There aren’t many things stranger than hearing a recording of a dead relative’s voice. And if that recording is interspersed with peals of loony laughter weaving in between gurgles and twitters of electronic music, as absurdly preoccupied and innocent sounding as a small child… and if the voice veers between dry professorial and outright goofy, you have a strange listening experience indeed.
My Great Uncle Ed Canby presented a show on WNYC for nearly 25 years. He was also one of the core group who helped to launch the Elektra/Nonesuch label. He was dedicated to classical music, but he was also a sound fanatic, early tape music advocate, and folk-music anthropologist.
A lot of people made valuable contributions to music in the same era as Ed Canby, and they have been forgotten. The broadcast that I happened to run across is relevant to the tape music being made today though, and I found it fascinating, even without the freaky crispness of my lost uncle’s voice – hence the sharing.
So much of what fascinates Ed Canby about the way in which Tod Dockstader makes music has come to define the arch-producer and sound-geek of today. Canby sees it as a novelty that Dockstader considers himself an engineer rather than a composer. He lovingly describes the functional beauty of the boxes in which Dockstader presents his tapes. There was a particular irony in this for me in this, as Ed Canby’s house was the messiest house I’d ever seen. He would scotch tape ancient or valuable items to walls and tables. It was always comforting to know that if a thief broke in, they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between junk and loot.
Another great thing about this clip is Canby’s commentary on the swells of Luna Park’s movements. For me, it really does tread the right line between learnedness and music’s more emotional and colloquial associations. It’s interesting to hear Canby responding to Dockstader’s piece as someone who remembers the old amusement park in Brooklyn – Luna Park – associating this with the music, and the strange bubbly feeling of a ‘loony’ or spontaneous emotion that it conveys. Before moving onto his theoretical deconstruction of why the music works, he makes sure to emphasize that he just plain likes it, because it gives him a thrill – like riding a rollercoaster.
Dockstader’s notes on the piece match the tone of the broadcast. He doesn’t describe his ambitions as technical and stylistic; he just says he wanted Luna Park to be “silly and sad and simple.” It’s a coincidence that the piece was named for the moon – who was actually a Miss Luna from Des Moines – a sister of the park’s founder.
I wonder what Ed Canby would make of the tape resurgence today. I had never heard of Tod Dockstader but I agreed with Ed Canby’s assessment about Luna Park. If you read Dockstader’s composer’s notes he credits the original sounds he uses on Luna Park – “laughter;” “little bells” – as if they were instruments or players on the piece. The approach doesn’t sound like the often looped or electronically finished recordings heard today – more like an arrangement for parts modeled on a traditional classical set-up. Yet the actual recordings sound completely new as if they were made yesterday. It doesn’t get more ‘Delorean’ than being awakened to music that’s forty years old but sounds new – via a relative from beyond the grave. And it says a lot that electronic music of today has rediscovered its ‘roots’ in tape music and musique concrète – music that was, unlike the song-orientated folk, the natural successor to instrumental classical music.
It is generally agreed that brothers Reginald (“Rheji”) and Ronald (“Rhano”) Burrell were almost singlehandedly responsible for creating the genre known as deep house. Considering the relatively poor critical reputation of the genre today, this might seem about as interesting as noting the pioneers of happy hardcore or psytrance. However, unlike other disreputable dance genres, deep house is overdue for a critical reappraisal. It is true that the genre very quickly evolved into slick, homogenized lifestyle music of the kind that filled yuppie lounges and upmarket clothing boutiques throughout the 90s. It is true that deep house was eventually indistinguishable from other outmoded buzz-genres such as acid jazz and tribal house. In spite of all unpleasant associations, deep house in its infancy was quietly revolutionary. It was a forward-thinking minimal dance music with decentered grooves, lackadaisical jazz solos, and deeply psychedelic production. And it was Rheji and Rhano — Jersey boys with a strong background in gospel music — who defined the deep house sound with a string of releases under various guises for NYC’s legendary Nu Groove label.
