1968: Terry Riley - In C
After 40 years, it's easy to forget how important In C was to the 20th century. Yet while some would say Terry Riley created an entire sub-genre of modern classical music, I don't necessarily subscribe to the notion. He simply solidified an aesthetic, giving a face to what we now know as minimalism. In a sense, In C is closely related to the 20th century's other major form of minimalism: rock and roll. Both genres took musical elements that had been stewing under the surface and brought them to the fore in a major way. But I'm getting ahead of myself here, let me back up and introduce the work as I experienced it.
As a testament to In C's fairly ubiquitous nature, I was subconsciously aware of the piece before hearing it. It was the song that repeated one note for an hour, interesting in a purely nihilistic sense. At least that was the misconception I picked up along the way. But after accruing a bit of musical knowledge and actually hearing the piece, I was stunned. This was no droning, one-note torture session. It sounded like a highly conceptual, fluttering work of ambience, that, when scrutinized, revealed an intense amount of musical interplay.
The idea behind the piece goes like this: In 1964 Riley composed 53 short phrases of music in (you guessed it) the key of C -- not so much a score as a musical outline. An ensemble of musicians were instructed to go through each of the 53 phrases consecutively, placing their own rhythmic accents. They were also advised to hold and repeat each note/phrase for as long as they wanted, ultimately creating a living, thriving work of improvisation. The piece's first recording, from 1968, highlights Riley's modern ideas of spontaneity vs. structure. Here, he leads eleven musicians through 45 minutes of interweaving melodies and ever-shifting down beats. The most exciting moments occur when several instruments break from the chaotic rhythm and lock in together, displaying highly contrasted and clarifying moments of structure.
While the CBS recording is slightly rough, with an awkward balance of volume between instruments, Riley's concept comes through loud and clear. His imposed sense of structure and space is very much a modern device to my ears, and permeates so much of the music we hear today. But beyond any cultural or musical impact, In C works as a solid piece of music. When you hone in on a single instrument and follow its progression, there is a certain feeling of discovery, a sensation of peeling back the layers to reveal order within the chaos. It's the dichotomy that works. In my mind, In C will be played as long as humans are alive, because it's one of the few pieces I've known to so thoroughly engage its performers without requiring any great level of skill. It's also one of the few pieces that inspired me to get a group of friends together and actually perform the damn thing. I can think of no greater compliment.
1. In C
People seem to approach jazz music in two general ways. Some listen with genuine artistic appreciation, while others are content looking through a slick, hipster's lens. That is to say, jazz can be viewed on both an intellectual and superficial level, and while it may be pompous to deem a specific way of listening 'better' than another, one thing is for sure: On albums like Herbie Hancock's Headhunters and Weather Report's Heavy Weather, two polarized vantage points collide, transcending genre to reach a somewhat simpler epithet: good fucking music. I have little reservations when applying such a universal tag on Dorothy Ashby's 1968 gem, Afro-Harping.
First things first, yes, Afro-Harping is literal in referencing the Harp. You know, that instrument one of the Marx brothers played? Well, in the hands of Ashby, it becomes everything but a shtick. Alongside arranger Richard Evans, she crafts a collection of highly accessible, highly virtuosic jazz and pop numbers. The opener, "Soul Vibrations," and the title track are the most immediate cuts, using surprisingly funky rhythm sections to support a series of effortless, syncopated harp riffs. The fact that Ashby can lead a band with such a typically subdued, almost muted instrument is nothing short of remarkable. Things do occasionally veer towards easy listening, but the rough production and laid back, ever present groove maintains interest throughout. Eventually, each song's core theme starts to sink in, allowing you to fully enjoy Ashby's concise soloing. Of course, not all accolades are reserved for the harp. Richard Evans orchestration is subtle but effective. A low murmur of vibes and strings add extra elements of unexpectedness that, when coupled with the rhythm section, mimic a R&B aficionado's wet dream. Unfortunately, none of the session musicians are credited, leaving only Ashby and Evans to bear responsibility for this forgotten classic.
Needless to say, Afro-Harping is an essential introduction to harp and jazz music in general. Dorothy Ashby clearly expands the assumed limitations of her instrument, creating a sound that is familiar yet vaguely foreign at the same time. After all, when was the last time you heard a harpist break it down behind a thumping backbeat? It doesn't matter if you're in it for the novelty or for the intellectual exercise: Afro-Harping is jazz, but beyond that, it's just good fucking music.
