#18, FALL 2005



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JOHN WILKES BOOZE - Five Pillars of Soul (Kill Rock Stars; 2004)
Wow, retro-radicalism. I bet you've had a bone on for this all year, right? There was that Weather Underground documentary & Mario Van Peebles' incredibly cool film about his father, BAADASSSSS! Oh, and that one-man show about Huey P. Newton. Fuck, I forgot about the MC-5 documentary & that illustrious nationwide tour by the remaining members, featuring guest stars Evan Dando & Marshall Crenshaw, two beings who cause tectonic plates to shift when they even tune their Les Pauls. God, I keep forgetting major shit -- Jennifer Aniston wearing that MC-5 T shirt on Friends (so cool it wound up in the credit sequence), whatever project those guys from The Make-up are doing these days...Wow, this has been one kick out the fucking jams kinda year, hasn't it? So, I'd be forgiven if -- just to relax -- I wanted to pop in that surveillance cam video of Patty Hearst & the SLA robbing the Hibernia Bank, right? And maybe play the new Revenant Albert Ayler Box Set while I watched it? Okay, maybe I'm starting to feel it now, the swaggering revolution stomp of the dark ages. Watching the 1965 Watts Riots/Detroit riots of '43 & '67 is way better than watching the shit that went down after the Rodney King verdict, right? Goddamn, those old riots were chic as hell.
Well, those are all my sarcastic reservations to John Wilkes Booze, but truth is they rock & aren't trying to apply old agitprop to a new template, or at least not as far as I can tell. That's the thing I guess, the paperwork in their album is so dense & confusing, unreadable & far-fetched, pretentious & artless that it may just be art, art as wall of print, etc. I think this is a terrific garage soul album, like the last few Dirtbombs records tricked-out with bits of Charlie Manson's Lie & JWB's ludicrous politics is as far removed from reality as Oz is from Rwanda. Redd Kross used to kinda play at this game, but that was a different generation, right? Now, the sense of irony has to be thicker, the poker face less obvious. Sure, every twitch is a tell, but after awhile I just went all in & left the rest of the evening up to the fucking dealer.

MR. AIRPLANE MAN - C'mon DJ (Sympathy for the Record Industry; 2004)
Any of you with an oodle of sacred sense realize that the song "C'Mon DJ" was the great radio song that never was last year. Unless your radio is jury-rigged to heaven, and mine seems not to be. Named for a great Howlin' Wolf song, deeply unafraid of production murk & hiss, and laying out a tarpaper & ghettobestos heat treatment of swampy blues, VU tuff-chick churn (you kids who don't know how much Lou loved the Shangri-Las should spin the Sha-La's "Never Go Home Anymore" next to Lou's "Street Hassle" one night before you start huffing & using Joy Division & Interpol in the same breath) & gobtastic punk shouters that clip the bad years of rock off the good ones like crude oil off a heron's wing. I don't even want to mention that this is sorta a girl band, because lately I know people get weird Nam flashbacks when they hear that -- too many times late-night suckered into Prey for Rock'n'Roll on IFC, I think. Instead I'll tell you that these are greasy-haired, bearded mugwumps from Oxford, Mississippi & let you sort the rest out for yerself. Dude, you're one groovy southern gothic cave creature, lemme get down there in the crossroads witcha baby...Goddamn, is that a pussy where your Screamin' Jay should hang? Relax, country mouse, weez in the big city now.