Nu Groove is best known for launching the careers of Bobby Konders and Joey Beltram, but the work of the Burrell brothers accounted for the bulk of the label’s releases between 1988 and 1992. Releasing a string of 12” cuts under a variety of project names including Tech Trax Inc, Metro, Houz’Neegroz, and Avant Garde, the sound of the Burrell brothers is defined by eclecticism and experimentation, ideas that often outstripped talent and technology, but never failed to make an impression. A press release by reissue label Rush Hour defines the sound as “house music with a sepia tint,” referring to the clunky, analog instrumentation and generous quotient of tape hiss that characterize the early Burrell records.
Perhaps the finest single document of the period is a concept EP by short-lived Rheji Burrell project N.Y. House’n Authority, entitled APT. Over the course of six tracks, Burrell constructs an imaginary three-story NYC walk-up, depicting the private lives of various residents. Each track is named for an apartment number (“APT. 1A,” “APT. 3B,” etc.), titles which cleverly mirror the naming conventions of vinyl tracks. The EP both embodies and makes literal the inner-city origins of house music, evoking cramped urban spaces in which public and private spheres overlap and interact.
The EP opens with the upbeat “APT. 1A,” a hard-driving minimal groove populated by a series of sequenced moans sampled from a porno. After catching the couple in 1A in flagranti, the EP shifts into a dark, melancholic territory where it will remain. The sampled strings of “APT. 2A” give way to the tense acid of “APT. 3A” and the spooky vocal stabs of “APT. 1B.” The detuned, lopsided jazz soloing of “APT. 2B” signals the final shift toward the quintessential deep house formula, a formula which would be further perfected by Burrell labelmate Bobby Konders on classic tracks such as “The Poem.” This prototypical deep house style reaches an early apex on the EP’s gorgeous, moody finale “APT. 3B,” featuring an ersatz flute solo that should be unbearably corny, but somehow manages to transcend.
Viewed as text, APT. is a fascinating intervention in the history of art that takes The City as its subject, not as metaphor, but as disunity. This complex of competing interests only becomes The City by virtue of a geographical continuity, just as the body only becomes The Body with reference to the space in which a collection of systems interact. In practice, both The Body and The City are random assemblages of competing desires capable of spontaneously producing moments of profound self-organization: the rhythm of everyday life.
Yes, “the godfathers of stoner rock.” Yes, the pioneers of heavy metal. All of this is true regarding Sir Lord Baltimore and, of course, their self-titled LP and Kingdom Come are two of those great records where not a second is wasted. Setting aside amazing amazing songwriting and performances, what makes these albums for me is the sound.
From Link Wray’s alleged slashed speakers to the alien ringing tone Tony Iommi conjured for the solo on “Paranoid,” distortion wasn’t just a way a guitar could sound, it was the star of the show and the way the guitarist in question would achieve said sweet saturation was the stuff of legends. What stands out to me about Sir Lord Baltimore is how careful they layered their fairly common overdriven tones to end up being otherworldly, like a dog attacking a beehive while the band did what they did best: rock in an uncomplicated way.
The band’s first two albums are the stuff 70s rock dreams were made of – the soul of transistors functioning at full capacity about to give up makes this seem like it came from nowhere at God-knows-when o’clock; it’s the reason there are bands today still finding the perfect vintage fuzzbox to sound like martians riding choppers. Baltimore conjured one of the most wicked sounds in rock and smeared it on some premium riffage, recorded it for posterity and so lesser bands might smoke out and think “why don’t my songs sound like that?”
“In Black Eyes, we all had these ideas about what we wanted or thought should be happening musically. They were all very conflicting. The way we were communicating there [had] very little hope of reconciliation at all. By the time we got back from that tour, things had reached a breaking point. I remember playing parts that were purposely trying to antagonize other players in the band and not being able to hear, nor really wanting to hear, what was happening onstage on any given night.” - Daniel Martin-McCormick; Mi Ami interview in Skyscraper Magazine, Spring 2009.