If the market for what has now been deemed ‘indie rock’ existed in the late '60s, Thomas D. Rapp and Pearls Before Swine would have surely been at the top of the heap. Had he become a more affixed part of the rock canon, Rapp could perhaps be credited with inventing many of the conventions that indie culture currently holds dear. Rapp had a clever reference-based band name for his solo project, was unwittingly experimental, and, had he been heard more at the time, would have likely been adored by critics while the mainstream cast him off as “weird arty shit.”
At his core, though, Rapp is perhaps one of the most engaging songwriters this great pop medium has seen, and his 1968 offering Balaklava is the proof. As the story goes, Rapp, a North Dakota native, would frequently enter into regional song-writing competitions where he would encounter – and consistently top - another young troubadour by the name of Robert Zimmerman. With songs like “Translucent Carriages,” “There Was a Man,” and “Guardian Angels,” Rapp’s talent is readily evident in the slowly building melodies embellished by winds, strings, piano, and Rapp’s creaking voice (reminiscent of a more subdued David Byrne).
Rapp had far more at work in his music than mere tunes. He was simultaneously infatuated with both history and surrealism, and he employed both in his music for a product he called ‘constructive melancholy.’ Here, Rapp is exploring the Vietnam War in ways that were never touched upon in the more mainstream folk movement. The historical aspect of the album even seems surreal, like an actual recording of Trumpeter Landfrey, who sounded the battle cry at the battle of Balaklava during the Crimean War, resulting in the senseless killing of many British soldiers. From there, it only becomes more abstract, combining the aforementioned instruments with recordings of waves crashing and chirping birds. The progression completes with a reference to Lord of the Rings, which may have been clever at the time, but admittedly losses meaning given the homogenization of the series today.
Still, the songs don’t work as a cohesive unit. Rather, they may be thought of as different takes on Rapp’s many ideas. The psychedelic label, often applied far too liberally, makes sense on Balaklava, as the experimentation meets classic song-writing for a trip of an affair. Rapp moved on to become a civil rights lawyer in Philadelphia in the 70s, but like many artifacts of the Vietnam era, this album stands the test of time in a way that has not been bested since. Sadly, it may never get the chance because of the weight of its obscurity. Put in my bid for a full reissue.
1. Trumpeter Landfrey
2. Translucent Carriages
3. Images of April
4. There Was a man
5. I Saw the World
6. Guardian Angels
8. Lepers and Roses
9. Florence Nightingale
10. Ring Thing
1992: Crain - Speed
The promotional materials for the Temporary Residence resuscitation of Crain's Speed (originally pressed as a 1000-copy LP in 1992) hail the record as "The Holy Grail of Louisville art-punk circa 1992" and state that, as anyone in the know is aware, the two bands at the forefront of the post-punk movement in that particular time and region were the mighty Slint and... Crain! With a lineup originally including Drew Daniel of Matmos and the Soft Pink Truth, Crain, with their Steve Albini-recorded album Speed, seem to promise post-punk greatness by virtue of style, region, and personal connections. Never having heard of the band, I was pleasantly surprised when I threw on the CD and heard some extremely high-quality rock.
Crain is, er, was a band accurately described in terms of other, better-known post-punkers. The time-signature changes and shredding bass work on "Car Crash Decisions" and "Monkey Wrench" sound a whole lot like the Minutemen and Drive Like Jehu, and the spoken word sections of some tracks have a definite Slint feeling. The band's sound can be heard on modern records like those of June of 44 and Sweep the Leg Johnny, and their sonic dissonance and unromantic subject matter place them squarely in the Steve Albini Cool Club. But if what I've said thus far indicates that Crain is derivative, I've erred in my descriptions. Crain sounds like all these bands because they were one of the best, and anyone who owns Spiderland, Rodan's Rusty, or either Jehu LP should allow no delay in picking up Temporary Residence's reissue... unless you'd prefer to shell out $30+ for the LP on eBay -- and you wouldn't get the bonus tracks! This re-release comes strongly recommended.
1. Car Crash Decisions
2. Monkey Wrench
3. Proposed Production
5. The Dead Town
6. King Octane
7. Skinminer Pastel
8. News from Warsaw
9. Ten Miles of Friction
14. Breathing Machine
Unless you're a connoisseur of folk music, have seen Vincent Gallo's movie The Brown Bunny, or have frantically searched the influences of Devendra Banhart, you've probably never heard the absolute beauty of singer-songwriter Jackson C. Frank's music. To be honest, I have to claim the last two of these references as my path to discovering one of the ‘60s greatest forgotten folk treasures.
