I'VE GOT THIS CRAZY FEELING
SINCE I KNOW I REMEMBER WHEN
BUT NOW I'M SURE
I'M OLD AND I'M PURE
COMIN AROUND THIS HAPPENED AGAIN
WAKE UP YOU MIRACLE DUMB BELL
IT'S TIME TO FALL OUT THE WINDOW WITH ME
Hark! A flower of sadness blooms Increments of silence increase Darkness falls harder Yes! The clouds are in revolt Moving swiftly against the sky Like a page fluttering eternally You! Grab ahold of my phantom flesh Clasp elusiveness tightly Send an arrow through the heart of the world Go! Into psychic labyrinths of epistemology On searches for lost colors With a being greater than yourself that is yourself Finally! The living haunt me More than the dead
Because maybe someone out there was considering demanding it. I posted the first side of Music For Dead Phones last year. It's closing in on 30 downloads, so someone out there has been listening.
Music For Dead Phones was originally released on self-dubbed cassette in 2000. Edition of maybe 20. Side one is better, but for the sake of completeness, here's another half hour of home-recorded weirdness spanning the years 1994-2000.
With a sound that evokes both the
endless vistas of rural Canada and the claustrophobic density of its biggest
cities, Vancouver's Sex Church has an expansive, near-cinematic sweep. Their grey-washed
tonal palate echoes the Pacific Northwest’s most noteworthy exports such as The
Wipers, Unwound, and even Nirvana.
The last few years have seen a steady clip of
stick-to-your-ribs releases featuring Sex Church’s unique brand of psychedelic
punk. Coming hot on the heels of 2011’s epic Growing Over on Load Records,
Somnambulist further refines Sex Church’s sensibilities. Their modus
operandi remains the same: droning/grinding guitars over towering rhythms, with
thousand-yard-stare singing; they just get better at it. Released by Instant Pleasure (legendary Canucks Simply
Saucer nod in approval), a new imprint spun off from excellent Montreal label
Psychic Handshake, this brand-new 12” EP finds Sex Church making all the wrong
moves in all the right ways.
“Hidden Hand” kicks the proceedings off in bracing fashion.
Corrosive guitars mesh with anguished vocals, everything spiraling down an
endless staircase, straight into the bowels of misery. Much like vintage
Christian Death, there’s a certain romance and squalor to the song that appeals
to the damaged, the dead-beat.
“Slipped” pulls back on the reins a bit, showcasing Sex
Church’s knack for subtle, melancholy melodies. The effect is a bit like
Cheater Slicks covering The Jesus and Mary Chain. Parts of the song seem to
glisten, while others rust rapidly. Sex Church has an inherent grasp of the elusive
beauty that haunts our most ravaged scenes of decay. They seem to find comfort
in the situations that most of us try desperately to wish away. That doomed
moment, frozen in time.
Side Two’s “Wrong Side” lurches forward with seasick legs, a
slo-motion collapse into a vortex of unwanted memories. Sex Church is able to
surf these bummer waves without ever becoming overbearing, or a parody of
themselves. A saxophone makes an attempt to bleat through the sonic fog, but
this ain’t no funhouse, baby. Those reflections are the real deal, and you’ve
seen better days. Sex Church has too, but they soldier on, heads down,
steadying themselves for the next onslaught.
Dunno what it is exactly, but Light Up Gold has gotten under my skin. It’s basically an indie
rock album, but in a throwback sense, cuz it’s actually good and has sharp edges and smart-ass lyrics that ring true.
Parquet Courts echo several generations of stripped-down rock, with an ear for
a hook and a harmony (not some Beach Boys bullshit, just regular dudes finding
cool melodies that aren’t corpse-fucked to death). The clean-toned guitars and
steady rhythms recall The Feelies, while the inwardly angsty vocals and
occasional spazz-outs bring Tyvek to mind. Maybe even some of the neurotic
romanticism of the Modern Lovers. Not a bad place to plant your flag. Parquet
Courts do it with a grace that belies their years.
Originally a solo project by either Fergus or Geronimo,
Parquet Courts released an excellent cassette last year called American Specialties that seemed to fly
under everyone’s radar. Light Up Gold
is a full band full-length, and while each song is distinct, the album works
together nicely as a whole; great care was obviously put into the sequencing.
