THE MIRACLE

Keeping on the “Japanese Heavy Psych” vibe that SPL left off with last year, I thought I’d contribute one of my personal favorites; Kousokuya’s blistering first (and only) studio LP, the imaginatively titled 1^{s t} from 1991 (recorded in '89-90).

Kousokuya (English= Night Flux) started back in 1979 as a sort of no wave group replete with synthesizer plonking. Guitarist and occasional vocalist Kaneko Jutok continued on, taking the group into a harder, darker, more rock based direction, albeit one that retained his untamed guitar mangling. Unlike the similar Keiji Haino, whose Fushitsusha brings guitar noise to near transcendental levels; Jutok’s style is more fractured and spacious, willing to let hideous notes ring out on waves of feedback. There’s also a charming feel of amateurishness that, thankfully, never forces the listener to suspend disbelief; it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing. He also has an ungodly tone, not dissimilar to Black Sabbath’s Tony Iommi.

These aren’t just showcases for Jutok’s guitar exorcisms’ though; there are songs. The rhythm section are interesting in their own right; the singularly named bassist / vocalist, Mick, has a sick fuzztone goin’ on and her vocals are the mournful cries of a ghost haunting a babbling brook. Drummer Takahashi Ikurou alternates between big rock pounding, jazzbo sticksmanship and something approaching trad Japanese percussion.

It’s not all explosions either; “Removal” is a moody piece buffeted by Mick’s three note dirge and spectral, off-key, moaning while Jutok and Takahashi play with free dynamics. It sounds like Sabbath’s “War Pigs” convalescing in a v.a. hospital after stepping on an IED.

Although 1^st is the only studio album the band produced (Kaneko Jutok died unexpectedly from a heart attack in 2007), there are numerous live albums that are available and worth hearing – particularly Ray Night (not to be confused with Ray Night 1991-1992) and The Dark Spot which is a collaboration with saxophonist (alto) and PSF label mate Masayoshi Urabe (depending, of course, on how much sax skronk you can handle).



In the comments, old friends!

Inflamed Thought

FUSHITSUSHA - A Little Longer Thus (1998)

An unusual entry in the Haino/Fushitsusha canon even by his/their standards, "Thus" introduces new sticksman  Ikuroh Takahashi, who seems to have decided to play the sparsest style possible. A few simple cymbal taps here, a ridiculously tight (as in tuning) snare beating there; flash of any kind seemingly not permitted.  Late bassist Yasushi Ozawa adds a few tonal colors, but again, simplicity is the rule here. Even Keiji Haino plays droning, distortion-free lines uncharacteristic of this era of the band's existence. Vocals, when there are any, which is rarely, range from nigh-inaudible to feedback-caked shrieks. Needless to say, an opus that is the very definition of a grower.

In comments.

Blood Shaking My Heart

MASAYUKI TAKAYANAGI & NEW DIRECTION UNIT- April is the Cruellest Month (1975)

For purely selfish reasons, I wish the music of Masayuki "JoJo" Takayanagi would reach a wider audience. With the unoriginal, safe, samey dullard-drone fucktards out there considered "groundbreaking" on labels like Matawhore, Southern Snore and their ilk, none of  'em have ever scaled the euphoric peaks and soul-numbing lows JoJo laid down three decades ago. Mebbe if they'd heard albums like this one, things would be different (and if they have-- shame on you visionless hacks!!), cuz it seems to me that much as the Velvets and Stooges incorporated elements of Ayler and Ornette into their jams, this is material begging to be plundered and expanded upon. Not only by the more "avant" element either. They usually fuck it up with their pretentiousness anyway.

Born in Tokyo in 1932, Takayanagi was a leader of the underground Nipponese free jazz/improv scene by as early as the mid-fifties. He's kind of an Eastern equivalent to Sonny Sharrock, though his feedback-drenched axe attack travels even further into Thee Great Fucked Up than St. Sonny. Backed by his New Direction Unit (Kenji Mori [sax/flute/bass clarinet], Nobuyoshi Ino [bass/cello] Hiroshi Yamazaki [percussion]), "April" was originally slated to be released on thee Mighty ESP-Disk, but the label unfortunately folded before its release. From beginning to end of its nearly fifty minutes, JoJo coaxes heavily wah'd scratchy tones that morph into ungodly squawks effortlessly. Special mention should be made of Kenji Mori's contributions-- his flute/sax/bass clarinet transmissions are nothing more and nothing less than amplifications of Dolphy's work on "Other Aspects." Yes, he's that fucking good.

In comments.

A Night in Thursday

KAORU ABE - Mokuyôbi no Yoru

WARNING: The paint-peeling screech of Mr. Abe's alto sax has been known to circumcise goyim at 200 paces, shatter ovaries, generate spontaneous combustion of large and small rodents (depending upon the caloric intake of ironic-mustached hipster douchebag), why, it's even said that upon his first exposure to Abe's subsonic squawk, Anthony Braxton actually blinked!

All bullshitting aside, this live 1972 unaccompanied recording of Kaoru Abe finds him terrifying the (5? 6?) patrons of the small "Pit-Inn Tea Room" in Tokyo. Not to get all Zen 'n' shit, but the reaction seems to answer the answerless, such as, "what is the sound of one hand clapping?" In his short, tragic life, bewilderment & terror from anyone other than Masayuki Takayanagi was merely another day at the office. I've listened to this opus every morning over my Cheerios for the last few months (don't laugh-- I've done the same with Ascension and Spiritual Unity), and after initially being intrigued by the Ayler-esque "Military Marching Band From Hell" sections that blaze by in the wink of an eye, it soon began to dawn on me that I was listening to nothing more than one dude blasting away for nearly an hour without the safety net of collaborators... and wasn't bored for even a second! Guess there was plenty of demons in KA's tortured soul to, uh, "entertain" me (he died in 1978 at the age of 29 of a drug overdose).

Speaking of which, apparently there's a biopic out there called "Endless Waltz". Anybody seen it?

Still alive, still in comments.

Not. Dead. Yet.

LAST EXIT - Headfirst into the Flames: Live in Europe (1993)

So... it's been six months since I took my sabbatical from all things blog-related. Shit, I can't be bothered looking at/involving myself with much of anything on thee web. There's a glaringly obvious reason for this: Most people suck at the internet. Thus, to paraphrase Abbath of Immortal, "why let others rule when I can?" Does that mean I'm back to posting with the same frequency/fervor as in the past? Who fucking knows. That depends largely on the enthusiasm or lack thereof this return generates (not that I care if you leave comments or any such shit. I've long given up on garnering any appreciation other than being linked and dissected on all y'alls geeky little message boards).

For thee unaware, Last Exit was a noisy, free jazz/rock combo featuring Sonny Sharrock (guitar), Bill Laswell (bass), Peter Brotzmann (sax) and Ronald Shannon Jackson (drums). I'm not gonna waste a whole lotta spewage on this little gem. I've already prattled on at length on Sonny Sharrock, which will tell ya all ya need to know about how I feel about his axe-mauling, how little I like Bill Laswell (and his half-assed Bootsey imitations here do little to change my mind)... there might even be a word or three about Teutonic Sax Genius, Peter Brotzmann, somewhere. Anyway, "Headfirst" was recorded in Stockholm, Sweden and Munich, Germany in 1989. You wanna hear a shitload of Sharrock/Brotzmann duels with no studio niceties to fuck 'em up, doncha? Thought so.