Since becoming familiar with his music, I've learned that Frank, who died in 1999, had a sad life of pain and loss; both mentally and physically. Frank was severely burned during a tragic fire at his elementary school at the age of 11, and for the rest of his life was left scarred in more ways than one. He always had a sense of insecurity, but managed to write a short list of beautiful songs and influenced a long list of performers before living a life of recluse on the streets, and in the mental hospitals of New York City.
Blues Run the Game is a perfect album in every sense. As far as folk records go, I've heard nothing better. It's full of melancholy and beauty, and is a completely essential exercise in folk music. Produced by Paul Simon and recorded in less than three hours, each track contains pristine sounds of acoustic guitar and gentle vocals. It makes you feel like this is the mold that others have tried to imitate ever since. Many have covered Frank's songs, such as the illustrious Nick Drake and Sandy Denny (Denny was also Frank's girlfriend for a short period of time. Although Denny is more recognized than Frank, it's impossible not to see he was as big an influence on her work as just about anyone else).
The title track, "Blues Run the Game," has been accepted by Frank's fans as his most identifiable and significant song, written during one of the only times things seemed to be going well in his life. He had just received a small fortune of insurance money from his fire accident and began a journey to England. It was there that he became completely engaged with writing folk music.
The stand out song on the album is "Milk and Honey," with its solemn beauty epitomizing everything that is simple and perfect about the state of music in the mid-'60s. The songs have an uncanny ability to paint images in my head of childhood and remind me of an innocence long left behind.
For the longest time, you couldn't find a copy of Blues Run the Game. Over the past decade, however, several labels have re-issued the album for an ever-growing fan base. If you own any folk record, and don't have this in your collection, consider this an insightful plea. It's nice to see so many people slowly going back in time to revisit some of the lost treasures that have fallen to the wayside. And although our timing might be too late to show him some support, hopefully the love for Jackson C. Frank's music that was left behind is just beginning for a new generation.
Possibly one of the most enigmatic groups in the history of English post punk, Clock DVA underwent several dramatic metamorphoses throughout their career. With the exception of vocalist/frontman Adi Newton’s gruff, menacing voice, each of Clock DVA’s albums has a completely different sound: the angular, jagged post punk/mutant disco of their first album, White Souls in Black suit; the new wave sensibilities of their second album, Thirst; the smoky, jazz-inflected undertones of the third album, Advantage; and finally, the dark, throbbing industrial sound of their fourth proper album, Buried Dreams, which would permeate Clock DVA’s subsequent offerings. Evidently a difficult man to work with, Newton completely altered Clock DVA’s lineup on every album, which accounts for the wide disparity of styles from one record to another.
White Souls in Black Suits was released by the invitation of Throbbing Gristle on their own label, the long-defunct Industrial Records. Furthermore, the record was recorded in Cabaret Voltaire’s Western Works studio. The early industrial/noise influence of these two Sheffield bands has a distinct presence on White Souls in Black Suits. Structurally, the album is the most experimental and “un-structured” of all Clock DVA’s albums.
Raw and unpolished, White Souls in Black Suits is a primarily improvised album, ostensibly a piss-take on the English “white soul” groups of the time. The combination of repetitive, distorted guitars, squawking saxophones, and sub-funk, almost dub-influenced bass lines give the music a distinctly post punk/mutant disco sound. The noisy, improvisational element on White Souls in Black Suits, however, betrays Clock DVA’s affiliation with the Industrial Records groups Throbbing Gristle and Cabaret Voltaire. The heavy use of delay, guitar feedback, rhythmic, pounding percussion, and all-out collages of pure noise aligns Clock DVA with the early industrial movement more than any other genre (although that would change after this record).
The world Newton evokes through his music is populated with sinister, shadowy figures, stalkers, serial killers, and imagery of torture straight from the Marquis de Sade. This began, to some degree, on White Souls in Black Suits, and would eventually dominate later Clock DVA records, basically concept albums dedicated to depraved historical figures such as Countess Elizabeth Bathory, who bathed in the blood of virgins.
Repetitive, droning, and eerie, White Souls in Black Suits can be disturbing and difficult to listen to. The album, now near impossible to find copies of, is almost anachronistic and archaic, so far removed are we from the early Eighties Sheffield scene. The poor mastering from the original tapes has rendered the album more of a novelty than anything else. Nevertheless, White Souls in Black Suits is an interesting, albeit unsettling, introduction to an important and overlooked post punk group from the '80s.