The recording by Jonathan Schenke is crystal-clear, and it suits the band
perfectly. “Master of My Craft” is an instantly memorable song, and
takes the Tyvek influence and runs with it, as does “Yonder,” which might be
the best song on the album. “Borrowed Time” feels like the sort of indie rocker
that everyone forgot how to write. Like a sober Archers of Loaf, guitar-spray
toned down, but the bitterness is unmistakable. “Donuts Only” has a sideways
swagger with A. Savage’s choked vocals fighting to be heard; “Yr No Stoner” has
the elastic twitch of Come On, while “Career in Combat” is a brief rumination a
la Minutemen. Side-ender “North Dakota” has the slack charm of Crooked Rain-era Pavement.The second side isn’t quite as strong, but “Stoned and
Starving” is the most Feelies-esque song and is a winning five minutes of
red-eyed spaced-out New York rambling, even name-checking my ‘hood - Ridgewood,
Queens (bitch!). It drifts into Neu! territory, but instead of motorik, it’s more of a walking beat. “Caster
of Worthless Spells” is a respectable GBV rip, and “Picture of Health” is a
suitably moody and ambivalent closing song. Sleeper record here, folks. [self-released]
BRAIN TUMORS s/t LP
This band came completely out of nowhere and knocked me flat
on my ass. Hate-drenched Midwestern hardcore that recalls all sorts of past
throat-punchers like Mecht Mensch, early Tar Babies and Void. Not “they’ve
obviously studiously researched the history of deranged early USHC,” but legit
“these guys hate everything, including you, especially
you, and maybe someone should make sure they’re not stockpiling weapons for a
‘Reckoning.’”
There is zero pretension here. Based on the shitty cover art
and rudimentary lyric sheet (w/ shout outs to YDI, Desperate Bicycles and
Husker Du), it seems Brain Tumors channel all of their remaining excess energy,
after breathing, smoking and chewing/half-swallowing microwaved burritos is out
of the way, into pure basement-rip that burns like a cleansing fire. Brain
Tumors give me the same tingling, stabbing, puking sensations of We March, but
with absolutely no rock n’ roll dirtying up the punch bowl. The majority of this LP is remastered from a demo tape, with
a few songs from a 7”, and a couple new joints. Opening trilogy “Group Therapy,
V-Neck Reject, Whatabummer” is a frantic assault of constant gear-shifting, all
at a thousand mph, signaled by relentless drum fills. A three-sided story with
no happy ending. “Midnight Surgery” flirts with anthemic riffs, twisting them
into new, malformed shapes. A song like “Improper Execute” isn’t so far removed
from the kind of murky street-thrash that Crazy Spirit and other Toxic State
bands are currently gracing the pages of MRR
with. Perhaps I’m biased, but there is a certain kind of suicidal boredom and
winter-driven self-hatred that the Upper Midwest (I believe BT hails from balmy
Minnesota) breeds like New York City breeds rats. It gnaws at your mind and
threatens to unmoor you from reality. Two choices: Join the Army, or join a
hardcore band. Brain Tumors opted to go to war with themselves. As my
grandmother used to say: “I wish ‘em luck.” [Dead Beat; http://www.dead-beat-records.com/]
FACTRIX/CAZAZZA California
Babylon LP/CD+DVD
Have no doubt, I am quite aware that it is bordering on
sacrilege to recommend the digital permutation of any given release, but fuck
your rules, man, and plunk ‘er down for the shiny little discs instead of the
large matte-black future ashtray/target this time around.
Hear me out:
There’s a funny thing about California Babylon. It kind of sucks. Factrix’s Scheintot is a milestone of the early
American stabs at Industrial (in the TG sense of the word) music, comparative
to a Cabaret Voltaire or an SPK. Maybe not quite reaching the early highs of
those units, but certainly a respectable showing in the grand scheme. You’d
think that pairing the San Fran ensemble with noted freak/raconteur/mail-art
superstar Monte Cazazza would yield fascinating, or at least loud n’ weird,
results. Sorry to break it to you: It doesn’t. The team-up comes off as awkward
as a pair of tits on Genesis P. Orridge.
For the most part, California
Babylon was recorded live at a dance studio in 1981 (a few tracks from a
show in ’80). Half the “songs” sound like the first few minutes of a Sonic
Youth show; level-checking, OK yeah, here’s the place to stand for good
feedback, what’s that tuned to? etc. I suppose some of the textures could have
influenced Bad Moon Rising. “Pro Man
Son” introduces a Cab Volt-style thudding rhythm accompanied by vague samples
and amorphous guitar (and violin) noise for
seven full minutes, going nowhere, and taking its damn time getting there.
Any time Cazazza decides to open his mouth, instead of the televangelist
hellfire you might expect to erupt, he just sounds like a tentative nerd, with
no grasp of drama or tension. Even though California
Babylon was made long before the now-cliched tropes of noise coupled with
television samples became a subcultural punchline, the album still fails to
deliver on its promise. Closer “(Look at That) Lesbian” implies some
boundary-pushing, but no, it’s the same ol’ strum und din.
So why am I even recommending this album at all? Bonus
tracks, baby! It boggles the mind that the 5 extra tracks on the CD didn’t
either comprise the original LP itself (These tracks originally appeared on a
2003 double CD collection put out by German label Storm), or come out as a supplemental EP, something. Cazazza is in fine
voice here, imbuing these subtle, haunting songs (yes, songs) with implied
menace and palpable sorrow. “Silver River” is a ghostly ballad that sounds as
if it belongs on a private-press psych rarity from California circa 1971.