By now, the general consensus on Black Eyes’ Cough is more or less that it’s a record that captures the sound of a band tearing itself apart. Fittingly so: Cough is a chaotic and polarizing listen that’s constantly rabid, even reckless. That I’ve seen numerous used copies of it isn’t particularly surprising, as even many of those who liked Black Eyes’ debut were largely alienated by the D.C. group’s serrated, horn-laced no wave finale. Still, as vocalist Hugh McElroy notes on “False Postive”: “Open up your fucking mind and you can fly.”
I think it’s a bit telling how often Black Eyes have been misguidedly referred to as Daniel Martin-McCormick’s hardcore punk band this year. Sure, Ital and Black Eyes have, err, no sound crossover whatsoever, but I was still thoroughly bummed out to see so many Ital and Mi Ami articles written by people who’d obviously never heard Black Eyes. It was like, now you give a shit? Eight years after the fuckin’ punkest album of the last decade came out?
I get it, though. Black Eyes existed from 2001-2004, a time and place in the past that’s still distant enough to not warrant reverential nostalgia beyond cult fandom. Still, it bugs me to see such vital, distinct, and flat-out amazing records being ignored or relegated to footnote status. Cough might not be as mind-bending now that I’ve heard it enough times, but its importance remains in how it still sounds immensely striking, like an audible document of interpersonal stress decimating the seams of a dangerously imaginative (or at least intuitive) five-piece. As Jeremiah Griffey points out in the article quoted above, Black Eyes “was an aptly-titled band name given all the reported infighting” — frankly, that Cough exists at all is perhaps astounding.
“Eternal Life” has all the focused vigor of a manifesto. Given its placement on Cough — second track, but first “song” — the emergence of McElroy’s shouting is like a declarative objection escaping from an unruly mob: “Who have eyes to see, let them see/ Who have ears to hear, let them hear.” The instrumentation boils over, and the song becomes a visceral, throat-grasping battle cry where Martin-McCormick often out-skronks the horns (both vocally and with his guitar), two drumkits clatter away, and somehow, it’s mostly just McElroy’s dangling basslines and poised vocal presence that root the song enough to keep it from falling apart. By the end, it’s a race to the finish. “And know temporary what’s meant by ETERNAL LIFE.”
No time to catch yr breath. Cough, Cough.
Somehow Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments released their debut album through Warner Bros’ imprint American, run by Rick Rubin. Ron House, former singer from Great Plains, led the group for six years, releasing limited-release singles until they eventually made the Bait and Switch debut on an $800 budget. The band hails from Columbus, Ohio and the midwestern rock feel runs rampant through the record. You get the feeling that the Rubin and American swept them up to make some cash off the mid 90s grunge craze, though The Slave Apartments vibe much more with 80s punk and trashed-out Replacements/Husker Du midwestern bar rock.
House was diagnosed with cancer in the early 90’s. It’s no coincidence that the album’s opener “My Mysterious Death (Turn It Up)” sets the up-front, aggressive, fuck-you tone of the whole record. He briefly alludes to his cancer scare later on during “You Can’t Kill Stupid,” but before I get too into the lyrics, we should really discuss the sound of this record. It’s certainly scuzzy lo-fi 90s punk a la Guided By Voices (who the band toured with semi-regularly), and while House’s distinctive Daniel Johnston/Beat Happening-ish vocals are the obvious reference point for the band’s sound, the guitar work of Bob Petric seems to really hold everything together. Petric has a slashy proto-metal style, like he’d been listening to Pentagram and the Minutemen at the same time. The production also hard-pans the bass and guitar away from each other which helps the bare-bones sound and makes the dance-y bass stand out more.