In comments.

A Splice of Life

FACTRIX - Scheintot (1981)

As Thee Olde Adage goes, "if influence translated into record sales," (see: Underground, Velvet) San Francisco-based industrial pioneers woulda raked in some 'o the ducats pocketed by the likes of Throbbing Gristle and Cabaret Voltaire. As it is, they barely had a pot to piss in during their brief existence that lasted from 1978-83. Comprised of Bond Bergland, Cole Palme, and Joseph T. Jacobs, all of whom had done time in thee equally underrated avant-garde electronic outfit, Patrick Miller's Minimal Man, they would leave us with "Scheintot" and "California Babylon," a collaborative effort with Monte Cazazza, before vanishing forever.

Mebbe Ted Kaczynski, in his deluded, luddite way had a point-- technology does suck. With their manipulated tape loops, "found sounds" (tea kettles, pennywhistles and the like are credited as instruments), primitive synth-thud and buzzing moogs, Factrix still sound more groundbreaking--- but more importantly-- dangerous, than what passes for industrial music these daze. For example, "Ballad of the Grim Rider" (whatta title!) has an ethereal, yet churning mix of analog electronics and scraping, treated guitar that every one of those pathetic, digitized Marilyn Moronites should be striving for (alas, that would require far too much creativity on their parts, so I'll shaddap). And the vocals! Hazy, buried in the mix yet perfectly intelligible, they bring to mind the utterances of a disillusioned ghost railing against the stupidity of mortals... they ooze outta the din unlike any LP I've yet heard.

This is music best listened to when regaining yer bearings after a Lost Weekend. There's bottles of booze you don't remember drinking littering the living room, the ashtrays are overflowing and smoldering; mebbe even a few people sleeping on the floor whose names escape you... yet paradoxically, "Scheintot," in its otherworldly way, provides a psychological anchor to Terra Firma.

In comments.

Subterranean Cave Blues

LUSTMORD - Paradise Disowned (1983)

One of those people that like to fire up the neurons to awaken the amygdala deep in yer medial temporal lobes? It's ok-- humans enjoy being scared for whatever primal reason preprogrammed into our DNA... likely has something to do with our constant wrestlin' with our fragile mortality. Anyway, as much as I'd love to play shrink with y'all and continue in vain to dazzle with my half-understood fancy words, let's talk some 'bout Welshman Brian "Lustmord" Williams, the grandaddy of thee "dark ambient" subgenre. Here, kats n' kitties is an artist willing to walk that extra mile-- literally-- to stir up thee horrors lurking in yer subconscious.

Now a lotta artists like to refer to themselves as "underground," but how many of 'em actually recorded there? Mr. Williams has a leg up on the rest of 'em cuz that's exactly what he did for "Paradise Disowned"-- descended into subterranean locales like the crypt at Chartres Cathedral, Dunster Abattoir in Bangor and even the bottom of the fucking ocean! To further cause yer delicate little heart to beat a little faster, he utilizes infrasound-- frequencies below 20 Hz that are known to inspire dread in those exposed to 'em. Throw in treated field recordings of Tibetan horns and monk chants, and you've got thee perfect 3 a.m. album (should thou have thee proper constitution). Now that's what I call "underground" music!

In comments.


STABAT MATER - S/T Promo (Bootleg CD-R, 2001)

Finland's Mikko Aspa is one of my favorite people currently toiling away in thee extreme music scene today; actually, mebbe I should rephrase that as I've never actually MET the guy. I am in awe not only of his talents and sense of aesthetics, but of his work ethic as well. How prolific is he? Well, he's currently thee vocalist of Deathspell Omega, and is the sole member or contributes in one way or another to Clandestine Blaze, Grunt, Creamface, Nicole 12, Fleshpress, Clinic of Torture and Alchemy of the 20th Century among a half dozen others. He is also thee proprietor of black metal label Northern Heritage and power electronics imprint, Freak Animal. Ah yes, he also dabbles in your favorite, sticky little vice and mine: porn, as editor of "Erotic Perversions" magazine and owner of "Public Obscenities" video.

Some call Stabat Mater "funeral doom," which is a term I absolutely abhor-- it brings to mind alla those yawn-inducing, goth-inspired swillmeisters like Wormphlegm, Catacombs and Rigor Sandonicous, which aside from their equally slooow tempos, are too mired in perpetual suckage to be lumped alongside Stabat Mater. What I hear comes down to "you can take the boy outta power electronics, but you can't take power electronics outta the boy." Every slothful guitar riff sounds like it's been filtered through some form of electro-grime, encrusted in feedback-swirling filth. How sluggish is it? Let's just say ya got plenty o' time to pour another shot of Maker's in between chord changes. There is also extensive use of samples-- Gregorian chants, and most effectively, a would-be female victim screaming at the precise moment Aspa spews, in his heavily-treated gargle, thee chorus of "Give Them Pain."

These five tracks, although some of 'em have made thee rounds on comps and splits, were never supposed to see the light of day. According to thee version of thee saga that I've heard, Mikko gave a handful of copies to "friends" as a taster, only to discover it had been leaked all over "teh intrawebs" only days later. Oh well, with friends like those...

In comments.

Sister of Satan Praise Thee Lord

DIAMANDA GALÁS - Malediction and Prayer [1998]


Obviously the natural heir to Patty Waters' throne as Thee Seductress of Shriek, Diamanda Galás has made some of the most powerfully disturbing albums of the last two decades. I count her among my favorite artists of all-time, yet I must confess something: I very rarely play her music. And that's not a feeble attempt at being a wiseass-- I quite simply very seldom have the emotional commitment that should be mustered to wallow in her oppressive and demanding oeuvre. Her Gospels of Gloom are swaddled in a despair so thick, at times it feels as though you're been asphyxiated by the Cold Hand of Death itself. Hers is not an art form for the passive listener-- her works are best listened to in the clear thinking hours right before dawn, preferably alone with zero distractions.

"Malediction and Prayer" was recorded in various locales during Ms. Galás' November 1996 to June 1997 World Tour. Comprised of covers ranging from B.B. King ("The Thrill is Gone") to Phil Ochs ("Iron Lady") to Billie Holliday ("I'm Gonna Live the Life"), it is a barebones affair featuring only Galás' four-octave voice and her minimalist, classically-trained piano tinklin'-- and believe me, that's more than enough. Her golden throat is an instrument unto itself, capable of capturing immeasurable depths of melancholy as easily as dizzying heights of righteous anger. Particularly striking is her take on the Shel Silverstein-penned "25 Minutes to Go," a minor hit for Johnny Cash. Galás expunges the light-hearted black humor of the original, a novelty song about an outlaw awaiting his execution, leaving its skeletal remains as the funeral dirge its creator is unlikely to have ever imagined. She imbues the piece with such utter hopelessness that as each minute is counted down, the tension becomes nearly unbearable; by the time she's reached the inevitable conclusion, the breath of the hangman might as well be hideously caressing the back of yer neck. Needless to say, it's doubtful you'll be blasting this at the beach this summer.

In comments.

Bela Lugosi's Still Dead BUT...