Charlie himself woulda been proud of this one; him and Dennis finally laying
down that righteous track, high out of their minds as the sun comes up. Talking
about walking the line between unending bliss and all-consuming paranoia. Dig
it, brother. With disturbing static eating at its edges, “Noctimbre” is the
kind of spectral concoction that California
Babylon tries so hard, and fails, to get right. The three tense minutes of
“No Trees” is better than the entire LP in
toto, IMHO. “Obsession” is excellent Throbbing Gristle-worship, effectively
beating both Psychic TV and Coil to the punch. The compact disc’s final cut,
“Prescient Dreams,” originally appeared on a 7” released by Subterranean.
Thankfully, it’s saved from obscurity here, and now we can all revel in its
beautiful Eno-inspired swells and Laurie Anderson-on-ludes narration.
Conclusion? If Superior Viaduct threw all of the bonus tracks on a 12”, then
you would have a worthy, perhaps even superior, companion to Scheintot. Wow! And I haven’t even gotten to the DVD yet! Night of the Succubus sheds all sorts of
light on the proceedings. And along with light, come shadows. Expose yourself.
[Superior Viaduct]
TROPICAL TRASH ‘Fear of Suffering’ 7” EP
Featuring at least one member of the excellent Kentucky
psych unit Sapat, Tropical Trash drop the lysergic leanings of said outfit, and
instead heap all sorts of sonic praise on a currently overlooked (and unfairly
maligned) segment of the underground rock continuum. Perhaps it’s a local bias,
but I hear elements of late 80s egghead skull-crushers like Bastro, and Tweez-era Slint, in the alternately
heavy and meandering side-long “Baltimore.” The song breaks down into some
scurrilous free-rock before the talk-sing vocals lead back into the opening
riff.
The B-side is 4 individual songs that blend together,
creating the illusion of one long, strange track. “False Crypt” has an almost
black-metal faux-symphonic bleakness, while “Pentagram Ring Finger” is more of
a straightforward aggro cut, recalling all sorts of early 90s indie/punk
outfits (the fantastic and severely undergivedafuckeabout Pitchblende comes to
mind). “Raw Mind” sounds like Today is the Day buried under gallons of cough
syrup; “Burning Ghost” is the frenetic closer. I’m interested to see where this
band goes from here. There’s a certain ambition not quite fully realized, but
intriguing possibilities are within arm’s reach. The cover of this record
weirds me out in a good way. It looks like some bored 15 year-old’s
approximation of Surrealism. A crude ink-pen take on Dali and Magritte. Only 200
copies. [Sophomore Lounge Records; sophomorelounge.com]
SHAVED WOMEN ‘Static’ 7” EP
Recently, I saw these dudes tear it up in the live setting.
Young, skinny guitarist ripped some sick leads; almost avant, like Derek Bailey
getting ‘core. The rest of the band was solid as shit, deftly balancing slower,
dirgier screeds with punishing hardcore blitzes in between. “Static” rides a
head-nodding groove, slow enough to make you feel slightly nauseous, but not
where you feel like you’re in quicksand. It’s the kind of song that is fed up
with daily life. Who can’t relate? The flip picks up the speed a bit;
“Exorcism” flails around pretty good, wrapping it up with a groovy ending.
“Shallow Sea” sounds mean, and I think they like mean. I mean, like, mean mean.
Nice packaging, housed in the typically great dada-esque collages of one Dr.
Ilth. [Pass Judgement]
LZR Carbon
Life Forms CDR
When he’s not gleep-glopping away in overlords of Detroit
weirdness, Human Eye, Mr. Johnny LZR can be found researching all sorts of
esoteric subjects, most of which apply to the realm of early, or at least
pre-laptop, electronic music. The guy is both a vintage synth obsessive and a
dabbler in unexplained phenomena. After a few early releases, some under The Solarians banner,
LZR presents his most fully-realized set of solo music yet. Limited to 100 copies,
this hand-packaged full-length also comes with several classy-looking business
cards and a one-of-a-kind art booklet containing cut-outs from old sci-fi
novels and discontinued textbooks from a bygone era. The music contained within
also harks back to a time when outer space still held wonders, and humans were a
few decades away from actualizing man-made reality-shifters like the Large
Hadron Collider. “Source Code” opens things on an ominous note with a
pitched-down voice uttering sinister instructions. “Transporter” is a disconcerting
9 minutes of wooshing and panning tones and flutters that has more in common with
Morton Subotnick’s pioneering work than any digital hacks key-pressing their
way onto Pitchfork’s good side. “Monolithic Drone” is anything but; instead
it’s a pleasant walk down the same path Cluster took on their classic Zuckerzeit. A few of the tracks, like “Extrusion Direction,” are less
successful, leaning more towards a “fucking around on my gear” vibe, than
conveying anything beyond weird textures. “Echo Location” has some intense bass
tones, and wouldn’t be out of place on the Drive
soundtrack (that is to say, in a John Carpenter flick). The final cut, the title track, recalls Ralf and Florian-era Kraftwerk, and that’s not a bad place to find
yourself. [Before Common Era]
SUNFLARE Ghetto
Blast LP
One of my more exciting musical discoveries of recent
vintage was randomly stumbling upon (not thru that site but indeed on the world
wide web) the molten psych-rock of a mysterious Portuguese trio named Sunflare.
