“No Faces” ft. Danny Brown
I’m all about transparency, so hopefully TMT editor-in-chief Mr P won’t mind when I tell you how he reached out to me earlier today with the following: “This kinda seemed up your alley. You interested in covering? If not, no worries. I can throw it in the queue.” To which I replied, “Yeah, wasn’t sure you wanted me to do a 3rd article on him, but I’ll definitely hit that.”
The reason I put this all out there isn’t to illustrate how cool and tight-knit we all are here at TMT, but rather to point out that TREE (every time I write that name out in all caps, it’s meant to be read as he spits the ad-lib) is generating quite the buzz — yes, even here, the land of waves, gazes, and hisscore. And rightfully so. Sunday School II was already shaping up to be one of the best albums of the year (and maybe the the greatest hip-hop sequel since OB4CL2 sparked the trend back in 2009) before this new track shut down the internet. Is it May 15 yet?
(Oh yeah, and some dude named Danny Brown rips it on here too.)
“Element Configuration III i. Of Three Elements”
A founding member of grindcore progenitors Napalm Death, Nicholas (or Nik) Bullen established the group’s militant ethos and iconoclastic sound as early as 1981. His guttural vocalizations and bass shredding on the A-side of undisputed classic Scum remain the only (official) recorded document of his time in the group before he and Justin K. Broadrick departed in 1986. If Broadrick has since evolved into a highly-visible avatar of extreme music in all forms, Bullen has kept a relatively low profile over the years. He’s earned degrees in philosophy and computer science, worked as an experimental filmmaker, and entered the academic and fine arts institutions as a sound designer, writer, and lecturer. His musical projects — Final (with Broadrick), Scorn (with ND drummer Mick Harris), and more recently Black Galaxy — have all dealt in aural assault and abstraction, but fall more along the electro-acoustic improvisation/power electronics spectrum. On his debut solo album Component Fixations, landing May 15 on Type, Bullen demonstrates the radical concepts and sonic manipulation strategies that he’s accumulated over 30-plus years of active experimentation.
The album features two side-long slabs of computer-based electronic disfiguration. The preview excerpt of “Element Configuration III” offers us a session of mutating, suspense-laden musique concrète, speckled with noise outbursts and sudden dips into robotic murmuring that render any traces of Bullen’s field-recorded sound sources indistinguishable. The dynamic pacing and protracted high-end abuse recall Florian Hecker’s laptop experiments, and like Hecker, Bullen isn’t afraid to wade into the territory of the demonic squelching circuit. Some sounds here challenge description, possessing a glitched-out stutter that hints at hours/weeks/years of tonal fine-tuning. Chunks of static and low-end drone collide in a mix dry enough to clarify even the tiniest detail. Bullen continues to prove that his teenage years as an extreme metal pioneer were just the tip of a totally badass iceberg — here’s a chance to sink in and check out how massive and terrifying it’s become beneath the water.
“Somebody Down There”
Brother JT is John Terlesky, best known as the lead singer and chief songwriter for the Original Sins. Back in the 1980s and 90s, the Philadelphia-based band churned out some of the best garage-punk of their day — check out “Out of My Mind” if you’re looking for a crunchy, catchy sample. Even before the band split up around the turn of the century, JT built a strong solo career as well, playing around with walls of feedback (Descent, released in 1991) and recording LPs from the comfort of his own bedroom (1996’s appropriately titled Rainy Day Fun). To date, Brother JT’s released twenty full-length albums to his name (three in partnership with Vibrolux); his most recent effort, This Mud’s For You, came out last September.
Now, Brother JT’s back again with The Svelteness of Boogietude, out next week on Thrill Jockey. Despite the album’s title — and the grinning, grilled man on the cover — this isn’t a venture into funk or crunk. But it certainly does have “boogietude,” whatever that is. “Somebody Down There,” the album’s lead single, employs limber, loose guitar lines and a modest undercurrent of bass, creating a lazy groove so laid-back, even its life-and-death thematics seem chill: “We all on the same boat, baby/ Rowing to the other side,” he growls, his gravelly croon stark against the loosey-goosey instrumentation. “Some of us are stroking/ Some of us are choking/ Some are just along for the ride.” Biblical references abound: Solomon with his gold, Samson with his “700 wives and so-and-so.” But though such figures are steeped in lore, they’re still folks just like us, floating off on the River Styx. And that’s what makes the song so intriguing; it addresses the big “what-ifs” with a shrug and a smile, reminding us that even in h-e-double-hockey-sticks, there’s always somebody down there who’s just like us.
Check out “Somebody Down There” along with bonus tracks, “Hoosier Mummy” and “Hoosier Daddy.”
“The ghost of Mrs. Payne (field recording), 1975”
Welcome to Scarfolk. Have a seat. Listen, please. Please, listen. Please. Have a seat, please. Here is your rabies vaccine. Here, listen to this message. Please, listen. Please.
The mayor has decided that it’s time to hear more from Scarfolk’s audio archive.
Forensic examination of the stone revealed that it had originated more than 300 miles away and historians could not ascertain how prehistoric man had transported it to Scarfolk, much less how Mrs. Payne had found her way inside a 300 million year old rock. The police reported it as chance accident.
When the stone was broken into chunks and sold as ‘Payne’s Pain’ souvenirs in Scarfolk gift shop purchasers began hearing ghostly music in their homes. Additionally, the music was heard at the stone circle where Mrs. Payne’s body was found, as well as at the geological site of the stone’s origin.
The souvenirs were recalled and buried at the centre of the stone circle in Scarfolk fields, now the only location where the music can still be heard, and only then on the anniversary of the death of Payne’s husband who found himself unexpectedly dismembered during a pagan ritual competition for the under 10s.
This is a field recording made from the stone circle.
• Scarfolk Council: https://soundcloud.com/scarfolk-council
The Glass Trunk
Richard Dawson severs his discordant fingerpickings from the rest and gives us the beheaded remains; the larynx, the pharynx, the lips, and
tongue of his perfect (yes, perfect) Northumberland bellow; in two parts.
We sit in the front room of a friend’s Aunt’s cottage. I’ve just filled the bird feeder and can still feel the soggy bread and seeds on my soap-sticky palms. I’m reading Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Pops aloud to my friends and we’re discussingkicking a Clydesdale horse to death. The answers very quickly shift from morality to practicality.
We are utterly unprepared for adulthood and yet realize that any recognition of this fact is one of the surest signs of adulthood’s approach. Such thoughts circulate pretentiously for some time.
The sense of place in Richard Dawson’s work is almost overwhelming. It’s not just in the clear love for stories, song, and community. It’s not the folk of enclosure or conservation, but of lived, shared, enjoyed experience. It can be messy, funny, and rambling, and it is all the better for it. Live, it can border on a gloriously comedic kind of communitas; on record, it takes on the kind of intensity and situated precision that eludes even the best tour guides or maps. But this shouldn’t be folk’s purpose — bird’s eye views and static places — and The Glass Trunk knows this.
We’re passing through Berwick-Upon-Tweed towards Edinburgh and a group of elderly American tourists lean over and ask, “So, how new is Newcastle castle?”
I’m not even sure.