THE GAULT - Even as All Before Us

San Francisco's John Gossard is one of the most baffling human icebergs plying his trade in the underground metal scene today. He's been involved with some excellent and much-lauded bands like Black Goat, Weakling (with Josh of the Fucking Champs) and currently doom behemoths Asunder, and yet you can count his songs on yer fingers and toes. It seems that in his world, everything needs to be grand, sweeping and EPIC. Not only that, but until Asunder released "Works Will Come Undone" last year, he seemed to have a phobia about appearing on a second release by any outfit with the same moniker. For those in the dark, his stellar guitar work encompasses the thunderous heaviosity of early Swans, the poetic mystique of Burzum and the "anything goes" inventiveness of Neurosis.

The Gault were formed in 1999 by Gossard and another ex-member of Weakling, drummer Sarah Weiner. They recruited bassist/vocalist Lorraine Rath (later of Amber Asylum) and enigmatic lead vocalist Ed "Dead" Kunakemakorn and became, in Gossard's words, "San Francisco's most hated band." Which ain't too hard to believe as the Gault were quite a stylistic U-turn from the ferocious, arty black metal Weakling peddled: they were a pure, no vampire bullshit allowed, goth rock band. Although Kunakemakorn's voice sounds almost unbearably like Peter Murphy (with a dash of Ian Curtis), with their free-form excursions into acid-fried yet corpse clammy experimentation, the long-forgotten outfit that comes most to mind is Arizona's Mighty Sphincter-- in fact, if ya were a fan of theirs, this LP will make yer undies nice 'n' creamy.

My Pick to Click is the 12-minute album centerpiece, "Country Road, Six Miles In." Gossard lays down a shimmering bed of heavily flanged/phased chords before taking off into an nigh psychedelic, apocalyptic netherworld of disjointed riffing-- kinda like free jazz if it'd been invented post-Joy Division-- laying the foundation for a perverse duet between Rath and Kunakemakorn. Rath's voice enters first, sounding timid, almost brittle, but gains power with every phrase until reaching into an operatic stratosphere not unlike the Cocteau Twins' Liz Fraser... positively gorgeous. Gorgeous that is until Ed Dead joins the fray with his cadaver croon. I'm telling ya kids, this dude sounds like one of the most tormented human beings to ever haunt this doomed mudball. Don't take my word for though, check it out...

In comments.


DEATH SS - In Death of Steve Sylvester [1988]

All youse hysterically lefty types can stop wringing yer manicured little paws right now-- the "SS" stands for Steve Sylvester, the band's vocalist, and hey, KISS approximated the Waffen-Schutzstaffel logo too... so fucking chill. Anyway, with that outta the way (why I continue to care I have no idea), here's the lowdown on Death SS: they were formed in 1977 in Pesaro, Italy by doom/psych guitar wizard Paul Chain and the aforementioned Mr. Sylvester, both of whom shared a love for B-horror flicks and Alice Cooper. They recorded a slew of great singles & EP's with a crude, garage-metal sound and took to stages with each member dressed up as different monsters (Vampire, Mummy, Werewolf etc.), until Chain got religion, causing 'em to disband in 1984 (actually, he already had religion, but it was that of a Satanic Sect; word is he'd conducted a few black masses and that kinda shit).

Steve Sylvester resurrected the band in 1988 with all new members: Christian Wise (guitar), Kurt Templar (guitar), Erik Landley (bass) and Boris Hunter (drums). It is this lineup that recorded this LP, their first official full-length. All of the tracks-- with the exception of the Alice Cooper cover, "I Love the Dead," natch-- are re-recordings of material on those fabled early works. Powered by Sylvester's insectival invocations ("unique" doesn't even begin to describe his voice), Death SS Mk.II added some (very) slight sophistication to their sound, incorporating malevolent keyboard texturing, razor-sharp thrashy guitar riffing and an obsession with dank, claustrophobic atmosphere. They still exist today albeit as a Gothic Club-Boy band with Sylvester as the only constant-- playing to legions of fuckwits wearing musty capes with their canine teeth filed into fangs and one of Anne Rice's Harlequin Romances disguised as a bloodsucker epics cradled tight to their breasts.

In comments.

YAY! Bonus Album!! (or over-ambitiousness, I dunno)


ZESS - Et In Arcadia Ego [2004]

In my neverending quest to stay within Uncle Frank Zappa's theorem of Conceptual Continuity, I present to thee yet another Italian combo-- in this case, one utterly and completely influenced by the one I just finished beating my gums about. This outfit is shrouded in mystery, but what I do know about 'em is that they split in 1988, recorded the material contained here between 1987-88, and that their membership was Mercy (Vocals), Lord Ruthven (Guitar), Dr. Polidori (Guitar), Dr. Freudstein (Bass) and F. Rosenkrantz (Drums & Synth). They were obviously heavily enamored with Paul Chain-era Death SS, right down to the ultra-kooky vox and B-movie obsessions. But why oh why would ya need a clone band of Death SS, you ask? Well... there ain't many of 'em for starters, which makes this platter an oddity already, but what really matters is that they manage to outdo the Old Masters at times. Great gargantuan riffs St. Vitus' Dave Chandler would be proud of, as well as reckless, wah'd guitar solos every bong-huffing stoner or self-righteous doomer will instantly fall in love with. Whatever, I expect about 15 of y'all TOTAL to take the plunge with what I've presented here, so until next time...

Dig the comments, doofus.

Chromosome Damage Thee IIIrd

CHROME - 3rd from the Sun (1982)

Since I've already scribed plenty of pointless gibberish about Helios Creed, Damon Edge & Co. here and here, might as well get straight to the seven-horned beast that is "3rd from the Sun." From a personal standpoint, I consider it their magnum opus-- most likely this stems from the fact that I'm a distorto-guitar loony, and this monster is a Helios Creed album to the nth degree. It is also about as "commercial" as Chrome ever got, with stripped-down arrangements that although not completely excised of their sci-fi obsessions, aim mainly at creating big ol' fat gloom-laden rock.

Recorded live in the studio, most tracks are built around singular riffs that are bent into surreal forms with Creed's arsenal of effects, though never quite into the burnt-out oblivion of earlier albums. Damon Edge's blissed out Moog excursions are toned down, though still integral to the overall band dynamic, which by now included the Stenchs: John (drums) and Hillary (bass, who also provides some ethereal backing vox). Of particular note is the album's centerpiece, the eight-minute "Armageddon," which takes you where Hawkwind feared to tread: a multi-layered workout of treated guitar squall, "found sound" electronic detritus and a seemingly infinite chant of the song's title. A definitive hunk o' Chromology.

In comments.


RAMLEH - Blowhole (1991)


Croydon, UK's Ramleh began life in 1982 as a power electronics outfit á la Whitehouse; their vokillist Phillip Best would in fact become a member in the mid-90's for "Cruise," "Mummy & Daddy" and "Bird Seed." Along with guitarist Gary Mundy, they pulled the kinda stunts that are now all too familiar to fans of the form-- including releasing a cassette ("21/5/62/82") to commemorate the execution of Nazi war criminal, Adolf Eichmann (they have since disavowed their flirtations with extreme right wing ideology). Their label, Broken Flag Records, became an early home for Matthew Bower's avant guitar project Skullflower-- which Mundy began contributing to-- laying the foundation for the direction Ramleh would pursue in their nineties incarnation.

