1992: Current 93 - Thunder Perfect Mind
When I was a young kid in Catholic school, everybody knew if you were ever bored and looking for a good laugh you could always grab your Bible and flip to the back to find the weird-as-shit Book of Revelation. It was pretty entertaining for a young atheist, reading this book that has informed centuries of decisions and beliefs. I’ve gotten older though and really grown to appreciate the mythology found there. Try to put yourself in the time when this stuff was written. It is genuinely frightening, yet beautifully imaginative. They are such aesthetically conflicted stories entrenched in both sides of a spectrum; a sense of horror and rapturous bliss pervade all the characters regardless of whether they are good or evil. God does monstrously horrible things, while Satan is described as the most beautiful of all the angels. It envisions the End Times, the purging of the world, and one of the earliest definitions of catharsis.
That dichotomy is at the heart of what many call David Tibet’s best album. Thunder Perfect Mind sits at the top of Tibet’s catalogue despite, or perhaps because of, that conflicting nature that hearkens all the way back to the Bible. The gorgeous medieval sounding folk melodies always carry a creeping sense of ancient doom. It explains how Tibet can open his album with a song of tremendous beauty and faith even though it focuses primarily on Satan. The depth and complexity of his writing feels authentic and true to Gnostic tradition while countless Christian pop acts sound shallow and redundant in (an admittedly inappropriate) comparison.
Current 93 albums often grow from a seed of inspiration. It’s usually a theme, or even just a phrase, Tibet explained in a 2006 interview with Brandon Sosuy. The title “Thunder Perfect Mind” acts as that seed. A Gnostic poem filled with paradoxical statements that define the ancient Christian spirit at the heart of Tibet’s songwriting. The recitation and heavenly instrumental that make up the two sections of the title track make Tibet’s message clear even long after he’s implied it through the song cycle in the first of two LPs that make up the album.
Steve Stapleton (in addition to creating his own Thunder Perfect Mind the same year under his Nurse with Wound moniker) co-produced the album and added a wonderful assortment of studio touches under Tibet without ever overpowering him. The liner notes credit Stapleton with providing “corrugations,” or folds and ridges, and while that sounds abstract there’s not a better way to describe his contributions; his unsettling industrial touches and electronically manipulated vocals that sound like demonic children, and many of the otherwise traditional moments on the album. The centerpiece of TPM, “The Stars are all Dead Now,” remains one of Current 93’s most ambitious moments. After beginning with a Caretaker-esque intro and a looping foundation singing “Jesus heals with love,” Tibet spends the next nine minutes re-imagining the apocalypse through the spirit of William Blake. His terrifying chanting of “DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD” punctuates everything from Jerusalem to God to himself (the late John Balance ironically is one of the only characters in the song spared), yet he sounds downright ecstatic in his tone. The dirge-like beauty of the song is juxtaposed against Stapleton’s best manipulations of sound on the record. As Tibet shows the world ending the song cracks and breaks apart in a climax the whole record has been leading up to.
Thunder Perfect Mind digs deeper than most Current 93 albums. Though it sounds ancient in many of the sounds and obscure references Tibet makes, the bits of electronic trickery that Stapleton includes make it intensely Modernist. It brings to mind works like Eliot’s “Waste Land” and Ginsbreg’s “Howl” while maintaining Tibet’s mystic doom to create an album that doesn’t lean on its inspirations. I still remember being that kid snickering at the dragons, and 666s, and seas of blood found in the conclusion of the Bible, yet when I heard Thunder Perfect Mind all those years ago it shook me to the core; it still does.
1966: Jackie Wilson and LaVern Baker - “Think Twice (X-Rated Version)”
I recently saw the dirtiest grandfather of rap, Blowfly. Brian McKnight’s been releasing songs for porn websites. R. Kelly has a new album coming out. Sex jams have been on my mind. After hearing the (awful and sad) Brian McKnight pussy-eating ode, I kept thinking back to this Jackie Wilson/LaVern Baker remix that never saw release.