I knew nothing about the band, but their intent and intensity rang true. My
Spanish ain’t too hot, but my Portuguese is even less so; luckily I’m not
missing out on much, as these pessoa choose
to let the music do the talking. Last year’s Young Love
blew me away with heavy psych moves featuring scorching guitar eruptions
and a nimble but powerful rhythm section. A cassette from 2010 also brought the
goods, recalling all-time brain-scramblers like High Rise, Mainliner, and
Psychic Paramount. There was definitely PSF worship going on, but Sunflare
carved out their own identity within that hallowed hall of third eye-openers.
Ghetto Blast is
Sunflare’s newest offering, their first for a US label, and, while still a
deadly set of primo head-kick, it suffers a bit in comparison with its
predecessor. Featuring two side-long tracks, the 12” seems a bit
one-dimensional. Not that you would ever expect something like subtlety from
this crew, but the A-side, “Don’t Belong,” seems to run in place. It has an
impressive density, but its stasis dulls the impact. It sounds more like a
Noise band, like Air Conditioning or Hair Police minus the ‘tronics. It’s
certainly not bad, and the second half digs into the pocket with single-minded
force, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting more. On the flip, “Biker Jinx” is more of the kinda Sunflare I
wanna get blinded by. Blown-out groove with all kindsa wah-wah and phased
axe-strangling darting in n’ out of the fray. The track is far more dynamic,
and builds and resolves like a good blast-out should; it’s even got a
backwards-tape cool-down before the grand finale. I don’t know of too many
contemporary psych-rock bands hitting the kinds of sweet spots these dudes are
capable of, and, even if this set doesn’t completely destroy me like the
previous 12”, I’m HIGHly anticipating future releases. [Batshit]
UTAH JAZZ 5-song 7” EP
Buffalo’s Utah Jazz features Brown Sugar guitarist Brandon,
but, except for a refusal to be bogged down by genre conventions, the 2 bands
don’t have much in common. The Jazz manage to cram this 45 with all sorts of ideas and
energy. Opening up with a frantic instrumental, they charge full steam ahead
into the flute-led (yes you read that right) good time rock n’ roll of
“Florida.” Between these guys n’ gals and The Oh Sees there seems to be a
friggin’ flute riot goin’ on. Where’s Rahsaan Roland Kirk when you need him?
The B-side has 3 ragers that sound like a Rust Belt Huggy Bear. Righteous
mixed-gender fury, with some cool guitar touches (no bass in this power trio).
It would be interesting to hear an LP’s worth of sting by these lad n’ ladies.
[Feral Kid/Media Schlitz]
NASA SPACE UNIVERSE NSU 12” EP
Even though they’ve been around for several years now, I
finally took a listen to NASA Space Universe, and boy, did I like what I heard.
Equal parts Die Kreuzen and Wrangler Brutes, these strange boys from SoCal were
right up my alley. All of their records are testaments to high-quality
forward-thinking hardcore punk, but their new EP takes it even further. Unlike
many current hardcore bands who think cloaking their lack of anything remotely
interesting in a haze of bullshit “noise,” NSU aren’t afraid of a good
recording, and it helps the songs hit harder; everything’s nice and clear, but
the intensity doesn’t suffer for it. Opener “Peeping Toddler” seems to be an apocalyptic rant
about our oil addiction, but sussing out Kevin’s PKD-ian psychedelic sci-fi
spew is half the fun. “Dionysian fire transmogrify man’s muted mire ignite”
indeed. (that nugget is from “Fwap”) These guys can play (check that bass) and their willingness
to fuck with tired old hardcore cliches pays dividends. Given enough time and
acid, I can see these dudes turning into the hardcore version of Magma. NASA
start all their songs off with a bang, and then don’t stop til they’ve
ratcheted the tension up to near-bursting. This EP is an invigorating
listen. [self-released]
SLICES Still
Cruising LP
Slices’ debut, Cruising
(duh), was a hair-raising mixture of brutal hardcore and brief, but effective,
abstract soundscaping. Short and to-the-point, it was one of the better
hardcore/noise rock hybrids of the past few years. This follow-up doesn’t
radically alter the approach, but does feature what could be seen as slightly
more conventional rock songs. The opener, “Trying to Make a Living,” was blazing live;
classic punk riffs played with the ferocity of hardcore at its most rabid. The
recorded version sounds great, not unlike pre-epic shoegaze Fucked Up,
actually. The self-referential “everybody hates us” lyrics to “Slices is
Dirts,” walk the line of being too self-aware, but its frantic instrumental
backing is no joke. Unfortunately, the rest of the side doesn’t quite measure
up to these initial blasts.