Lyrically, you have to give it up for House – he’s a loud smart-ass who really sticks to his guns when it comes to being honest in the context of the band’s messy midwestern punk. “Negative Guest List” attacks the inane scenester aspect of guest lists head on (“Even if I pay/ I can’t get in”). “Contract Dispute” comes off as an obvious self-referential, self-fulfilling prophecy; 0f course, Rick Rubin’s label would try to screw the band over within the next year! “Quarrel With the World” has some surf-riffs and replicates the spirit of the Mats’ “Kids Don’t Follow.” “Is She Shy” questions the intentions of new-wave girls versus punk rock girls — you can completely feel the vitriol/honest confusion House has for new wave’s relationship with punk. There’s so many ties to his location, too. House gets at the philosophical values brought about by shitty midwestern cities during “Down on High St.” where he discusses the only street in Columbus where he likes to get drunk.
The musicality of the band must also be noted. There’s a certain joy in the way the last word in each line of “Cheater’s Heaven” slips into the next one. And you can’t really find a sound comparison for the exhibition that is “RnR Hall of Fame.” With its swelling bass, drum freakouts, and whammy bar distorted-guitar heroics, the backdrop is perfect for House’s sneering indictment of Cleveland’s museum for rock. The liner notes state: “I remember myself, as a kid in Cleveland, staring at the big black hole that would one day become the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, thinking that me, a little skinny kid with a guitar, could one day empty it.” It’s not as if there’s any subtlety to the band’s attitude toward conventional rock tropes and avenues. House and crew would go on to release their next albums on more independent labels and you should definitely seek them out. Though you would be hard-pressed to find more raw midwestern punk songs than the ones found on the Slave Apartments’ debut.
Tom Waits’ 70s work tends to get looked down on when compared to his 80s work as the undisputed “king of hobos.” Everybody knows Swordfishtrombones and Rain Dogs are absolute masterpieces, but there is a tremendous charm to his earlier work, especially on an album like Small Change or the pseudo-live Nighthawks.
That said, the title track of Small Change stands tall with the best work of Waits’ career. During “Small Change,” Waits takes his time, with just Lew Tabackin’s mournful sax in the distance, to describe an unpleasant scene with his unique attention to detail. Small Change, the gangster, has been shot dead in the street, but Waits seems more interested in the aftermath. This street corner is filled with an entire cast of characters, much like later songs such as “Singapore,” but the scope here trumps that.
Surrounding the spot where Small Change got “rained on” we have whores with “eyes like stilettos” and fire hydrants that plead the Fifth Amendment. Waits focuses on the scene without ever getting into the exact details of the murder; the man is dead and there is nothing changing that, he’d rather focus on things like what horse he had circled in his racing form, or who stole his hat, and what product the gypsies are pushing across the street. The song is one of defeat, and we never get the details that we want. The only bone Waits throws us is that “someone will head South until this whole thing cools off,” but honestly you could have assumed that yourself, and it becomes less an offering of information as a bitter inevitability. The details are definitely small, but Waits’ overall scope makes this poem into an epic.
1981: Phew - “Phew”
“Phew” is an expression of relief for narrowly avoiding something. It’s also an apt name for a vocalist who has escaped every close call with mainstream recognition while still being a legendary contributor to avant-garde J-Pop, releasing an album as recently as 2010. Her 1981 debut was recorded in the German studio of Krautrock behemoth producer Conny Plank before his death in 1986, with two members of Can. But besides being in the right place at the right time for these collaborations, Phew’s career doesn’t live up to her cute escape-artist stage name. It’s evident that it took persistence, savvy, and curiosity to have crafted so many albums with collaborators that seem heaven-sent. In the 90s she was a member of a Japanese supergroup Novo Tono which included Seiichi Yamamoto of The Boredoms, and she also worked with Ryuichi Sakamoto at the height of his creativity with Yellow Magic Orchestra.
Any attempt to understand Phew’s debut album as the defining event of her long career is like trying to shrink an exploded universe of creativity back into its Pandora’s box. The album kicks off with the bright statement of “Closed,” and yet it doesn’t fold small enough to be confined here. On the one hand “Closed” is heavily indebted to the Can/Plank influence – the song’s energy bubbles up from underneath with an electronic viscera of miked-up drums and dub energy, something that Plank was known for infusing into krautrock. But then there is the very Japanese statement of those zither-like synths.