If you can imagine what Killing Joke's "Fall of Because" would sound like had it been infused with the headswirling lysergic dirge-sludge of Skullflower's "IIIrd Gatekeeper," you have a tenuous, though not entirely inaccurate picture of the murk presented on "Blowhole." Best's vocals are buried deep in the mix, sounding like desperate screams from the bottom of a well while Mundy provides colossal layers of super-fuzzed glop that shift in levels of intensity and distortion. This heady combo is punctuated by tribal beats courtesy of what sounds like synthetic thud, though one can never be sure with the clinical production applied here. As far as I know, this was an LP-only release that has yet to see the light of day on the oh-so-popular digital format, so get yer fave volatile cocktail nearby and suck it up...

In thee comments.

Pretty Ugly

CROMAGNON - Orgasm

Yeah sure, everybody prattles on about these so-called "fucked up" records alla time to the point where the term loses its edge entirely. Is it REALLY fucked up, or does it merely offend the sensibilities of the same twits who have built little Ikea record collections based on MTV or "hipness"? Shit, some people think Ween or John Zorn is/was way out there, whereas I find them to be disposable pap that stole its soul from early Zappa (former) or Carl Stalling's work on Warner Bros. cartoons (latter). Which brings me to an album that truly IS fucked up: Cromagnon's ORGASM. Before I go too deep into scribing here, for history's sake I'll point out that this sucka appeared in 1968 on ESP-disk, mavericks among mavericks in the musick biz. They brought us Sun Ra's HELLIOCENTRIC WORLDS, the first two Fugs platters, Albert Ayler's SPIRITUAL UNITY, and of course, the entire catalog of proto-punk heroes, the Godz.

Now, when you stick needle into groove that is opener, "Caledonia," you'll immediately think you're listening to Einstürzende Neubauten gone black metal... then you'll realize you're WRONG and that there were no reference points such as that available in 1968. Geezus! Is that an army of bagpipes making that infernal racket??! Wow! The next track, "Ritual Feat of the Libido," is simply "Caledonia" slowed down to 1/3 speed; it makes yer hands kinda clammy... music shouldn't scare ya right? Especially not the kind made by two guys who useta write bubblegum hits that woulda make Herman's Hermits blush??! Ooops! Shouldn't listen to those voices in your head: not only is it possible, that's exactly what's happenin'. And who are these mantra-chanting freaks cryptically referred to as their "Connecticut Tribe"? OK, you can't see me, but I'm shrugging my shoulders nervously...

Dare thou look in thee comments? Dare thou leave one?


BASTARD NOISE - Sound Engine

Coexisting alongside mothership act, power-violence pioneers Man Is the Bastard since 1991, Bastard Noise became the main focus of Eric "Throatrake" Wood with MItB's dissolution in 1997. The project originally was a collective of various members with Wood as the only constant-- but over time was pared down to thee Dynamic Duo of Wood and John Wiese (who has recently been replaced with Agoraphobic Nosebleed's Jay Randall), known for his work with Sissy Spacek (not the actress) and Heavy Seals (among countless other one-off ventures and collaborations). "Sound Engine" is a collection of works recorded between 2001-02.

Thee Noise's brand of aural rape is a perfect gateway to full-on degeneracy for those interested in dipping their pinky toe into the scree cesspool. That's not to say they won't/don't appeal to tinnitus-afflicted veterans; simply that their use of dynamics and complex layering techniques make 'em a little more palatable to the virgin ear than, say, the merciless onslaught of Government Alpha or early Merzbow. Opener "A Pedestal to Support the Invaders" is a collaboration with Jesus Philben aka Chris Dodge, founder of Slap-a-Ham Records, and ex-guitarist for Spazz and No Use for a Name. It could almost be considered an ambient piece if not for the unnerving blasts of feedback that cut in and out between warm, low-end tones. Still, nothin' that the average fan of "Sister Ray" shouldn't find relatively digestible. The same cannot be said about "Killing Stick-Men" which, despite beginning with some subtle drones, quickly devolves into inhuman shrieks that will test your endurance for high frequencies-- again though, no big whoop, 'tis but three and a half minutes long.

To these ears, thee pièce de résistance is "Human Denial," a collaboration by mail with Japanoise Terrorist, Guilty Connector, aka Kohei Nakagawa. The only track to feature Ol' Throatrake's patented grunts, the piece is fulla twists and turns without descending into chaos. Expect the unexpected here-- subtle ringing tones that could ALMOST be described as beautiful give way to ever-building gobs of distortion with expertly executed panning bringing different light/dark elements in 'n' out of the foreground. If this cut doesn't bring you over to the dark side, you're either a big ol' puss or a hopeless case, I'm afraid. Or worst of all, somehow convinced you're "well-adjusted"... hahahaha!

In comments for those made of sterner stuff.

Atom Bomb, Baybee

SACRILEGE (UK) - Turn Back Trilobite (1989)


I make no bones about it: "Turn Back Trilobite" is my favorite Sacrilege album. It took years for it to cement its place in my heart-- in fact, I absolutely despised it until about five years ago. Certainly it was a shock to the earholes-- I mean, here I was thinking it would be an extension of the powerful, progressive thrash they'd began tinkering with on 1987's "Within the Prophecy"; instead it's ...a doom metal album. And not a fake doom album-- full-on Candlemass-style doom packed with melodrama and grandeur (or "fairytale metal" as Erich would call it).

I think a lotta my initial difficulty with it stemmed from thee lovely Lynda "Tam" Simpson's vox-- her voice sounds flat and uninspired until you allow yourself to succumb to the epic song structures and crushing riffs that surround it. Now, I can't imagine another singer alive or dead that could tackle this material with more verve or emotional intensity. "Father Time (Beneath the Gaze)" is filled with jarring stop/start riffage that tugs ya in several directions at once-- recalling Confessor's experiments in technique-driven doom on "Condemned." Though it could use a less clandestine chorus, Tam's impassioned tenor manages to keep it from tumbling into the atmosphere for the sake of atmosphere abyss. "Into the Sea of Tranquility" is where she truly shines, 12 minutes of Pure Majesty. Axe-master Damian Thompson slowly unravels an ominous barrage of Iommian power chords that veer off into melancholy acoustic interludes while Tam croons, coos and barks with results both bombastic and heartbreaking... a tour de force, by any measure.

Look in comments.


SCIENTISTS (AUS) - The Human Jukebox (1984-86)


As much as I love the fact that the Beasts of Bourbon are still unleashing killer slabs of scuzzy R&R, I can't help but miss the loopy idiosyncrasies of their founder/guitarist, Mr. Kim Salmon. The bloodcurdling gobs of sculpted noise, the murder-obsessed lyrics... that intangible weirdness they so embodied in days past departed with him. Of course, it took many years of slugging it out in Western Australia's remote capitol, Perth, to realize that vision. He is widely considered Perth's first punker, having formed the Cheap Nasties in 1976 (sadly unrecorded), and from there on to a slot with the Exterminators (also sans recordings). The Scientists began as a Kinks-inspired, power pop outfit in 1978; but since that is not the version of the band I'm presenting to y'all, you can read all about the incestuous memberships that included luminaries from other legendary Aussie bands (Hoodoo Gurus, Victims, Johnny's etc) here.