The original (also called “Think Twice”) was a minor hit. When you think long and hard about the type of content that was considered explicit in the mid-60’s (especially within the context of soul music), this song has got to be one of the dirtiest songs recorded during that whole decade. For that alone, I really appreciate its value.
I also think there’s something to be enjoyed in the fact that Jackie Wilson’s higher-pitched quieter voice is dwarfed by LaVern Baker’s deep and booming voice. It changes the dynamic of this outright fun and dirty gospel-soul song. It’s odd to me how so many female soul singers really avoided the notion of sexuality, especially when they had the pipes to really send their message with power and grace.
“Now listen to me honey/ I give you all the reefer/ All the cocaine/ And you still fucked up” might be one of the first instances in music where a woman calls out a man for being bad at sex, right? I mean it’s a common enough thing to bring up in our world today, but it certainly wasn’t something that was widely accepted in Jackie and LaVern’s culture.
Anyway, I’m going to try suffering through the Usher album and then wind up listening to R. Kelly remixes. Please keep this song on a playlist for when you need a soul song that’s as fun as all the others but aggressively filthy.
1983: Metallica - “Phantom Lord”
Like many youngsters, one of my first serious brushes with music was with Metallica, becoming obsessed with their heavy, melodic, and ambitious (for mainstream standards) music. Tracing their history back from their humble beginnings as a garage outfit to the biggest band in the world, I got to know their desire to unite their love for NWOBHM bands like Angel Witch and Diamond Head with punk and hardcore of the day, an approach that soon put them ahead of the metal curve and influenced a generation of loud and fast aspiring musicians to make the sickest, most blistering music they could. I also learned about their volatile guitarist Dave Mustaine who got kicked out, became bitter about it, formed Megadeth, and fueled a war that lasted for much of both band’s careers. One of their most brilliant moments together that exemplifies their fusion of styles is “Phantom Lord,” an early song that eventually turned up on their debut album Kill ‘Em All with Mustaine’s replacement, Kirk Hammett, handling the lead guitar work.
Just a couple of months ago, Metallica celebrated their 30th anniversary with a series of concerts, inviting many artists to play with them – everyone from King Diamond to Lou Reed – and, sure enough, the long awaited reunion with Dave Mustaine happened on the last night. After the insults, the drugs, the fights, and difficult personalities, the band finally played together and that little part of me that remains 11 years old – the one who was in complete awe discovering a world of sound away from the bland and typical and craving something loud and crazy – couldn’t pick his jaw from the floor or keep his eyes from watering; I really couldn’t believe my sight. There they were, playing “Phantom Lord” together, with all the frenetic riffs, shouts, and fast rhythms that still sound dark, violent, amazing, and vital, the way it was supposed to happen in a different world where Mustaine, Hetfield, and Ulrich remained together. A world of “if” that’s not real but showed its face for one brief moment in time.
1997: Jim O’Rourke - Bad Timing
Jim O’Rourke’s first solo album after parting ways with his Gastr del Sol partner David Grubbs works like a stylistic palette cleanser. After constantly pushing their ambitions forward with every Gastr release, O’Rourke took a chance to indulge in something simultaneously simpler and more complex with Bad Timing. It’s a contradiction because these songs are generally more musically complicated than anything Gastr did, yet their main focus is always on melody. A track like “94 the Long Way” grows ever denser as it piles on instrumentation over its 13-minute run time, but sounds simpler in the wake of the acoustic-ambient creepiness of songs like “Work from Smoke” or the electronic noise of “Hello Spiral” from the older albums.
This album sets a very good trajectory of where O’Rourke would be going with future albums like Eureka and Insignificance, but while those albums focused on pop and rock respectively Bad Timing shows O’Rourke taking his John Fahey worship to a majestic extreme. And much like Fahey’s best work, this entirely instrumental album never makes you miss vocals; O’Rourke’s guitar playing is so emotive he practically makes it sing.