The highlight of side two, “Horserace,” is a loser’s lament
that hangs its hat on Down-era Jesus
Lizard. “All My Life” is half-successful; a tuneful, mid-tempo grunge
throwback. The album closes with the satisfying, speedy punk of “Mustard,”
which is about a sad state of affairs: “Ketchup/mustard/relish/mayo/sandwich/No
meat/it’s not right.” If there’s one thing folks from Pittsburgh know about,
it’s what should go in between two slices of bread. [Iron Lung; http://lifeironlungdeath.blogspot.com/]
KIM PHUC Copsucker
LP
As much as I like this album, and I do, quite a bit, it was
a little disappointing to find out that almost half of the songs had been
previously released (in different recorded versions, but still). Then again,
these dudes ain’t no spring chickens, and they have real jobs, real wives, and
real lives. To paraphrase Mr. Show –
“I can’t spend all my time fucking around in a punk rock band.” But when these guys decide to fuck around, they do so with a
mighty wallop. I highly recommend catching Kim Phuc in a live setting. They
have a single-minded head-down intensity; they mean business, and are able to
hold their own at hardcore shows, even though most of their material leans
towards a pounding, mid-tempo attack. At their best, Kim Phuc come off like a
basement-punk version of Killing Joke. While firmly a US band, they have echoes
of bleak UK post-punk running through their sound. Considering what a crusty
town their homebase (Pittsburgh) used to be, it kinda makes sense. All of their
hits are here: “Prostitute,” “Weird Skies,” “Wormwood Star.” My favorite of the
new tracks is the punishing lead-off cut, “Animal Mother/Local Round-Up.” If
you need a dose of darkness (seriously, stop smiling for a fucking second, the
world is going to shit), snag this sucker. [Iron Lung; http://lifeironlungdeath.blogspot.com/]
TRONICS Love
Backed By Force LP; “Shark Fucks” b/w “Time Off” 45
At last, two holy grails of UK DIY, now widely available in
affordable vinyl editions for your home enjoyment, preferably the sleeping
quarters. This is bedroom music for the ages. Fronted by the eccentric (British
for “weirdo”) Zarjaz (billed here as “Ziro Baby”), Tronics’ minimal, ostensibly
“rock,” songs are spare and affecting, like a snot-nosed, playful version of
Young Marble Giants. The first time I heard “Shark Fucks” was as the lead-off
track on Messthetics no. 3 (way back
when it was still a CDR). I couldn’t shake the strange mix of innocence and
threat that the song contained. The music seemed amateur-ish, but the ideas and
emotions behind it were anything but simple. There was a distinct mind at work.
You can now own this classic single, packaged in its curious newsprint fold-out
poster, for yourself, and for anybody you may try to be courting via mixtape. The LP, from the same year, 1981, is surprising, both in its
ability to maintain interest over the course of an entire album, despite its
stripped-down approach (Zarjaz’ vocals and deceptively skilled guitar playing,
accompanied by the conga percussion of Gaby de Vivienne), and in the
sophisticated musical ideas at play (oblique references to Eastern music, and
even baroque touches; see “Min Dama”).
But you’ll also find what are the roots of “twee;” certainly
Calvin Johnson had heard this duo before forming Beat Happening. There’s the
same uncomfortable tension between trying to stay pure (some would say
“childish”), and between dealing with the complicated emotions that come with
love, especially as an adult. Doubly ironic then, that my favorite song on
here, “Crush On You,” inexplicably comes near the end of the album (if the LP
had a single, this should’ve been it), and is the most nakedly emotional of
these bizarre little love songs. It captures, like very few songs before or
since, that lump-in-throat, butterfly-stomached perpetual nervousness that
accompanies the pheromone avalanche of early L-U-V. [What’s Your Rupture?; http://www.whatsyourrupture.com/]
MURDEREDMAN 7”
Proletarian Art Threat, Self Destruct Button, Lives of the
Saints, Jerk, Clan of the Cave Bear. These names might mean nothing to you, but
if you’ve been kicking around the Cleveland music scene for a decade or more,
you would recognize them as upper-echelon acts in the punk/hardcore/math/noise
game (full disclosure: I did some time in Jerk). Murderedman seems to be the
musical equivalent of that old small town (yeah Clevo’s a city..…until you’ve
lived there) conundrum: between you and your friends, you’ve dated and/or slept
with every boy/girl around. What’s a single human to do?
In Murderedman’s case, they decided to say “Fuck it” and
have a giant orgy, although in this case, feedback, sludge, and negative vibes
take the place of gyrating limbs and heaving breasts. “My Time As Fire” is a
study in controlled chaos, alternating dense rhythmic passages with singer
David Russell’s trademarked demonic vocals and broken sax bleats. “Deathtrap”
is audio quicksand via subterranean bass lunges and steel-wool guitar scrapes.
The side-long “Mountain Time” continues the unease; a suffocating stare into
the abyss, and the abyss is laughing back. [self-released; limited to 200 copies]
COFFIN PRICKS “Group Home Haircut” b/w “Right Kind
of Loot” & “Cielo Drive”
It’s always a pleasure to hear Chris Thomson sing in a punk
rock band. His incisive lyrics and snotty, adenoidal voice has held strong for
a quarter century now, and he still sounds as pissed-off and annoyed as ever
(may be unfortunate for him, but a blessing for us). Coffin Pricks is his new
Chicago-based four-piece, after laying low for a few years following the
dissolution of Red-Eyed Legends. Other members of Coffin Pricks have done time in
bands as disparate as Bob Tilton, Cavity and Daylight Robbery. Here they come
together to make instantly familiar aggressive post-punk, not far removed from
Thomson’s past bands. The quality is top-notch; “Group Home Haircut” holds the
melody in the bass and Thomson’s sneering vocals. The guitar is jagged and
slashing, the playing is on-point. “Right Kind of Loot” and “Cielo Drive” are
both memorable quick-steppers, leaning more towards the Skull Kontrol side of
Thomson’s fence, but with a Wire-like attention to keeping it succinct. Looking
forward to hearing more from these vets.