What we got here is the --at least to me-- classic version of the band featuring Salmon (vox/guitar), Boris Sudjovic (bass), Tony Thewlis (lead guitar) and Brett Rixon (drums first 9 tracks; replaced by Phil Hertz and Nick Combe). This is the lineup that took the Cramps' reverb-soaked deconstruction of trash culture and fused it with the stark minimalism of Suicide while tossing away any self-indulgent tendencies of either; then filtered the final product through Australian swamp water. This collection combines their "You Get What You Deserve" EP and the "Human Jukebox" mini-album.

There's no shortage of clueless "hip" types that'll try'n blame these guys for the grunge movement-- don't listen to 'em. After a quick spin of "Atom Bomb Baby" you'll know the likes of Mark Lanegan or Kurt Cobain coulda never torn themselves away from their self-conscious navel-gazing long enough to rock so righteously. This is music made outta pure desperation: four young thugs with no money in their pockets and violence in their hearts.

In comments, dumbass.

4 Shocking Terror

ZENI GEVA - 10,000 Light Years

For the umpteenth time I'm simply gonna plagiarize myself: Tokyo's three-man demolition unit known as Zeni Geva sound like Slayer with their nuts on fire. KK Null's geetar-shreddin' and commanding bellow will pummel you into whimpering subservience. He fires off relentless salvos of distortion-caked licks that owe as much to Masayuki Takayanagi's inhuman excursions into skronk as they do to Chuck Schuldiner's most unhinged work with Death ("Scream Bloody Gore" for instance). For people who care about such things, Steve Albini consistently works with these guys-- my guess is because it's the closest he'll ever come to brushing against True Greatness. Speaking of which, I'll sum up by nicking a line from thee brilliant Jaz Coleman: "This is music to march to."

In comments.


GRAVE/DEVIATED INSTINCT/DEVOLUTION - Split CD


The rarest of "splits" (doesn't split mean half? I guess "third" sounds kinda stupid)-- one where all three bands involved deliver gasp-inducing, ear-ravaging assaults. First up, we've got Visby, Sweden's Grave. They are nothing less than a death metal institution, releasing album after album of mid-paced, crushing riffage and guttural vox since 1988. Although they've never quite reached the hallowed status of peers/countrymen like Entombed and Dismember, to these ears, they've been far more consistent. The four skull-smashers featured here are embryonic versions of classics that appeared on an 1989 promo disc, as well as various singles. They would re-emerge, fully formed, on the landmark LP, "Into the Grave" and their bruising live set, "Extremely Rotten Live." That trademark buzzsaw guitar sound so closely associated with Scandi-Death of the era is already developed, even at this early stage.

Next, we have Norwich, UK's foremost "Stenchcore" (apparently cuz standing in too close of proximity to these lads was not kind to the proboscis) purveyors, Deviated Instinct. These tracks made their debut originally on the "Nailed" EP-- in fact, D.I. weren't on the vinyl version of this slab, but for whatever reason were added to the CD press. They had, by this point, all but abandoned their unique brand of sloppy hardcore (heard to best effect on the "Rock & Roll Conformity" LP), for a more metallic, Celtic Frost/Hellhammer approach-- vocalist Rob "Mid" Middleton even approximates Tom G. Warrior's "Auugghh's" and "Heeeey's". Go see the lovely & talented Irish Dave for more-- he might even spin a yarn or two about 'em for ya.

Lastly we have another trio of blokes from the UK (Comer Gardens, Worcester, to be precise), short-lived thrash/death combo, Devolution. The three cuts on display here are their entire recorded output-- supposedly the countless delays to bring this release to fruition left 'em pretty disenchanted with the biz. They bring to mind Holland's godly Asphyx-- although vocalist Neumeier can't begin to compare with the strangulated croak of Martin Van Drunen (no one can), they supply some occasionally technically-minded thrash tempered with the more bombastic elements of old school death metal. A pity they didn't stick around-- woulda been interesting to see what they (d)evolved into.

The Goods:

Grave
1. Into the Grave
2. Reborn Miscarriage
3. Eroded
4. Putrefaction Remains
Deviated Instinct
5. Open Wound
6. Slow Death Suck
7. Void
8. Listen to the Sirens
Devolution
9. Mediocracy
10. Negate (This Aftermath)
11. Condemnation/Manipulation

Duh- In comments.

Pantheon

Every so often I think I'll keep adding to this "pantheon": the albums that have become so deeply ingrained in my psyche, that to be without 'em would likely cause a nervous collapse. Yes, I love everything I post here-- in fact, I love music much more than I do myself, and the human species in general. But-- there's completely different levels of love; not everything you listen to is gonna make ya glad to be alive while simultaneously ripping out yer innards. So, whenever you see the word "pantheon" in the title, yer gettin' the very best stuff I can yank outta my collection.


SONNY SHARROCK - Black Woman (1969)


What's a young Coltrane fan to do when he has such crippling asthma that playing the sax is outta the question? In Sonny Sharrock's case, he picked up a guitar and applied similar phrasing to create his own "sheets of sound." He appeared on landmark jazz albums like Pharaoh Sanders' "Tauhid," and "Izipho Zam," made a mindblowing cameo on Miles Davis' "Tribute to Jack Johnson" and played extensively with Herbie Mann. In fact, it was Mann who secured the studio time and contract with Vortex Records that led to this LP, Sharrock's debut as band leader.

Almost as striking as Sonny's rapid fire clusters of notes is his then-wife Linda's orgasmic moans and agonized shrieks that bear more than a little resemblance to Patty Waters' deconstruction of "Black is the Color" (scroll down a few posts) four years previous. I have no idea what state their relationship was in at the time of this recording, but I'd guess it was in constant flux. On the title track, axe and vox combine to create an epic, anthemic sound; on "Peanut," they push and prod each other, extracting a disjointed call-and-response hymn unlike anything recorded before or since.

More Sonny here.

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TIM BUCKLEY - Starsailor (1970)


Tim Buckley had already begun to alienate his folkie fanbase with "Lorca" a few months earlier-- what the hell was up with this golden-voiced disciple of Fred Neil? Why would he release an album filled with meandering free jazz-like structures and vocal gymnastics that made it sound as though he was being disemboweled? Well, if they wuz bewildered by "Lorca," "Starsailor" musta felt like a kick in the groin. Not only was it a continuation of the avant garde themes which in hindsight, he'd barely scratched, it was a full-on operetta revolving around the pit of anguish that burned in his guts; he also began to fully utilize the five and a half octave vocal range he had at his disposal.

I'm gonna hazard a guess that Buckley had been listening intently to Leon Thomas-- particularly his work with Pharaoh Sanders on "Karma." He liberally borrows Thomas' conventional-croon-to-absurd-yodel on several tracks, most notably "Monterey," a dissonant Voodoo Blues that conjures a vibe equal parts atavistic ritual and sleazy mating call. Bunk Gardner, late of the Mothers of Invention, provides some Ornette-esque sax squawk, further pushing the song into uncharted territory-- at least for the early 1970's zeitgeist. "Moulin Rouge" is a brief slice of Franco-Pop that coulda easily been recorded by Edith Piaf-- I only mention it as it is one of the few cuts that provides a respite from the suffocating melancholy and bordering on psychedelic experimentation that makes up the rest of the LP. For instance, the ethereal title track is akin to  smoking far too much DMT, only to discover that instead of encountering the promised elves hiding in the artificial netherworld, you find yourself surrounded by bloodthirsty, shapeless abominations far outside the realms of HP Lovecraft's worst nightmares. Lee Underwood's stellar guitar work also deserves a nod. His connection with Buckley borders on preternatural-- be it the spare, mournful licks he uses to accompany Tim's wounded wail on the oft-covered/butchered "Song to the Siren," or the majestic, fleet-fingered riffs that double Buckley's vocal on "Come Here Woman."