3. Disconsentment (2)
8. Film Sound Track (Keyboards Assemble Themselves At Dawn)
The first time listening to Lady Coryell, I was expecting something busier. Basically, I was looking for a Bitches Brew inspired clone. Hearing the loose, scratchy voice of a slightly off key Coryell was somewhat startling. I skipped to the second track, only to hear that voice again: More then anything it sounded like Steve Winwood on crack. Slightly disillusioned, I took the disc out and started jamming Return to Forever, or whatever likeminded band I was craving at the time.
When my fusion hard on cooled a bit, I went back to Lady Coryell and discovered something completely different. In place of modal chaos was a ripe selection of extremely catchy themes. Even when the improvisation was at it's most extreme ("Stiff Neck"), there was always a hummable riff or phrase to fall back on. Secondly, and somewhat ironically, only the first half of the album contained vocals. Side-B revealed a lot more guitar noodling and extended jams. Yet Coryell's sharp, often distorted guitar tone was clear throughout. The perfect assimilation of style had evaded me before, but here was a jazz guitarist playing a heavy blues riff with atonal wankery fidgeting in the background ("Sunday Telephone"). Beautiful. It felt the same as the Hendrix inspired 'rock' aesthetic other musicians had been trying to achieve in the same year, though under different guises. Basically, it was not a record to be pegged down.
Coming back to it now, I can try to explain how Lady Coryell combines forms of jazz, blues, folk, and psychedelic rock, but it won't do much good. It's the kind of album that doesn't subscribe to any specific method. It is a gem because its eclecticism is effortless, and I can't help but think that if it were released today, it would still be hailed as truly original. If you take the albums variety into account, Lady Coryell is also a nice bridge from rock into a more traditional jazz setting, or vice versa. Though sometimes it's just better in the middle.
2002: Glifted - Under and In
Welcome to the epicenter of hazy delirium. Though the world of Under and In may seem overwhelmingly dense at first listen, eventually you'll be sucked right in to an experience so gloriously disorienting that you'll feel like you're undergoing radical mutation. It's audio narcotics, and there are few other products advertised as such that are innately intoxicating as this.
You may feel like your CD is skipping when you play the first track, but notice the snaking countermelody and phased-out vocals coming in, you'll start getting into it. I opted to review this for The DeLorean because any Hum enthusiasts who looked up Glifted on Amazon and read the disparaging comments of fellow Hum'sters could easily miss out on something grand and unique. It's only like Hum in the guitars swoop and dive like aural avalanches. Tim Lash's vocals are less intimate and emotionally endearing perhaps, but in many ways, this band trumps Hum's entire catalogue with its spaced-out majesty. I always thought Matt Talbott's lyrics were kind of dumb anyway ("I'm thinking of a number between everything and two"). To me, what was always good about Hum was the sheer grandiosity of their sound. They were their best when surging and powering through a soaring progression like on Downward is Heavenward's opening track.
Glifted's music is more about disorientation. It's music that, more than any other, deserves all of the Loveless comparisons heaped on it. The merry cacophony idealized in that classic album's opening track's wordless chorus is at the heart of what makes Under and In such a winner. And, like Loveless, there are really catchy pop tunes hidden under all the washes. Perhaps a bit more so, since the album's poppier moments arrive in crunchier, Hum-like fashion (particularly on the infectious "Baby's Blue"). So, while it may not stand up to the infallible behemoth of Kevin Shield's innovation and subtle song writing, it comes pretty damn close. The only thing preventing Under and In from being a perfect woozy rock opus might be the lengthy and pointless loop tacked on to the albums end. But don't let that stop you. This is an enticing trip that you definitely don't want to pass up.
1. Is There Any Always
2. The Scare
3. On and On
4. Baby's Blue
5. Heavy Ion
6. Last in Line
7. Every Single Second
8. The Ground
9. Red Lift
With the often vapid, territorial pissing of trends and provincial music(s), music can be tiresome and predictable. Most music that becomes popular nowadays can be traced back to an earlier trend that happened decades ago. It'd be arrogant to claim, however, that the more avant-garde sectors of music are any more original or 'authentic' than, say, the garage rock or disco-punk trends; all music has its influences, and all of it's hybrid. However, the difference between those in the vanguard and the more conservative musicians can be found in audience reception.
The Crainium's one and only album, A New Music for a New Kitchen, for example, is still very much part of a negotiation (as opposed to appropriation) of sound, despite it being clearly influenced by the short-lived No Wave scene of the '70s/early '80s. There's no co-optation involved here. Dragging the sounds of D.N.A., Mars, and Teenage Jesus & the Jerks through noise and post-punk movements of the late 20th century, The Crainium play with sounds that still resist convention and conformity. This is why their music in 1998 has continued resonance today; the codes in this music are still very much dynamic and alive, no matter how old the influences are.