HOUND DOG TAYLOR - Release the Hound (Alligator; 2004)
Now, I've got some major problems with the blues, don't think I don't. I mean, it's like when a really stupid person asks you if you believe in God. I think God understands my denying him just then. It means I don't believe in God in any way the asker could possibly understand. And that's not to say I'm any kind of Zoroastrian, Lutheran, or a member of some other "freak" religion. I'm just a backsliding Catholic who believes in God measure for measure. Another example. When I was a very young pup, I used to follow the Grateful Dead around, do their drugs, enjoy the tripped out bluegrass of it under a hot & bulbous Colorado sun, and turn from giant to dwarf to cardboard cut-out while Anthem of the Sun worked its benign magic. And I still put on Mars Hotel or Workingman's Dead occasionally & get the same silly grin on my face I got back then. I love the crude country, the weird, cut-rate psych production gimmicks...in general, I try never to dispossess anything I ever liked. It discounts memory, which is an boy's best friend. But if you get me in a room full of hippies & they ask me if I like THE DEAD, I rile against the band like a madman anchorite. Because I know they don't mean what I mean.
         It's like that with the blues. I walk into your average urban blues bar & watch the middle-aged yuppies grope one another to this dull stop-time party music & I turn on the blues like it was a red-headed stepchild. I Judas the blues out by telling these fuckers that I'd rather listen to Celine Dion. Or I say, By the blues do you mean AC/DC? By the blues do you mean Marvin Sease (because that's the blues the brothers really listen to at barbecues on a Saturday afternoon)? By the blues do you mean Bon Jovi? And I love the way they squirm like rubbing alcohol on a hot spoon. I love the way they call me stupid & uneducated. I love when they wide-eyed shake their real-estate dealer bleach blond locks & their two-times divorced lawyer comb overs, that I haven't "encountered" Magic Slim or Robert Cray or Half Pint Donut. No, friends, but what about Burl Ives, is he the blues?
         Hound Dog Taylor recorded some party blues sides, alot of them really, and he was never as "hoodoo" as I wanted him to be. He was trained to get the party started. Even Slim Harpo, who could definitely get a colorblind shake on, had more deep, dark fringes than Taylor. What's great about this set, culled from the most primitive odds'n'sods Alligator purchased after HDT died, is that it doesn't portray him correctly. From its Jon Langford cover to its sloppy sequencing, this is meant to place him solidly next to the urban riff grind of J.L Hooker & Howlin' Wolf, people with whom he shares nothing meaningful, in my humble opinion (I'll hear back on this, I'm sure). But, like I said, that's what's great about this set. It makes him seem like a more drunken, evil & inspired bluesman than he really was. So it is one cool party record. And it contains one of the greatest blues songs ever recorded, 11 ramshackle, hooch-maimed minutes of "Things Don't Work Out Right." It makes R. L. Burnside look behind the times. It makes Jon Spencer seem tired.
So, when they ask me if I like the blues, and they invariably do -- the bastards -- I tell them absolutely not & then put this on. Well, first Burl Ives, then this.

LESTER BANGS & THE DELINQUENTS - Jook Savages on the Brazos (Live Wire; 1981)
Probably you'll want to know whether this album's any good. You may even need to know whether it's available. About 1.5 of you may even want to know, Who the hell is Lester Bangs?
         I'll answer those prayers in the order they were received. First, this is Lester Bangs doing all he could possibly do to be original, while still trying sadly & desperately to be his rock'n'roll idols. The album ages well, unlike the Birdland album, where he tries too hard at things he only understands in theory. When I first heard this in the early 80s, there were tracks I immediately had to transfer to tape & tracks I hoped to Christ I'd never have to hear again. Now, the whole album seems charming. Thankfully, it doesn't seem harmless. Even the "Grandma's House" song, which tries for J. Richman's innocence, sounds warped & just short of murder when Lester sings it. "Life Ain't Worth Living (But Suicide's a Waste of Time)" is Fugs-ish outlaw country, which still sounds brutal & disfigured & zero fun at all in the hands of Lester. He's supposed to be joking, but his bruised voice says different. I hope to fuck Tuli Kupferberg told him so. I think it's a good album, a piece of history & the kind of brazen icon you take with you while exploring places in which it has no meaning or function. Like a gold cross on the bow of the Santa Maria.
         I'm sure right now you're asking, where can I get this? You can't. It was recorded in Austin, Texas & there are still copies of the vinyl floating around there. The record stores don't even have collectible price tags on the thing. It's not on CD, yet the fairly dreadful Birdland is. It's an invaluable trunk of memories -- not mine, not yours, just Lester's -- that was too heavy to take where he was going & too valuable to mean much to you or I, who haven't been there. It never really got out of customs.
Lester Bangs recorded this so-so album in Austin, Texas, where I live now. I've made little pilgrimages to the places he apparently visited & stayed, mostly because I just could not for the life of me picture him here, in the Texas hills, so far from New York City. Once, in 1980, he stumbled into an apartment I shared with five other people in Morningside Heights, near Columbia University. We were having a party of sorts. I was a kid rock critic who wanted desperately to work for Creem but all he wanted to do was take a shit. Our only toilet was in the middle of the living room. The walls around it had been torn down years ago, so we rigged a shower curtain around it. I stood outside the curtain & asked him questions while he grunted savagely. His silhouette looked like Rodin with all the detail rubbed away. Finally, he pushed the curtain aside, looked at all the partiers sitting on the floor & on the mottled plaid couches, drinking wine, bragging, whispering sex promises, nodding off, nodding on & he said, "Jesus, is this toilet in the middle of the living room?" Little smile, and he ran down the stairs & out into the street.