If you're new to the elder Buckley, this may not be the best place to start. I'd recommend "Dream Letter: Live in London" for virgins, as well as for fans of his offspring, a certain Jeff.

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Land of the Relentless Thud

KEIJI HAINO - Tenshi No Gijinka

What could be more logical than an artist renowned for his avant-guitar histrionics than to release an album comprised entirely of free-form percussion and wordless chants? OK, I may be wrong about that-- mebbe his intonations are in Swahili or even Zeuhl for that matter; which is about to the extent that I can decipher a single syllable. Then again, I've always likened Keiji Haino's music to a aural version of William S. Burroughs' "Naked Lunch"-- yunno how you can begin reading it from back to front, from the middle forward or backwards and it still makes an odd kind of sense? Well, ya can do that with Haino's work as well, and it too makes sense-- albeit not in the humdrum linear fashion the human brain normally processes (I have no idea what I meant either).

Feel free to throw alla yer Goblin and Jacula albums-- with the dark, ritualistic atmosphere conjured here, you won't need music that was actually designed to sound ghoulish... Haino accomplishes that without lifting a blackened fingernail. If you subscribe to primitive concepts like the X-ian version of "good" and "evil," this opus falls on the latter side of the spectrum. That's not to say there isn't an arcane beauty to "Tenshi," simply that it'll take several listens for it to fully envelop yer already unbalanced and tortured psyche. Strangest of all is the fact that Keiji's upper-register vocal wailings sound almost exactly like King Diamond (wonder if he ever dons kabuki make-up?)-- no foolin'! I'm sure it makes an odd kinda sense in his mind.

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METALUCIFER - Heavy Metal Drill

I know, I know: here he goes again with that metal bullshit. Well... too goddamn bad-- I happen to love the stuff, and since this is my blog, here's some more for the few of y'all that throw the horns on a regular basis. Metalucifer are an offshoot of Sabbat-- the Hellhammer/Sodom worshippin' black-thrashers from Kuwana, Japan. Much like the j-pcore we regularly celebrate here at SLN, Nippon metal is often twisted into nigh unrecognizable mutant strains notable for larynx-shreddin' vox, chaotic tempos and layers of penetrating noise taken to extremes their forebears never envisioned. Metalucifer ain't one of 'em, though: they be rooted firmly in the Manowar/Judas Priest/Maiden school. The lyrics enshrine the genre itself-- in fact, the first three tracks feature the hallowed words, "heavy metal" in their titles. I'm sure lotsa ya consider that cheesy or dated; me, I love it-- I'm always pleased to find a band that are dedicated to keeping the faith (CRUSH THE POSERS!!). Most importantly (as always), the riffs are fantastic and the guitar harmonies? Well, let's just say that I haven't heard such immaculate, melodic shredding since the Thin Lizzy Robertson/Gorham tag-team's antics on "Live & Dangerous."

Hey! All five of you headbangers: Look in comments!

Lou-Ney Toonz and the Damage Done

LOU REED - Metal Machine Music

Forget the Velvet Underground, disregard the androgynous dude rappin' about junkies and transvestites on "Transformer"-- Lou Reed woulda been a visionary if this opus were his only contribution to popular "culture." Y'see, in his infinite wisdom, Lou recognized that our society was heading towards complete & total depersonalization. Think about it: you come to sites like this to get music-- you can't be bothered to actually interact with a buncha creeps at a record store, can ya? In fact, at least 90 % of you won't so much as leave a comment or even read this post, for that matter-- and I'm not bitchin', simply happens to be a fact. What could be more impersonal than that except to mebbe create an album that involves minimal input from flesh & blood? Turn on the amps, lean the guitar up against 'em, set some levels and walk away to cop some speed or junk or whatever the hell Reed's drug of choice was that week. And yet, as if he knew how valued "user friendliness" would be in this anti-society, he created an album that, almost paradoxically, provided/provides that too in spades.

What could be more user friendly than a product that allows you to remove all the existential detritus that accumulates on your cerebral cortex? All that angst that needs to be blasted away like infantile spray-painted musings on a wall by a high-pressure hose? Think of all of the times humanoids have disappointed you-- their lies, their cowardice. The quirks they possess that make you wanna smack 'em across the room; the pettiness they exhibited that resulted in what seemed like eons of meaningless bickering... and that's to say nothing of your own foibles-- was it really a particularly good idea to ignore the countless knocks of opportunity at your door so that you had more time to satisfy the needs of some wretched creature? All of those times you coulda spoken up but instead, due to the dread of ridicule, or apathy, curled up like a worm in a bonfire... almost as embarrassing as a pimply Jr. High picture, ain't it? But never fear: "Metal Machine Music," despite its reputation as noise for the sake of noise is nothing if not cozy. It is, in fact, Soul Solvent.

Return to the Womb Therapy awaits in the comments.


THROBBING GRISTLE - The First Annual Report

And here is the first generation of Lou's Children-- I woulda thought they were METAL MACHINE MUSIC's Children, but after hearing this, their intentionally held back first LP from the same year (1975), I see they were well ahead of the curve. The de facto birth of industrial music. All of the signifiers/devices are in place: the celebration of Serial Killer as Superstar, the "anti-music" stance is already fully developed with abrasive blasts of manipulated tape loops and analog synth scree; the dalliance with extreme rightist propaganda-- yup, it's all here.

Opener "Very Friendly" chronicles the lives of Ian Brady & Myra Hindley, Britain's infamous Moors Murderers with loving and lurid detail, while a foreboding pulse of static seemingly counts down each victim with glee. I'm so desensitized that at certain points I can't help but stifle a giggle (and I very much doubt I'm in the minority), but all the laughing stops when Gen P-Orridge's mantra, "there's been a m-m-m-murder" is looped for the final four minutes of this eighteen minute, depraved epic. Truly creepy beyond description. "Dead Bait" anticipates the minimalist techno all the young kiddies would be pawing each other with their lil noggins fulla E to, complete with sampled vinyl crackles 'n' pops; "Whorle of Sound," is easily the most corrosive cut-- an impenetrable wall of white noise comprised of shrieking toxic sludge. Cosey's guitar sounds equally inhuman, becoming one with the ear-piercing frequencies and subsonic burps-- undoubtedly the blueprint for "Wall of Sound," which appeared on their 1993 box set.

Cane yourself in the comments.

Fasten Yer Earholes

PATTY WATERS - Sings (1966)

This place needs an estrogen injection-- not sure why I've neglected the bearers of mammalian protuberances, but I will attempt to remedy the situation here and now, without resorting to Lilith Fair-style lameness (hahaha, like that'd ever happen). Anyway, here's what you need to know about the lovely & talented Ms. Waters:

1. She was recommended to ESP-Disk by none other than Albert Ayler after catching her performance at some long-forgotten club in Greenwich Village.

2. She only recorded this 1966 LP, and one other for ESP-Disk ("College Tour"), before seemingly falling offa the face of the Earth. This changed in 2005 when she re-emerged with a live album called "Happiness is a Thing Called Joe."