In this hour-long document of nervous spasms and intricate song writing, The Crainium balance tight composition with blasts of free chaos. With discordant guitars, contorted drumming, and penetrating vocals, The Crainium channel the improvisational aspects of free jazz while signaling an era entrenched in noise contextualized; it's Cecil Taylor meets Boredoms meets James Chance meets Melt-Banana. It's intelligent music that harnesses the exciting destructive elements of punk, simultaneously acknowledging its home at the outer edges of societal normalcy. And it's this resistance to societal normalcy that's expressed in its lyrics, which deconstruct the notion of gender in a society that employs the construction for power politics (hence, the album title).
A New Music for a New Kitchen will probably never achieve the level of acclaim that most records of this caliber do -- not because it can't be appreciated or because it's ahead of its time, but because it's an anomaly. It's not part of a scene or a movement, and the embrace of dissonance and exclusion of tonality has assured its obscurity among the more straightened crowd. If anything, The Crainium makes it apparent that the No Wave scene fizzled out much too early, and the critique of gender in music is at best a slight hum. Even though Tim Dewitt and Brian DeGraw are now in Gang Gang Dance, their work in the Crainium remains their most penetrating output. A New Music for a New Kitchen isn't a cry for help; it's a scream to rise above the mediocrity of rosy-cheeked America. It's just too bad that the Crainium isn't around to keep things moving.
1. The roles we play, a dead-ended game. We have to change. Create and rearrange. The roles we play they are a dead-ended game.
2. Watch who they beat, watch who they eat.
3. You pretend that you depend, but now you are, are you, visible?
4. There are no rabbits in my hat (yes, yes, yes, I am a traitor to my sex!)
5. Abracadabra! What am I now?
6. Only true love will break the rules.
7. Your penis, it is tiny, and it can not spell.
9. Cut it out of my body, cut it out of my mind, to look, no look
11. What are we hiding? (Parts 1-2 and 3) - Blood and babies, over tea. The eggtree and the ebbing tides. The main in the moon, drinks claret
12. New hormones. Until then, we will not know what love is
14. A new music for a new kitchen. Or, (How I raised myself up from the dead, and you can tell too!)
15. The coquettery of immobility oh watch how I bake, a vicitm, a baby, a coital cake
17. A new music for a new kitchen
It was Keith Fullerton Whitman, right here on TMT in fact, who initially acquainted me with the name Leafcutter John. He answered most glowingly in Leafcutter John’s favor when asked if there were artists deserving more recognition, "Some of the most vital and humanistic yet academic-leaning computer music of this or any time really." I remember this because it piqued my interest at the time that such bold plaudits were going to someone I'd never caught wind of before. Also, that someone with such an organic and folksy name was making computer music. I feebly investigated him at the time, couldn't find much about him, tried to *gulp* download his album, was stymied, and proceeded to ignore KFW's plea and went on like seemingly everyone else (I still can't find many reviews of this album) in continuing to ignore him. Well, not too long ago, I stumbled upon this album, and ever since, I've regretted not heeding the well-informed advice at the time.
This album is sold as one of those Matmos(ish) novelties (no knock on Matmos) featuring samples from a highly restricted set of sources. In this case, the samples all come from items you can find in your home. The reason is that the artist was suffering from crippling agoraphobia after being attacked in public, hence the title The Housebound Spirit. To be honest, I couldn't give a lick. It’s distracting to consider such tangential nonsense. What we should concern ourselves with is the breathtaking sweep of this album. The ‘genre’ ping-pongs around with every track, from KFW IDM sounds to Kid 606-esque cut-ups to avant-classical electro-acoustic to a sparing vocal and acoustic guitar. They're masterfully executed, and, moreover, it’s really an enjoyable collection to listen to. The pacing might be the greatest achievement here, with strikingly disparate tempos residing next to one another cohesively. Similarly, the dynamics in sound are perfectly jarring. And none of this comes anywhere near to conveying the magical experience of listening to this record. This is the truly inspired music that makes people like my self love music. PLEASE, please go out and buy this album. Absolutely one of the most essential recordings I've heard in the past few years.
2. Electric Love
3. If You have an Enemy
5. Walk on my Back
7. Mandolin Work
8. Short Sine
9. House of a Soul
10. For Two
11. All I Could Think of Was Nothing
12. Arches Never Sleep
13. Escape From the Globous Playpen
14. Dead Men Can't Talk, They Can't Do Anything
15. Know Mercy