First, let me say that I love The White Stripes. Whatever cob you've got up your ass about them is wrong. Well, unless you're all about Britney & Creed & Jimmy Eats Sunday or whatever, in which case you're right on the fucking money & God bless you. I have no bone to pick with those who live on the other side of the planet from me aesthetically. In fact, I'd rather hear someone gimme a hard-boiled testimonial about any of those acts than listen to someone go on about TV on the Radio, Franz Ferdinand or Modest Mouse. It's more exotic. It's like listening to the description Alexander the Great gives of the Acephali, a race of beings who had no heads but a completely viable civilization nonetheless -- well, until Alexander burned it to the ground.
         But The White Stripes are brilliant. He's a brilliant guitar player, she's a terrible drummer like Maureen Tucker who gives the duo's sound just the dose of primitivism to keep him from becoming Jimmy Page. I think he knows that about her and we should as well. She's Beat Happening to his exploding electric star boy. Plus, they have taste. Jack White has better musical taste than you or me combined. He knows rock'n'roll & its dark wood detours like nobody's business. And it's not. He can be precious & hot blooded & he can be your metal guru. He can rip nagging little holes in Dylan's dead man's suit & whip up bluegrass/blues connections all night if you want. Gloriously, he's not afraid to kick someone's fucking ass to prove it. Impressed yet? I am.
So, you know I'm not just weighing in on the backlash when I tell you The Kills are a gazillion times better than The White Stripes. Did I say a gazillion? That's low, but it's the highest number an 11 1/2-year old can come up with under these circumstances. The Kills add a junkie's shambling stride to the mighty homerun walk of the Stripes. They have those great hollowed out harmonies I used to cream over from Royal Trux. They start out in full Hooker/E. James boogie mode & then the boogie trips over itself and falls down the stairs. It's just human nature, when you hear something as healthy & vital as The White Stripes, you want to stick a needle of jim-jam junk into that Achilles heel. The Kills are the sound of White Stripes melting back down the stairway to heaven.

GRAND FUNK RAILROAD - Live Album (Capitol; 2002 CD re-issue of a 1970 album)
Man, this fucking basement is like my own personal Haiti. I know you think Haiti's all palm trees & grass skirts or something, but man it's not. The only time people dance there is to rain curses down on someone else. And the whole country is one big mud flat because the peasants are cutting down all the trees for makeshift lean-tos so they won't have to sleep in the mud. And sometimes they use the wood to carve horrible looking pagan gods, like the Virgin Mary's head on the body of a cow or St. Margaret's dismembered boobs with eyes instead of nipples. Mostly though they use the trees to keep warm, for fire & fuel. I know what you're thinking, why don't they sleep with their goats or their chickens or use eggs or goats or chickens for currency to buy things? No sir, they have to use those for voudon sacrifices. And Voudon is the real word for voodoo. You're probably thinking, why don't they use real Haitian currency (called the Gourde, so's you know)? Well, that's because their military juntas (Papa Doc Duvalier & other cannibalistic scumfucks) need all the money to hire voudon priests (houngans) & priestesses (mambos) to put the evil eye & other voodoo curses on the country's enemies, who've allowed their nation to become a big mudpie. Oh, and to buy hottubs & SUVs so they can drive around the mudflat and shoot down naked peasants for sport. Most of the population of Haiti hides under the mud all day so as not to be shot by wild, drunk, grinning army generals with machine guns mounted on the roll bars of their SUVs. When night falls,
they dig themselves out of the mud, brush themselves off & mumble swear words on the way home. Once there, they grab one of their chickens & one of their goats, slit their throats & dance around screaming until dawn, attempting to bring curses down upon the machine gun wielding dictators.
When the sun rises, they bury themselves under the mud again. That's the typical day in Haiti. I mean, the Haiti in my mind. And this is my book report on Haiti: Island Nation, and this is the album I listened to while I wrote it, and WHAT? This doesn't make any sense? Well, fuck you, then. You
fucking SUV driving machine gun man. Fuck you! I mean, wasn't the assignment why aren't there any trees in Haiti?

