Like a heart-shaped Elvis face brightly flashing in the sweat of a dozen spotlights: it’s the in-between that’s most important, no? Having it been too cold or wet outside. Curving around two p.m. Caressing that “Afternoon Boom.” It’s a brand new box of tissues today. Today, nothing really happens, so embrace the feeling of solipsism. Of being all around us covered in Virtual Flannel. A spastic weaving and waving of mircowires embedded at the root of architecture. All architecture. Beat pulp-less. Beyond smitherines. But float, yo. FriFri continues to get ripe with that good-good. No partying. Pool hall tonight. First round is on the Hello Kitty looker that sits behind you.
It’s chill, yeah, but Virtual Flannel is everything but practical. As the illusion stabilizes itself in your foreground, so much is happening –in-between– “Afternoon Boom.” But from what I’ve heard, this is just a sip of what Virtual Flannel has in store for us this year. That Canadian bird be hoardin’ beats like they canned food in the apocalypse. So tease on this “”Afternoon Boom” in the mean time below:
• Virtual Flannel: http://virtualflannel.bandcamp.com
Bob Bucko Jr.
“Up On The Sun”
Like a river rising to white water tides during the rainy season, or drying to its sandy base, the depth of Bob Bucko Jr.’s (BBJr.) musical style is vast. The first time I saw him play, he was blasting dying animal noises through a saxophone as part of a pick-up band performing John Zorn’s COBRA composition; the last time being a mess of white noise as his gear distorted and decayed in the middle of his set. He’s a hard guy to follow. Bucko’s own tape label, Personal Archives, is in itself a reference to a kind of categorizing system for tracking his constant musical output. And then there’s “Up On The Sun”, a Meat Puppets cover, leaving the original song remarkably intact, considering Bucko’s tendency for doing things however the fuck he wants.
Listen to the track below, and catch BBJr. all around the Midwest on his March tour. Thanks to Ad Hoc for the heads up (on the sun) on this one.
• Bob Bucko Jr.: https://soundcloud.com/bbjr-bob-bucko-jr
That photo of the alluring, svelte male seemingly zipping himself up. The dewy and curiously erotic wet hands connecting at what might be a futuristic pregnancy test. If you’ve spent any amount of time browsing the bottomless chasm that is the internet, and specifically paying attention to those sections that elevate electronic music, then you’ve probably encountered these images. If you’re more than the incredibly naive internet user archetype just described, (no shade to the off-the-grid), then you’ve got strong empirical value already attached to these images – pun intended, you’ve got feelings too. Behind these motifs is the wizard himself: Slava. The Brooklyn-via-Moscow producer has taken the inter-waves by storm, through a tightly conceptualized visual aesthetic that reigns via his distinctly preeminent musical capacity. His footwork-ghetto-house-genre-label-etc… revisions were particularly resplendent with earlier work, namely his debut LP Raw Solutions. Followers of Slava engage with a particular idiosyncrasy that seems to ooze effortlessly from all aspects of his movement. More than just house or dance reinvigorations, Slava’s music broods and garbles from a refreshing source.
Again through the acclaimed Software Label, Slava is prepping for the release of a new EP, Comma Sutra. The artwork, by Analisa Teachworth has a translucent deep maroon dildo and a banana on it, continuing, perhaps more bluntly, with modernized themes of sexual ambiguity and exploration. Lead track, “Better”, is a 5-minute deep house immersion. Staccato 4-part-harmony chords flange and shuffle over fulfilled, acidic and juicy bass grooves. Red hot, sexy leads and quick vocal chops flutter about. It’s a familiar atmosphere, but it’s refurbished and renovated. The walls are shiny and moist; the mood is fervent. For a second you might guess that your viewing a PS1 installation, but then Slava emerges from the other room of his home, offering you a clear drink.
Slava’s Comma Sutra EP will be available March 25, via Software. Listen to the “Better” below:
I often find that one of the most difficult things to write about in music is beauty. There are times when I can completely break down a particular harmony or sound I enjoy to its base theoretical components and recognize it as something that I’ve enjoyed in the past but that doesn’t necessarily get at why I find it to be so particularly lovely in the context of a work as a whole. Subnaught’s Oscillations is full of moments like this.
On a theoretical level, Oscillations utilizes simple mathematical ratios that create a particular brand of just intonation as a result of modulation. Each track focuses on a particular drone and then seemingly seeks to explore the different harmonics of that sound through the process of modulation. However, that hardly explains why these minimal drone works are so beautiful and entrancing. This is wonderful reduced music in the vein of Eliane Radigue and Nicholas Szczepanik but unlike the sometimes austere textures of those artists, subnaught’s drones manage to be completely warm and inviting. Above, the artist’s webpage for the record, there’s an epigraph about how “music therapy, since it is never done in just intonation, has never been tried.” With Oscillations, subnaught has created a mesmerizing work that manages to turn the work of his fore bearers into a near therapeutic experience.
Oscillations is out now via bandcamp. You can stream the record in its entirety below:
• subnaught: http://www.subnaught.org
“Greater Mass,” the heavy-fisted debut song off Many Arms’ new album Suspended Definition (a little jazz pun for you there), is built on a violent dialogue between electric guitar and saxophone, two instruments that equally revolutionized the eras in which they were introduced. And BAM: a long-awaited battle of intellect and brute strength begins. Years of tension is released in the span of nine and a half minutes, which is relatively short considering the number of times the band readdresses the idea of a “chorus,” before rejecting it with explosive intensity. Seriously, try to find Waldo. Not all of Many Arms’ songs are so athletic — in truth, its hard to imagine the band sitting still for longer than eight seconds — this one here is a bastard child, though. The band retains structure by moving as one unit, tackling intense improvisation with equally matched intensity but never straying far from one another, moving in a million different direction but powering forward as an aggregate.
In one corner, Nick Millevoi’s dissonant trichords and veiny, muscle-bound threads of notes superimpose guest musician Colin Fisher’s tantrum outbursts of squalling noise. Each attack is anchored with dizzying dexterity by bassist John DeBlase and drummer Ricardo Lagomasino, who both manage to expel tight grooves in between bursts of bloodthirsty free jazz and maintain peak Lance Armstrong-levels of inertia. With a Burroughs-style approach to not giving a fuck, Many Arms combine basement punk and 50s avant-garde to terrifying effect. Listen to them with your family and THIS THIS will most likely happen.