3. She has the voice of a Goddess.

Very seldom has an album cover belied the sounds contained within as does the tranquil image of Patty that adorns this LP-- at least if yer talkin' 'bout Side 2 (see kiddies, we useta have this thing called "vinyl" you hadda flip over that was split into halves we called "sides."). The first handfulla tracks are basic torch songs complete with woozy tempos and Waters' husky, sultry voice. The kinda stuff Lady Day Herself'd be proud of-- I even tend to slow my Maker's Mark guzzlin' to a savorin' sip (no pinky sticking out though). By all accounts a seemingly shy, unassuming lady, it's almost as though Patty was was embarrassed of her gorgeous croon... at times it is little more than a whisper-- like she wanted to disappear into the sparse instrumentation. Beautiful stuff no question, light another cigarette, watch the smoke curl in the air blahblahblah. Then you get to "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair"...

Let's try this scenario: you're stretched out on a hammock in some isolated little paradise, feeling the balmy air caressing yer wage slavery-ravaged carcass. Relaxation has enveloped ya so completely, yer eyelids begin fluttering... you're entering the throes of REM sleep. As a a contented sigh escapes yer lips, you feel the thrust of an icepick into yer rectal cavity-- turns out some deranged, droolin' psychopath has been lying in wait underneath, wanting to catch ya at yer most vulnerable. Yes, "Black Is the Color" is THAT jarring.

The only way to describe the anguished shrieks, improvised mantras and overall descent into madness that Waters tears from her guts is courageous. All boundaries are not only crushed, but spat and pissed upon. There is little to no semblance of meter, key or "proper" phrasing. Simply "Black Blllaaack Blackkkk BLLLAACCCKKKK!!!" bent to her will, and unlike many practitioners of vocal acrobatics, this is no ego-driven attempt to impress with her range. It is more like an exorcism-- a purging of the demons I can only begin to speculate existed in the mind of the-then 19 year-old Iowa native. I'll give the last word to one of her more prominent followers:

"People ask me (about) my influences, I would have to say Patty Waters. They say other people and I say, Nahh, Patty Waters, listen to Patty Waters. I listened to her twice. That's all it took for some grain of inextricable influence." -- Diamanda Galás

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HIGH RISE - Live (1993)


Ever wonder what it sounds like when icebergs collide? Me neither, but it seemed like a cool thing to type-- regardless, I'm gonna take a wild stab that it'd be almost as deafening as Munehiro Nirita's guitar. He is the foremost torchbearer of the pulverizing, sheets of feedback-squall-laden axe-slinging as pioneered by Les Rallizes Denudes' Mizutani Takashi. Sure, Asahito Nanjo's (also of Mainliner) bass and Yuro Ujiie's drumming are impressive and cataclysmic 'n' all that, but it's Nirita's unglued six-string antics that leave my mouth agape time and again. And what better way to experience his inventive wailing than in a warts-n-all live setting?

Answer: None.

Truth is, as great as this Japanese Power Trio's studio concoctions are, they don't hold a bottle of Sake to this live document. With infinite space to improvise, unshackled from the cold, clinical atmosphere of the world of knobs and dials (except the ones that go to 11), their sound grows from being merely mammoth to monolithic. By far the ultimate way to experience this incredible band.

Look in comments-- and how about making like Munehiro's geetar and leaving some feedback!

LSD MARCH - Shindara Jigoku

2004 LP-only release from Japanese multi-instrumentalist Shinsuke Michishita & Crew-- this time it's Masami Kawaguchi (guitar, whom you may remember from Aihiyo) and ex-Fushitsusha drummer Ikuro Takahashi. Seems every LSD March album I buy is boldly emblazoned with thee legend: Picks up where the Velvet Underground and Les Rallizes Denudes left off! Which has some merit on a superficial level-- there's some feedback-ridden squawk here 'n' there, and Michishita's flat monotone of a voice occasionally brings to mind a young Lou Reed-- but what I find myself most enraptured by is the all-pervasive sense of melancholy. (Are you Japanese people okay? Yer getting your daily allowance of minerals 'n' shit, right?) Seriously, this stuff'll pull down yer shutters for ya even if the sun is blazing outside. It can be a bit too much at times; Occasionally the band slips into some of the most tuneless grooves this side of Jandek-- but since I like Jandek, you can take that however ya want.

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Your License Has Been Revoked, Comrade

PLASTIC PEOPLE OF THE UNIVERSE - Egon Bondy's Happy Hearts Club Banned

Y'know, for years I always thought the "Velvet Revolution" was when Lou Reed wrote "Sister Ray." Turns out there was a little more to it than that (though that was pretty damn revolutionary). See, in former Communist Czechoslovakia, ya needed a "license to rock," if ya weren't playing "State-Approved" swill that'd embarrass Dean Martin. Needless to say, Prague's Plastic People of the Universe didn't play that shit, had their R&R privileges revoked, and were thrown in jail. The band themselves wanted nothing more than to be famous for playing the music that they loved; they had no desire to be revolutionaries. However, after their arrests, an entire community of dissidents sprung up around the band, many of whom-- like future Czech President Vaclav Havel-- would be instrumental in the overthrow of communist rule.

Formed in 1968 as a Fugs/Velvets cover band by bassist Milan Hlavsa, they were approached by art historian and cultural critic Ivan Jirous, who convinced them to concentrate on writing original material-- he also became their manager (he had Warholian aspirations), hiring Paul Wilson, a Canuck teacher stationed in Prague, to translate their lyrics into English. Wilson, who became their vocalist from 1970-72, encouraged them to revert to their native tongue before his departure. Taking his advice to heart, they began working on a series of songs based around the words of Egon Bondy, a Czech poet/philosopher whose work had recently been banned by the government. Thus, Hlavsa, with bandmates Vratislav Brabenec (sax), Josef Janíček (guitars/keys), Jiří Kabeš (violin/viola) and Jan Brabec (drums) entered the studio in 1974 to record this LP, their first "proper" release.

More than two decades has not diminished the Freak Appeal of "Banned"-- as steeped in Eastern European Classical composers as it in the Mothers/Fugs/VU triumvirate . This is doom-laden music infused with black humor and impeccable musicianship. Opener "20" with its Van Vliet-like meter sets the tone:

Today when one is twenty
He would vomit with repulsion

But those of forty even more
Would puke in sheer revulsion

Only those of sixty have it easier
They sleep in peace with their amnesia

"Toxica" has a spider-running-across-the-fretboard guitar solo that dukes it out with some wigged-out theremin abuse-- two-tone squalls of sound battling for skronk supremacy. "Okolo Okna," features a sinister bass line augmented by some positively creepy violin-sawing that resembles Jean-Luc Ponty-- if he'd ever been taught the art of restraint. Brabenec's demented, Peter Brötzmann-esque saxophone excursions will liquefy your gray matter immediately-- not only is his work on par with any "free" player you care to name, his hellacious honking is soaked in reverb, giving it a detached, otherworldly quality not captured before or since.

PPU would disband in 1988, with some members forming Pulnoc. Their visionary leader, Milan Hlavsa, died in 2001 of lung cancer, aged 50.