[Stationary Heart; www.stationaryheart.com]
DAWN OF HUMANS Blurst
of the Bloodfish 7” EP
These NYC freakazoids used to play and practice occasionally
at a showspace I lived at. Shredded-looking but nice dudes. Punks. Live, the
singer usually has his cock out, is usually battle-painted or wearing something
flamboyantly weird; almost like he’s being his very own totem animal. There is
a shamanistic aspect to his performance. And the sleeve on this sucker! Big
silk-screened fold-out with artwork that looks like Nick Blinko went to
RISD. I guess what I’m trying to
say is that Dawn of Humans are a visual band. I like the music, but live is
where they, err, shine. I’m sure someone far more well-versed in international
HC could pinpoint their sound via a Brazilian demo tape from 1984, but, to me,
it sounds like devolved, shit-fi hardcore. That ain’t a judgement, I dig it,
particularly the second side, where it gets more unhinged, spaced-out, and
desperate. Toxic State’s been on a roll lately, releasing some of the best of
the “new wave” of NYC scumcore. All the kids say “DoH!” [Toxic State;
www.toxicstate.blogspot.com]
NOH MERCY s/t LP
The first time I ever heard Noh Mercy was on the amazing
2000 bootleg compilation LP, I Hate The
Pop Group, which collected a host of obscure (esp. at the time) songs from
the late 70s/early 80s post-punk DIY home-recorded tape-trading zeitgeist.
Every single track on there has something to twist your head into a knot.
Halfway through the first side you are confronted with a lone drum kit pounding
out a catchy drum figure. Just when you expect a guitar, or a bass, or a
keyboard, to enter the mix, a siren-like voice cuts through the tape hiss: “I
don’t wanna be politically correct/I don’t need no Caucasian guilt/I never
cooked no Jews/I never took no Indian land/I never made no black my slave/I
never dug no Latino’s grave!” Don’t hold back, lady! Who needs metaphor? But it ends with
a utopian optimism: “I don’t need no Caucasian guilt/I’m ready for a brand new
race!/One concerned with the way you move/not the arrangement of your face.”
This bracing cut originally appeared on the classic double 7” Earcom 3 comp (along with groups like
DAF and Middle Class). Needless to say, I was in love. But it took until over a decade later til I (or anyone
really) would be able to hear a full album’s worth of material from the two
mercurial ladies who made up Noh Mercy. Potent, challenging, and eviscerating,
Noh Mercy can hold their own with most any NYC No Wave act. They are a shining
example of the still-little-known SF art-punk underground. But that’s all
changing thanks to Superior Viaduct, a San Francisco-based reissue label
focusing on lost (or never happened as is the case here) treasures of San
Fran’s unheralded art-punk scene. This deluxe first-issue is beautifully done;
from its striking cover to the informative and scene-setting oversized booklet
that accompanies the album. Featuring reminisces by both the beat (Tony Hotel)
and the voice (Esmerelda), there’s much to learn here. These ladies lived hard,
and the music conveys the struggle and tension they worked through in their
day-to-day existence. Whether it’s a deconstruction of the Beatles’ “Girl,” or
the waves of noise that pulse through “Lines,” Noh Mercy were always
challenging themselves and their audience.
Side two opens with their other Earcom cut; “Revolutionary Spy” is a showcase for Hotel’s drumming
(also credited with “hubcap, anvil, ball-peen hammer”) and Esmerelda’s cunning
lyrics. It’s not all wailing and banging with these ladies. “Bloodhound Blues”
has funky new wave keyboards, and the synth touches on “Cross the Line” and
“The Meek Shall Inherit the Mess” suggest a future direction that the band
never realized, unfortunately. It may have taken over three decades, but there is finally a
Noh Mercy LP, and I suggest you pick it up while you are able. [Superior Viaduct; www.superiorviaduct.com]
CIRCLE X “Heartbreaker”
b/w “Look at the People” 7”
Circle X was a fascinating band. They moved through all
sorts of scenes, cities, and situations fluidly, like a ghost, a wraith. First
wave Kentucky punk, unheralded No Wave outsiders, French patronship,
mover/shaker art-world ties; all the while experimenting with crushing,
collapsing art-punk that walks an invisible line between rock n’ roll and
high-minded aspirations, both sonic and conceptual.