Certain moments grab you more and more upon repeated listens. The opener “There’s Hell in Hello but More in Goodbye” manages to jump from a bouncy lighthearted melody to intricately rhythmic guitar to a darker sequence of low pulses punctuated by harmonics so beautiful that you don’t even notice the growing piano chords in the background. The song goes from sounding off the cuff and silly to sincere and tragic in only a couple minutes. Meanwhile the title track sounds downright magical as it builds a hypnotic guitar groove that eventually leads into mournful horns. Nothing, though, feels more satisfying than the feedback soaked finale “Happy Trails” which starts sounding like Fahey being backed by Earth and inexplicably ends by exploding into the jolliest possible combination of strings, trombones, and a ukulele solo… because why the hell not.
Describing elements of these songs can get across the inventiveness O’Rourke is playing with, but there’s no way to describe the genuine sense of fun when you hear this album, or the way the songs (ranging from 10 to 13 minutes) make you wish they went on forever. Though this solo record marked the end of one of the most creative musical collaborations of the 90s, O’Rourke sounds so full of ideas and life that it’s hard not to find it cathartic. Plus, I’ve tried and it is impossible to hear that ukulele solo without getting a great big grin on your face.
[Illustration: Mat Pringle]
1971-1972: Don Cherry - Organic Music Society
It’s not entirely clear when trumpeter/multi-instrumentalist Don Cherry’s (1936-1995) organic-music cocktail of songs and traditions became a basis for an improvising language, but one can imagine that the thirst for knowledge went at least as far back as his Watts, Los Angeles bebop roots. By 1971 and 1972, when he convened the Organic Music Society sessions in Copenhagen, Bollnäs and Stockholm, Cherry had lived mainly in Europe for several years, in cities like Paris and Rome as well as a former schoolhouse in rural Sweden. His roots had grown broader and deeper through working with South African pianist Dollar Brand (Abdullah Ibrahim) and bassist Johnny Mbizo Dyani, Turkish drummer Okay Temiz and trumpeter Maffy Falay, and musicians from throughout Europe and the Americas. Added to this was the unique all-in scene available in Scandinavia, which allowed collaborations with composers, psychedelic musicians, jazzmen, visual artists, and filmmakers.
Released on the Swedish imprint Caprice, Organic Music Society joined Cherry with, among others, Falay, Temiz, percussionists Bengt Berger, Christer Bothén and Nana Vasconcelos, reedman Tommy Koverhult, a youth orchestra, and his wife Mocqui (whose tapestry design also graces the cover) on a patchwork of compositions and improvisations. In addition to the trumpeter’s tunes, there are also covers of Brand, Terry Riley, and Pharoah Sanders across 80 minutes of music. Though Organic Music Society has been one of the most lauded titles in the Caprice catalog, it is only now with the recordings’ fortieth anniversary that they’re seeing a renaissance on disc.
Opening with “North Brazilian Ceremonial Hymn,” it’s pretty clear that this set is distant from the free jazz milieu to which Cherry’s name is often attached. Girded by tanpura, berimbau, and bells (itself a fairly odd instrumental combination), the twelve-person chorus elicits a solemn, dirge-like processional in a field of accents. It’s unsettling but strangely peaceful music once one gives oneself over, washing away the particularities of tradition for another sort of ritual. The next four tracks are from the Cherry-Bothén-Berger session, mixing meditative fragments with chanting exhortations and churning modal repetition, though the trio tends to cycle through shifts rather abruptly on just the right side of ragtag. From a conversation this writer had with German vibraphonist Karl Berger (who worked frequently with Cherry), it became clear that the musicians had to recognize Cherry’s cues and follow him wherever his pied-piper intuition took the music, even as it crossed perceived sonic boundaries. On “Relativity Suite” he states that “this is the way of the organic society – to flow with time,” while incorporating tabla rhythms and Gnawa strings into a surging, ring-like ensemble vibration. It’s a rather different iteration of concepts that Cherry used with the Jazz Composers Orchestra for the 1973 JCOA LP of the same name.