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VARIOUS - Surfbeat Behind the Iron Curtain

Another example of musicians in need of a "license to rock," this compilation, part of the "Planetary Pebbles" series, has a title that is a bit misleading: Not only is this not really surf music, a sizable chunk o' the artists featured aren't/weren't from Commie-ruled lands. So you end up with a Battle Royale of early 60's Eastern and Western World musicians enamored of the Ventures and pristine, Joe Meek-style production -- especially the Tornados' "Telstar". Many of the Eastern Bloc entries are also the most absorbing-- in particular, Czechoslovakia's Slava Kunst Orchestra's "Lucifer in Coelis," one of the most deranged ditties recorded in ANY era. It has not so much a lead vocal as a narration, that brings to mind Mike Myers' "Sprockets" character, underlaid with blasting horns and alien, gypsy-like folk melodies adapted for fuzz guitar. East Germany's Thunderbirds serve up a heapin' helpin' of ultra-compressed, Duane Eddy-style twang on "African Guitar," and Poland's Alarm contribute some groovy, ivory-tinklin' fun on "Nocny Alarm."

Tracks:

1. Pe Linga Plopee Fara Sot - Sincron
2. Beginning Of Autumn - Capras
3. Theme From Unfinished Symphony - Bunnys
4. Komandosi - Black 'N' Whites
5. The Saint - Eliminators
6. Return Of Gemini - Mefisto
7. Sputniks Thema - Die Sputniks
8. African Guitar - Thunderbirds
9. Nocny Alarm - Alarm
10. Crazy Guitars - Boomerangs
11. Leicht Verdreht - Trocadero Sextett
12. The Bumble Beat - Orchester Charles Blackwell
13. Corso - Klaus Lenz Sextett
14. Lucifer In Coelis - Slava Kunst Orchestra
15. Twistin Safari - Thunderbirds
16. Aladin - Theo Schumann Combo
17. Take Blya Moja - Black 'N' Whites
18. In Gara La Leordeni - Sincorn
19. Werwo's Rock - Gisha Brothers
20. Colorado - The Constellations
21. Javalins Rock - Javalins
22. Melodie Fur Barbara - Franke Echo Quintett
23. Wipe Out! - Eliminators
24. The Coach - Karel Duba & His Guitar Men

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Chromosome Damage Too

HELIOS CREED - Busting Through the Van Allen Belt

I often picture Helios Creed in a cavernous, underground laboratory wearing a lab coat while he conducts his experiments with assorted varieties of alien technology-- of course, these technologies include drugs not available from Rudy on the street corner. Nah, I'm talkin' extreme chemical alterations of the brain that allow him to tap into, and in fact, become one with his vast arsenal of gadgetry. I only mention this because unlike so many others that rely so heavily on machines, Creed never sounds like anything less/more than flesh and blood. For example, even though synthetic percussion is employed for the first half of this album-- quite cheapo thud at that-- it never sounds like loops... it's more like listening to someone pounding away with their fists on the defenseless drum pads. Helios likes to show them hapless contraptions who's boss.

The second half is live tracks recorded from Austin, Texas to San Francisco to Switzerland with "real" musicians. Longtime collaborators Z Sylver (keys) and Paul Della Pelle (drums) show up for three cuts and the final two tracks feature the Weiss brothers, Andrew (bass, also of Ween/ex-Rollins Band) and Jon (drums). Most interesting of all is Nik Turner lending some of his patented sax-bleating to "Hyperventilation," along with fellow past and present members of Hawkwind-- Del Dettmar (synth), Len Del Rio (keys), Grenas (guitar) and Paul Fox (bass). Despite the various confederates, this LP is a personal favorite for its cohesiveness-- it's the first of his solo efforts to dive head-first back into the science-fictionalized goop Chrome left unfinished.

I remember being so enamored of this here disc upon its release in 1994, that I went out and rented (at an absolutely cut-throat price) a then state-of-thee-art pedal board (a Roland I believe) in a pathetic attempt to add some extra-kookiness to my Residents rip-off hobby band. We'd been fucking around with chipmunk vocals and the like, so it seemed "proper" to have ridiculously over-treated geetar sounds to add to the worthless racket we'd been making. Unfortunately, even though I'd recent graduated from Ron Asheton Circa First Stooges Longplayer Rudimentary Axe Skills 101, I still sounded like a guy screwing around with noises he didn't understand. In short, the machine was playing ME. Helios Creed, on the other hand, never suffers from that problem.

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ROSCOE MITCHELL - Sound

I've had this 'un earmarked for at least 4-5 months. In fact, my original vision for SLN was a noise/free jazz-oriented monster with text every bit as impenetrable as the skronk offered as ritual sacrifice. Somewhere along the way, I compromised (heavily). Not sure why, but most likely it was the ominous specter of writing on a near-daily schedule about artists whose collective works are this emotionally and physically draining-- not good for my mental health... or yours, for that matter. Tackling a cultural watermark like "Sound" is akin to distilling the essence of "Human, All Too Human" into a few crass paragraphs-- yes, I'm aware that sounds more pretentious than a John Cage worshiper on peyote with five people giving him/her their undivided attention, but I couldn't think of a more down-to-earth analogy... my apologies. Awright, fuck it, I'm gonna plow forward even though I find this one of the more daunting tasks I've undertaken here.

Then again, who really has tapped into the vein of free jazz using mere words? Lester Bangs at his Romilar D-guzzlin' best? Nah, he tended to spend as much time rambling on about himself-- as entertaining as he was-- as the music itself. The academically-inclined yo-yo's at Down Beat? Need I even answer that? Truth is, verbiage will never accurately convey the organized chaos constructed by Roscoe Mitchell, Alto Saxman Extraordanaire, and his soon-to-be fellow members of the Art Ensemble of Chicago (Lester Bowie, Maurice McIntyre, Malachi Favors, Alvin Fielder and Lester Lashley). This is music so fulla paradoxes you'll soon find yer head swimming (and plenty o' other body parts as well)-- beautiful/hideous, playful/terrifying, harmonious/dissonant... I could list 'em for pages (but I won't). Instead, here's a quickie lowdown on two tracks (there's only five, two of which are alternate takes):

"Sound 1," is a shining example of what can happen when musicians with extra-sensory chemistry and boundless creativity are unshackled from all known conventional thought. Beginning with some atonal, yet thematic shrieks from Mitchell and Bowie (tenor sax), this 27 minute epic quickly shifts to a less serious tone with Lashley's entrance: Realizing that trombones create a damn good fart noise, he lingers in infantile territory for a while before being joined in the fun by Mitchell and Bowie. The result is the kinda bizarre interplay you'd tend to associate with Carl Stalling-- particularly if he was scoring a scene where Wile E. goes SPLAT!! And then there's Lester Lashley's cello "playing." The Godz had to've been spinning this sucker day 'n' night, as they are the only artists I can think of who mauled a bowed instrument quite like Les... you shouldn't feel ashamed if you at first mistake it for a cat being tortured.

"The Little Suite," also sounds a lot like cartoon music-- a rollicking, ever-morphing piece resembling a joyous, inside joke-filled conversation between cello, recorder, flugelhorn and um... gourds. When you start to believe you've wrapped your head around what they've set out to accomplish... you're wrong. Ringing bells punctuating the dialog unexpectedly give way to a cacophony of squawking saxes that'd make Keiji Haino wince. Frank "Money in the Bank" Zappa borrowed more'n a few of the ideas featured here (check out "Studio Tan" sometime).

If you downland, leave a comment... I mean, you're gonna be in there anyway, right?