The story behind what became Circle X’s first vinyl release
(in a paltry number of 200 copies) is almost a piece of conceptual art in
itself. Too long to go into here, but the informative liner notes detail
exactly how and why the music turned out the way it did, and also the novel way
the records were distributed (part of a European art zine). So, for their first
record, Circle X was an entirely different band than what it actually was; yet,
they still sound like nothing but Circle X.
The A-side is a dense, noisy rendering of a Rolling Stones
song, Goat’s Head Soup ‘s “Doo Doo
Doo Doo (Heartbreaker),” that you would never mistake for the original. It
chugs along with a stumbling groove, the thudding proceedings being slowly
strangled by the mangled strings of abused guitars. Wondering if a young T.
Moore managed to get ahold of one of these severely limited copies? “Look at
the People” establishes the Circle X template; nothing less than a journey into
darkest night, galloping faster towards the abyss, embracing the void the city
provides to the true seeker. It’s a precursor to the impending EP’s “Albeit
Living,” and also a nice companion to the Jack Ruby reissue from last year.
Circle X wants you to get lost, wants you to end up in a puddle behind a
dumpster, wants you to look in the mirror and be repulsed. This is thrillingly
nihilistic music just as “entertaining” as your Flippers, your No Trends, your
Mars, even your Black Humors. An outstanding reissue; from the excellent
packaging, which both includes and enhances the original artwork, to the
still-potent music contained within. Put down your “raw-noise-punk” flexi and
embrace nullification, not as a pose, but as a necessary reaction to the filth
around you. [Poutre Apparente;
www.poutreapparente.free.fr]
THE BLIMP Not
Beer one-sided 12”
I think that your appreciation for The Blimp may rest upon
your tolerance for one Mr. Franklin Q. Zappa. I know that main Blimp Lucas Gunn
took lessons from Zoot Horn Rollo or some kinda shit, and the dude can play
(although not on the level his bro Chris of the Hunches can), but it leans less
towards Van Vliet action-spew and more towards the self-consciously wacky
shtick that Zappa-doo-dah so, um, excelled at. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some
pretty ace rocking moments here, particularly on the title track. As art-school
drop-out as this comes off, you can tell these folks come from a punk
background. There is an element of the retard-prog Cleveland’s legendary late
70s/early 80s scene spit out (Styrenes, Tripod Jimmie etc.). But just as they
are building up a head full of steam, the circus comes to town, and you find
yourself front row at a Man Man gig. Final jambroni “Dead Bones Blood Orange
Brown Mean Land” (was this title discovered on an old cocktail napkin of the Cap’n
hisself?) has some cool moments of twisty rock, but, alas, The Blimp’s need to
overburden their songs with “flourishes” renders the impact null and void. Not
sure if all of the copies come w/ a DVD-R of Gunn’s Petertag film, but mine did, and, unfortunately, my laptop keeps
rejecting it. Take that as you will.
[Violet Times; www.violet-times.com]
THE CHRISTMAS
BRIDE Planet Earth’s Motto: Someone Just Shit Out a Perfect Square
This is a weird record, spearheaded by a dude from Chicago
band Wishgift. Wishgift seems to take long swigs off the AmRep flask, whereas
The Christmas Bride is a hyperactive power-pop unit with all sorts of stops and
starts and things that would drive most power-pop-punk fans nuts. Of course,
those are some of the most interesting moments, like “Ge Rm Ans” which sounds
like a Pixies outtake, or “K.O. Boyz” and “New Hit Mekanik” which distill some
of the finer moments of the Stiff catalog into minute-and-a-half bitesize
morsels. There are certainly some effective hooks on this LP, but ultimately it
comes off as overly thought-out; constructed like a piece of architecture, not
living, breathing rock n’ roll. If these guys could reign in their urge to mug
for the microphone, they might be able to inch a little closer to something
like the classic Midwestern shut-in power of The Suicide Commandos.
Nice Face’s 2nd long-player deserves to be
discussed on its own merits; free from being associated with _____ dogs,
“weird” punk, “mysterious” bedroom suck artists, one-off punk jack-offs, and
other detritus that went boom! then buuuuuuu…..
Yes, this is electro-punk made by one guy in his apartment,
utilizing canned ‘tronic beats, Steve Jobs-approved hard/soft-ware, and effects
on the vocals. Yet, the beats sound good,
the lyrics understandable, and the songs and sounds transcend the equipment it
was created on (third cut “Equipped” has a killer vid btw). Back in the early 2000s, who knew that the two best
loner-punk “bands” of several years later, would be led by two guys in the same
band, and the shit-kicking NYC combo Some Action to boot. SA lead guitarist
Ethan Campbell practically invented, or at least pioneered, this genre/approach
with still-kings LiveFastDie. Some Action’s lead mess/puncher/shouter Ian Magee
cleaned his shit up, and quietly made some of the best records of this nebulous
style. Really all I’m trying to say with this background
jibber-jabber is that perhaps the reason those “bands” (and both have had
ripping live permutations; Campbell was even lead guitarist for NF for a spell)
succeed, is because they both feature blazing punk rock n’ roll guitar riffs
and solos. Despite the laptop trappings, synths, and drum machines, they are
still r n’ r bands. Nice Face in particular recalls the real progenitors of his
sound: Tubeway Army/Gary Numan, Devo, Big Black even.