Phew is a distinct statement that stands up in its own right, but there is still something cerebral, powerful, and selective that begins here, as if Phew knew she couldn’t miss by working with the right people and aiming for the avant-garde jugular. As a vocalist, Phew is mercurial – both cold and passionate, singing badly to evoke freedom and sweetly to evoke intimacy. I don’t know what her Japanese lyrics mean, but when a specific vocal style is used for some songs, like the lovely, weary piano anomaly of “Dream”, her role is easy to translate. Often Phew is defiant within her echoey darkwave/proto-industrial cavern. But sometimes she’s hoarse and unsure, as if putting a recent dream into words. Most often she carries an incredibly strong debut as an equal partner with her heavy lifting companions, who leave us with another compelling artifact of the brilliant drum and electronic experiments that German music provided in the 70s and 80s.
1982: Blackway - “New Life”
The term Italo Disco is often misleading, throwing an umbrella over two related but distinct continuities in European electronic dance music of the 1980s. One trajectory is populated by groups like La Bionda and Baby’s Gang, danceable pop with a largely electronic palette. The songs are upbeat and high-energy with ABBA-esque singalong choruses and a self-consciously synthetic production style that that evokes the pleasures of a technological age. On the other track are purer, more abstract productions following directly from the application of Kraftwerk-ian techniques to the language of the 12” white label disco edit. While the former group traded on their personality in live TV performances, the latter were generally faceless; shadowy production teams creating utilitarian dance singles for DJs, avoiding the trappings of pop stardom. While these two distinct subgenres sometimes shared personnel, and exerted an unmistakable influence on each other, it was the latter that crossed the Atlantic and influenced a generation of American producers responsible for developing techno and acid house. Adding confusion is the fact that the current Italo revival— typified by Johnny Jewel and the Italians Do It Better label — seems to crib freely from both of these historically distinct movements, balancing pop structure with the minimalism and experimentation of Italo producers like Amin Peck and Mito.
What no one seems to have accomplished thus far is a revival of that pure, abstract side of Italo, before it morphed into new wave and Hi-NRG, before it became ensnared with the high cheese of Eurovision. If anyone reading this cares to take a stab at a true Italo revival, here is an ideal starting point: the 1982 single “New Life” by Blackway, a production team consisting of Moon Records label honcho Stefano Zito along with Carlo Favilli and the great Salvatore Cusato (pictured above) of “Cybernetic Love” fame. Blackway was an ephemeral project, producing only three songs. Adding those three together with the two songs by B.W.H. and the single track by Mr. Master (two subsequent projects involving the same personnel), and you don’t even have enough for a whole album. All of the singles are exceedingly rare, none more so than “New Life,” released in a small pressing in 1982, backed with the similar “Follow Me,” in a generic sleeve that emphasized the faceless utilitarianism of dance music in the age of intelligent machines.
“New Life” is Future Shock in motion, a restlessly propulsive groove with an unmistakably dystopian purview that nonetheless urges progress: “The way is long/ The life is short/ Now is the time/ Go go go.” With a galaxy of weird, low-budget audio tricks, the track variously evokes a rocket launch, a nuclear explosion, a Geiger counter, and a lasergun shootout in a space station. The heavily vocodered vocals are spoke-sung in broken English, like a lot of Italo Disco, but they still manage to be spooky and profound. As a production team, the trio were definitely working on a shoestring budget, with rudimentary versions of recording and sequencing technologies that are now widely available for cheap or free, resulting in an unorthodox mix of high-tech and low-fidelity. Paradoxically, these shortcoming have ensured that the track still sounds fresh today. More than a few contemporary producers (Actress, Laurel Halo, etc.) have returned to this habit of mixing hi- and lo-fi elements together to evoke a whole range of affective (a)temporal sensations. More examples of the increasingly common tendency to fetishize the unintentional “excess” of vintage music. Contemporary resonance aside, it’s hard to deny the effectiveness of “New Life,” both as a dance record and as a pristine artifact of a futurist bent in EDM that has continued until today.
