflows with color and just the right amount of crackle, cycling into itself and bubbling but never boiling. It’s a slow process considering the short run-time of the format, and I was surprised at how much Parlane got done in a small window of time. That’s Side A. “Morning,” the flip, is a straight-drift of a drone, and as 7-inch incarnations of the genre go, it’s pretty goddamn compelling. It’s like an angel opening her eyes first-thing in the early A.M., the light of eternity peeking into her cloud cottage. No, I’m not on anything, though it wouldn’t hurt to be, as this is druggy shit. Obviously if I were given the choice of letting one track live and snuffing the other out, I’d embrace “Willow” as my own (and raise him right; no biscuits after 11:30, young man!), but there’s a mighty balance being struck here. You just got Touch’d.

Links: Rosy Parlane - Touch

Abyssal Farmers

Find a Name to Call Me

[3-inch; Kimberly Dawn]

This looks like a fine hotel. It’s remote, no one find me here. I am a pretty woman, so who would peg me on the lamb? I’ll stay here for the night and continue north in the morning. The lobby seems eerily quiet. Where’s the hotelier? The fluorescent light sure do buzz in the calm. And the bell is deep and bellowing, not the happy ping of most hotels. It’s just my paranoia. I hear foot steps, that must be the desk clerk. Why, he seems young and nervous. Not so different from me. Something is amiss but I’m tired and need to sleep. Nothing but harmless peeping from that one. I can take a little spy for one evening. But what I really need is a hot shower. Something to calm me down and sooth my aching bones. Then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. I want to sleep like a baby tonight. Or better still, the dead….

Links: Kimberly Dawn

Smokey Emery

Quartz EP

[7-inch; Indian Queen]

Daniel Hipolito is the Phantom of the Collage. As Smokey Emery, he heavies the pipe organ deep the theater’s recesses through Quartz. It’s a sad fugue, that plays with your mind as it loops ominously. Is it my turntable that’s faulty? Is the vinyl warped? Is the Earth’s rotation stuck on a skip? I like these mind games and clearly so does Hipolito. The black and white imagery, the Dust Bowl drones, a mysticism never to be fully grasped. The black oval obelisk is heavy with the weight of the world; full of the misery and anger of those abandoned, left to wail unheard in their own basement.

Links: Smokey Emery - Indian Queen

Олд Комм


[12-inch; Discrepant]

What a scintillating ride Олд Комм’s Ventspils is. At 45 RPMs it’s clear as a whistle, too, a crucial element considering how subtle the elements at play (few of which I can identify) are. From where I’m listening the second movement, which stretches out over 12 minutes as opposed to the relatively brief Side-A audio (six minutes or so total), is the pony to bet on here. Angelic synths drift into soft voice samples, instrument loops (wacky sax, etc.), classic drone elements, electric rubber-band-balls of energy, and laser vortexes that have no ending nor beginning. Just what your typical Mego/Spools enthusiast is looking for, taken down a notch and mixed into a warm bucket of fuzz. The first movement is a lot scarier. If you think you can get the keys into the ignition in time with this cut barreling toward you good luck. Whereas the flip is a sound-art experiment, Side A sports a steady beat and a more traditional array of soothing synths, though the end-result is anything but typical and oddly satiating. I’ll admit I checked the record player to see if it was skipping and I’m still not sure if it was. You’ll wanna check this one out if you’re a storm watcher.

Links: Discrepant

Bill Orcutt

Tic Fit / Bored With The Moon

[7-inch; Palilalia]

This one slipped through the cracks because I didn’t know what the fuck it was. No name on the label or sleeve and I had forgotten Orcutt HQ had sent a package over awhile back. So… you’re welcome? Ugh. Anyway, the former Harry Pussy founder really stretches his rubber soul out on this one, emoting vocally without lyrics to loose guitar strings that sound ready to SNAP and take out someone’s eye/ear. When I hear something this uncompromising I always know Mr. P has already been-there-done-that, but a guy’s gotta eat, know what I mean? “Bored With The Moon” is like a violent, abusive version of the palette used on that first Panda Bear record, primal and straight from the head like the best stuff often is. It’s like I always say: It’s nice to play solo guitar, but if you have vocal chops on top of that you can bust open more doors and raid more riches. (Seriously, I always say that.) This appears to be a tour-only edition of 200 but there are copies to be found at Discogs; 13 of them in fact. Recommended, and better late than never.

Links: Bill Orcutt - Palilalia


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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.