The 1971 recordings from Stockholm’s Modernamuseet include nearly 30 minutes of music featuring Cherry’s voice, piano, and pocket trumpet with an ensemble of brass, flutes, bass, and percussion, balanced between a distant din and incisive clarity. Moving from minimalist arpeggios to the soaring “Desireless” (here titled “Hope”) and its piercing carpet, the ensemble sounds considerably larger than a sextet, able to engender hazily blissful visions and raw energy with equal measure. Cherry’s pianism is gorgeous and rhapsodic, a weighty arranger’s piano redolent of township barrelhouse and Monkish poise. Though hard to find, a similar vibe permeates the Stockholm free jazz orchestra Movement Incorporated (ostensibly led by Cherry) as well as reedman Gunnar Lindquist’s G.L. Unit (Odeon, 1970). A snatch of Brubeck precedes the group’s journey into “The Creator has a Master Plan,” which takes shape as several different song fragments before the familiar theme emerges. While Organic Music Society might seem at first like a disjointed (albeit spirited) smattering of improvisation and ethnographic reference, the music here is really something all its own, not only a cornerstone of Cherry’s unending journey, but also a bridging of world vanguards.
1984: Déficit Des Années Antérieures - La famille des saltimbanques
There are so many ways I wish I could have come across La famille des saltimbanques, like discovering it tucked away in the dusty closet of a library, laying dormant in some neglected confiscation bin. “Too many kids trying to re-enact some whacko rituals with this one,” the librarian would reason. Or, better yet: students covertly trading tapes during class, and this silhouette, these D. D. A. A. shadows: La famille des saltimbanques is the mysterious tape that nobody can figure out. Maybe someone took it from the storage closet of the French classroom? Maybe someone wants to start a cult.
Not sure why La famille des saltimbanques reminds me of school. Perhaps it’s the cover art, with its drab backing color and shapes lifted from Pablo Picasso’s painting of the same name — who hasn’t marked up their schoolbooks at one point or another? Or maybe it’s because this tape sounds aged by time, and I have such little context for it. A cassette released overseas before I was even born? How the hell did I even hear this? Like Marcos Hassan wrote of Poem Rocket earlier this month, these recordings were given new life on the Internet, and I wouldn’t have heard them — or even of them — if someone hadn’t decided, “I think I’ll share this weird tape of French noises on the Internet today.” (Thanks!)
I hear creeping erosion throughout La famille des saltimbanques; on “Ne plus rien voir,” it’s as if buzzing frequencies physically seeped into the tape over decades of neglect. The track’s cyclical bassline reminds me of 90s post-rock, yet the synthesizer haze is all chewed apart and left gauzy, creating an airy and surprisingly pleasant effect. Elsewhere, “Loin dans le froid” is a more horror-wrought mixture: rhythmically blinking like a VCR timer display, dated tics of clinking electronics become enveloped within a crawling murk of guitar and horror film synth, occasionally clearing with the brief letting of strangled feedback.
Des saltimbanques, however: this tape is hardly acrobatic, but it is a performance of bad-trip psych unease, feedback squall and basement electronics. Furthermore, like the figures of Picasso’s painting, the music of La famille des saltimbanques is cohesive, yet also subtly distant and detached. Blacking out the details of Picasso’s circus figures, this French trio leaves only shapes with an unknown sense of direction — no longer is the family of entertainers made of distinct members; here they have become an oddly shaped mystery, expressionless and blank. Is it artistic co-option, or perhaps some deeper symbolic meaning? I’m just going to use it as an excuse to fictionalize and mythologize:
“What have I told you about this tape?”
“It’s dangerous! You kids and your curiosity—you’d better not try to initiate others into ‘Baltique’ again!”