Like most music lovers living in the 21st century, I download a lot of albums and a large percentage of those are by artists I’m not familiar with. I get my recommendations from blogs, reviews, from friends, links people post on Twitter, and even from TMT. Still, I have no idea how I came across Psychogeography, but I’m glad I did.
The sound Poem Rocket practices is not far removed from that of noise rock bands like Swervedriver, Band of Susans, or Throwing Muses. Like most good bands – including the ones just mentioned – Poem Rocket sound all their own with only hints of the brand of force, beauty, and cacophony displayed by their predecessors and contemporaries. Unsurprisingly, they hailed from NYC and were formed in the early 90s by Michael Peters and Sandra Gardner (who are now married and have a child together); as mentioned, their music reflected their time and place of formation without feeling dated, carrying it into the 00s.
Psychogeography is the band’s second album and it’s an ambitious effort – a concept long player based on theorist Guy Debord’s idea of the influence of surroundings, both natural and man-built, on a person. Even more ambitious is the music contained within. The sound is intricate, grating, and layered, serving as a vehicle for some incredibly melodic songs that defy outlandish choruses but remain catchy, thanks in no small part to the male/female vocal counterpoints reminiscent of Sonic Youth’s “Kotton Krown” if that song formed a band and wanted a record deal. To top it all up, Poem Rocket liked to make challenging arrangements without sounding indulgent, as heard on album opener “Dirigible,” while others like “Intermission” are more straight forward.
This is a fantastic album made by a great band that most people don’t know but remains alive on the internet, ready to be discovered by the right person. That is, if file-sharing isn’t made illegal in the near future.
2007: BARR - Summary
BARR is the moniker for the spoken word work of multi-disciplinary artist Brendan Fowler, who started his career playing high energy spoken-word punk shows back in 2001. Since then, he’s kept busy co-running Doggpony Records, co-editing Artist Network Program Quarterly (a free arts magazine), playing with two other bands (New England Roses, Car Clutch), and most recently displaying object-based art exhibitions at galleries around the U.S. BARR hasn’t put out an album since 2007’s Summary, a record overlooked when it came out on the now defunct experimental Kill Rock Stars sub-label 5 Rue Christine.
Fowler’s a strange character primarily because of his impassioned vocal delivery. This style was compared too loosely to hip hop artists in the handful of reviews after Summary was released. With Fowler’s continued participation in the DIY art gallery scene, the comparison doesn’t make much sense. A spoken-word provocateur like Karen Finley might be a better fit for discussing BARR’s work.
Lyrically, Summary strives to be viscerally emotional and perplexingly intellectual at the same time. He weaves meta-commentaries on capital-lettered Art/Form/Truth seamlessly together with sparse but intimate confessions (“I just want to hold someone”). Vague circular philosophical logic (or pseudo-philosophical if you like) about making art is contrasted with highly specific personal narratives on abuse, cheating, depression, love, etc. (“Complete Consumption of Us Both,” “Was I Are You,” “Untitled,” “Half of Two Times Two”).
I remember listening to the album fairly often in 2007. Most of the reviews attacked the record for being too “meta” and self-referential. I think that’s the point! In his missteps and rootless explorations into his own art, Fowler projects the vulnerability of overindulgent self-skepticism. Whether you like that kind of thing seems to me a matter of personal taste.
“The Song is The Single” acts dually as a criticism of pop songs and as a criticism of itself. But the finale “Context Ender” presents the most cohesive message in Summary’s sprawling art philosophy. This message: context matters. In an interview, Fowler claimed the track was his favorite because of its musicality. “It’s a song about Pitchfork. I kind of figured they’d trash the record because they actively don’t like me. They’re immature — this much we know. I’m not taking away from their cultural thing — but you can!” That seems like a pretty fitting message to close off a record that’s simultaneously inward and outward looking – carefully skeptical of its own value and freely dissecting the way art is produced and consumed. Whether or not you find it pretentious and overreaching or intelligent and intimate is still subject to the thesis. Context matters.