New York-by-way-of-Taiwan deep house experimentalist Policy (Francis Hsueh) parts the 100% Silk curtain and emerges from the blacklit back room with a subway map of Taipei. As his new tape The Republic bumps from the PA, he tries to explain something to you. You can’t hear a damn thing over his chugging basslines and syncopated sleigh bells. It’s nice. He points at the map and then points at a speaker. He wants to say to you: “This is this.” You nod and you keep swaying. If this music mimics a Taiwanese subway journey, you want to go there. “Take me there,” you say, and he doesn’t hear you either.
Press play on “Shuanglian” and enter Hsueh’s pulsing railway grid. Classic house tropes (see: stuttering acid lines, driving handclaps) meld with more mind-expanding fare in the subterranean darkness. Bit-crushed synth bursts take over the corners of the mix as a filter spirits the bassline down a tributary tunnel. Hsueh transfixes us with ballistic forward motion, letting us glimpse select roof-shaking strategies for a few moments through the window. The elements he presents us feel no need to compete. Fragments overlap cooperatively for their airtimes, sketching the influence of an external system set in motion, spiraling through the earth on a path dictated by decisions made decades prior.
White Christian Male
White Christian Male is Dennis Hudson, a white
presumptuously ex-Christian (PolitiFact found this to be false) male living outside Detroit. The presumption comes from the grainy social irony of late-1970s European new wave which seems to have influenced Hudson throughout the four years of music available for us: last year’s Misanthropy Tapes, Controlled Moments, and come on his name is White Christian Male.
This project began as OLMS in 2011. Hudson changed the name after American Chav Peter Yorn became a cave-dwelling salamander and started amassing Wikipedia pages. The 2011 four song ambient-leaning debut, first cycle is soft like any introduction unsure of itself, a platform that moved quickly to a darker twist of new wave. Some post-industrial dinner party for Genesis P-Orridge and Gatekeeper. The best credentials of his most recent uploads is the size and volume of it. Hudson’s productions are crushing, industrialized synth pop with enough brutality to soundtrack any weekend torture project.
Click here to pre-order a white christian male’s magnum opus, Full Lateral Novelty Music, from Tacuara Records.
Live at MOCAD
One time, I went to a Pharmakon show, and it became a random ritual sacrifice. Bystanders who couldn’t handle the immensity of the set burst into black flames, igniting in a burst almost instantly, while those next to these flames melted out every orifice into a puddle upon the floor. The smell was chard like plastic and burn flesh, like an abandoned barbeque kept lit by the wind as a trash bag flaps melted against its side, and the meat’s blood within is fighting coals still red beneath. If people began to yell or try to claw their way out, it just enhanced the Pharmakon sound; fingernails stuck in and sticking out of the wood paneling. For some, at their dying moment, they realize some of the equipment she’s using is made from leather. Human leather. For others that safely traversed her set, they realized, “Yo, Pharmakon makes me MAD hungry. Beef patty?”
• Pharmakon: http://www.discogs.com/artist/1446288-Pharmakon
Just you TRY and tell OG Maco to slow down. It’s been a minute since he dropped the self-titled EP which had us all straight geekin’, not to mention the collaborative release with fellow ATLien Rome Fortune which did the rounds in our inaugural mixtape column, but clearly, these just aren’t enough for the OGG main-man. Good thing for the rest of the world, ‘cos 15 is yet another EP of honest-to-goodness heat. We’re not worthy! With an 11-track strong setlist, and production from Metro Boomin, TM88 and Brandon Thomas, 15 comes as a timely reminder that while you can (quite literally) Ape Maco’s signature style, you’d be much better off going straight-to-source for the real payload. Grab 15 from DatPiff, or stream it down ‘low:
Dead Neanderthals + Nick Millevoi
Off to the races:
leg over leg over leg; long lines of legs; tongues lapping air.
Post time. “No Nuts” is pre-emptive strike one. Two more and you’re out. You’ll be DOG FOOD if you don’t win this next lap. Hogtied and harnessed at Duindigt. So suggests the description of this raging saddled-up live document:
“We were pretty pumped to play…so we infused as much energy as we could into the improvisations. However, after finishing the first third of the set, we got the worst applause ever. What the hell happened? Were we sucking so hard? Fuck it, shit happens. Work harder during the 2nd section of the gig.”
Otto Kokke & René Aquarius unset the table, like disheveled servants ripping off the tablecloth at the banquet table, sending plates, wax candles, silverware, hot plates and tongs crashing to the floor in a ramshackle dining room in a ramshackle house, in anticipation of their guest, Nick Millevoi, who enters with revolvers spinning like a reckless hero, the kind of wrecking-ball hero who sets everyone at unease with his brash Chris Trull strums, the kind of hero you are glad is on your side, a guest in your house. Or are they his guests?
The trio does not generate typical dinner party chatter: the reed whines and honks; the crash ride spits buckshot and shrapnel; the guitar jitters and gnashes. Their sonic commerce is as smooth and flat, solid and sturdy, as the banquet table, a plateau. Or, as smooth and round, large and in charge, as the open mouth of Big Bertha.