The Raveonettes - Pretty in Black (Columbia)
I can see where some sour folk might find The Raveonettes a little insubstantial, and they certainly are more candy than staple, but it's hard to resist the everlasting gobstoppers these Danes keep tossing off their 50s crepe paper homecoming float. Although often compared to Jesus & Mary Chain, The Raveonettes have a more diverse sonic palette, and for them sonics is everything -- the chrome metallic sheen, the reverb, ghostly echo, tremelo & huge Phil Spector drumbeats ARE the songs. The faux decadent lyrics -- VU seediness as a second language -- are just there to remind you of haunting melodies past.
       Where J & M Chain never really strayed from turning the Brian Wilson songbook inside out/upside down/outside up, and then burying the pastiche under The Velvet's cyclotron of white noise, the Raveonettes tackle Spector, including a curiously unspectacular version of "My Boyfriend's Back," mitigated somewhat by the glorious "Ode to L.A.," (featuring Ronnie Spector in an unsettling, bombastic vocal cameo), The Everly Brothers ("Here Comes Mary"), the crumpled prom night tafetta of Julee Cruise & Chris Isaac ("Sleepwalking"), and dreamy early 70s bubblegum ("Love in a Trashcan").
Pretty in Black is less instantly ravishing than 2003's Chain Gang of Love, but now and again the album actually takes some pretty heady chances. For instance, you think you know where "Sleepwalking" is going when Sune Rose Wagner & Sharon Foo begin their breathy Badalementi chant but, trust me, you don't. This is not to say The Raveonettes are anywhere near as glorious as JMC. The ultimate cartoonishness of it all keeps them arm's length from the kind of Rilke-esque emotions the brothers Reid plugged into effortlessly. Nor do the guest shots from Spector, Mo Tucker, and Martin Rev add much grist to the general air of superficiality. The Raveonettes may not strengthen your bones, collate your priorities, or even prepare you for a single rainy day in the real world, but as a sly escape hatch into a glimmering pop past that never really existed, Pretty in Black is one great delusional time machine.

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During my hardcore hometaping/trading days of the early 1990’s, I had the pleasure – and misfortune – to be exposed to hundreds, perhaps thousands, of underground artists from all over the globe. Of all these artists, I believe the Ceramic Hobs have progressed the most, and refined their sound to the greatest level imaginable. This is the Hobs' third proper album, after 19 years of demo cassettes and 7-inch EPs,
released four years after “Straight Outta Rampton” which many fans – myself included – had considered their masterpiece. “Shergar,” however, takes their music one step further, creating an album which achieves classic status beyond their underground roots. This recording easily rivals, and probably outshines, any of the landmark post-punk albums which were so influential to so many of us. Although the songwriting and production value immediately stand out over previous Hobs efforts, the performance itself is the most striking aspect here. This is the band’s first release on which the guitars really stand out as being excellent. In addition, Simon Morris’ voice has never sounded better – no doubt thanks to years of smoking and shouting out requests for “Ass Destroyer” at Whitehouse concerts, it has developed into a quite superb grittiness ideal for rock vocals. Despite the nostalgic attachment I have for all those early records from the Fall, Gang of Four, etc. – I’d actually rather listen to this disc in their place. Highly recommended. Pumf Records, http://www.pumf.net.