Lead cut “Liaison” has an almost “Girl U Want” groove, but
substitutes the goofiness with a more sinister intent. There’s the Chrome-like
forward-stomp of “Shaman” and “March of the Cosmic Man.” Similar to “Selectron”
off of the debut Immer Etwas, the
drums sound almost-real, but the stars of the show are the cool organ and synth
sounds that show a real understanding of how to layer noise. “Killing Time” is
all minimal-synth anxiety, whereas “You’re So Dramatic,” a minute-and-a-half
punker with bursts of guitar shred, is pure nervous energy. I dig the
goth-night dance party of “Asymptotes,” but when it comes back around again on
side two it gets a bit too Love & Rockets for my taste. On the other hand,
“Roll Over” and “Summer Shake” are cool rock n’ roll tunes that could be hit
singles in an alternate college-radio-run universe. “Cold Shoulder” seems to
encapsulate Nice Face’s raison d’etre
– throbbing bass, threatening words, slicing guitar. It’s a winning
formula. [Hozac]
THE SEDIMENT
CLUB Time Decay Now LP
I really enjoyed The Sediment Club’s debut 7” on Brooklyn’s
Soft Spot label a few years back (SS also released the mandatory Kebab
collection). It was an abrasive and snarky example of a group of kids cutting
loose on a No New York tip, as if
they were born to it. Then again, main Clubber Austin is the son of former
Voidoid Ivan Julian and Contortions/Bush Tetras singer Cynthia Sley. So, he
comes by ye ol’ guitar-slash naturally. Julian even recorded most of this
album. Time Decay Now is
not quite the leap forward I was hoping for from this obviously talented crew.
The band is still in fine form, the drummer in particular has mad chops, but
stylistically they are running in place. The vocals are still the weakest part;
mainly shouted-out sloganeering you’d expect from art-punks. A compelling vocal
presence would go a long way. The fact that 3 out of the EP’s 4 songs are
redone here demonstrates a lack of progress. The keyboardist Amina sings
“Deeper Into Hell,” and its slightly more conventional, yet still frenetic,
delivery does wonders. There are still choppy beats, rubber-band bass, washes
of noise and bent guitars but it seems to lead somewhere instead of treading
water. “Voodoo Puppet” recalls Big Flame with its sideways funk-guitar, and
hardcore speed/length jitterbug “13” brings to mind Philly’s unheralded
Stickmen. Despite my criticisms, I think The Sediment Club do their No Wave
progenitors proud. [Soft Spot; http://www.softspotmusic.com]
SCARCITY OF
TANKS Vulgar Defender & Fear Is
Not Conscience CD
Scarcity of Tanks is an ever-shifting
Cleveland-based ensemble that revolves around Matthew Wascovich. On previous albums, Wascovich
has enlisted veterans of Clevo’s art/rock/noise nexus to back him as he cycles
through his abstract poetry in a clear voice, like a more hinged Jack Brewer of
Saccharine Trust. This time around, he put all the chips down. Recorded over a
marathon weekend session in Brooklyn, these simultaneously-released CDs feature
a pan-generational multi-scene-spanning underground all-star group of epic
proportions. Some avant-Olympic dream team shit right here: John Morton
(electric eels), Kid Millions (Oneida), Weasel Walter (Flying Luttenbachers),
Jim Sauter (Borbetomagus), Nick Lesley (Necking), cover art by Chris Yarmock of
the Easter Monkeys. Not too shabby, as they say.
Considering the decades of skillz these fellas have racked
up, Wascovich does the smart thing and mostly gets out of the way. Vulgar Defender is a noisy affair, the
players going deep into the skronk zone, guitars feeding back, bass loud and
dirty in the mix. “My Fist” might be the best thing here; a near-tune with the
bass providing a simple melody and the rest of the band trying its hardest to
grind it into the dirt, Millions launching it into hyper-drive for the
ending. The last track, “Another
Chance,” slash-and-burns like mid-period Sonic Youth.
Fear Is Not Conscience
is a much more successful distillation of this particular line-up’s
strengths (I saw them live and it kicked hard). “Stood Straight” takes a basic
hardcore punk motif and slathers more and more sound on top of it as it speeds
along, til it gets too heavy to move. “Already Alive” utilizes a familiar free
improv motif like the pros these guys are, but a track like “Slut’s Rut” should
be half its duration. “Impaired Nominee” has a piledriving groove framed by all
manner of awesome and hard-to-identify guitar noises. “Winter is Here” is my
favorite piece on either of these albums.
Wascovich’s words take center stage. The band lays down a droning fog of
sound that moves from melancholic to menacing. It sounds like what looking at
Lake Erie in December feels like. “Winter…” captures the icicle emotions of a
scrapyard city deep in the throes of forced hibernation. Wascovich has seen more
than his share of Cleveland winters, and the weight bears down like a
shroud. [Total Life Society; PO
Box 6592 Cleveland OH 44101]