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Andy Ortmann (Panicsville, Plastic Crimewave Sound, etc.) and Weasel Walter (Flying Luttenbachers, XBXRX, etc.) collaborate on this new release of classic power-electronics. Although largely comprised of vocals and electronics, the duo nimbly summons the spirit of early to mid-80’s Whitehouse and Sutcliffe Jugend with long instrumental interludes of feedback-based noise – something which is often neglected by all but the most serious devotees of the genre, of which I count myself among. While the music itself is pure macho muscle, the lyrics in contrast contain more
humor, irony and heart than power-electronics is generally known for -- hence the “contradiction” I suppose. Ortmann and Walter are perhaps more on the same level as Mark Solotroff’s Bloodyminded project than anyone else; Solotroff explores the most stereotypically comedic and absurd elements of the genre, brilliantly setting himself up for ridicule and mockery in the process. Contradiction takes this premise one step further by mixing such self-mocking themes and lyrics with a far more potent and forceful sound than Solotroff ever achieved, albeit sans his trademark leather pants, resulting in a recording of greater depth and personality than any power-electronics release I’ve heard in recent years. Whereas Whitehouse once crooned “Get down on your knees and suck my cock!,” Contradiction declares “When I told you I liked you, I wasn’t joking!” – thus
injecting a much-needed element of realism, perfectly reflecting the modern noise man in all his emotionally sensitive and politically-correct glory. Nothing short of a genuine masterpiece. Noted Chicago experimentalist Kevin Drumm also contributes to one track.
Breathmint Records, P.O. Box 1, Southampton PA 18966-0001, USA,

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Pauline Oliveros at the University of Minnesota Rarig Center, Minneapolis - December 4, 2004.
Pauline Oliveros’ piece “--the fierce urgency of now--“ and her subsequent performance of this work, neatly illustrated to me much of what’s wrong with experimental / avant-garde music today. Both in concept and execution, this piece was an exercise in mediocrity which inexcusably fails to live up to even its own modest potential.
        Avant-garde music is, by definition, supposed to be challenging and risky – attacking the prevailing conventions of the day. This is especially true in America today, with a conservative government forcibly encouraging conformity and dampening personal expression. There are many new and dramatic ways to express one’s distaste on this subject. And within the small world of underground music, there is an even greater potential considering most of the audience is already on the same page.
        Oliveros, however, takes the safest and least interesting path available to her by making a generic dedication of the piece to a “world without war”, and taking inspiration from a speech by Martin Luther King Jr. Such a concept would be fairly commendable if it were presented by, say, the Dixie Chicks, who may actually reach people with their message. But in the context of an avant-garde music performance, it’s as unnecessary as describing the color of the walls around the stage, not to mention being grossly typical and clichéd. War sucks! Child abuse is bad! Hitler was evil! Saying such things isn’t taking a stand or offering any solutions.
In addition, the execution of the piece illustrates the worst elements of using a Powerbook in a live performance setting. Packing such a machine full of emulators and effect plug-ins can be a convenient and inexpensive way to perform without the need for hauling around a load of equipment – however, for most Powerbook acts, Oliveros included, the machine becomes such a crutch their performances can’t stand on its own legs.
Oliveros played accordian through a pre-programmed MIDI setting which created six delayed, effect-laden outputs to six different speakers. The end result was akin to uninteresting, random notes being fed through an elaborate delay unit. In fact, I swear one of the six outputs was using factory setting A2 on my cheap, plastic bass multi-effect pedal. If Oliveros had instead conducted an ensemble of six accordian players, for example, there at least would have been the potential for some interaction between the players themselves, and between the composer and players. Letting a machine do all the work resulted in a listening experience so dry and lifeless it could be compared to receiving a computer-generated form letter from one’s credit card company.
There was nothing “fierce” or “urgent” about this performance. It offered nothing remotely new, and even failed to present its clichés in an interesting way. Not recommended.

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JOE COLLEY: Psychic Stress Soundtracks CD (ANTIFROST)
The newest CD by Joe Colley, and to give you the summation in Nabakovian style: it's elegant and should be purchased at your earliest convenience. Now, how I reached that assessment. Describing Joe's work has never been a simple task for me; on one level, this disc has works which overall might loosely be classified as drones, but there's consistently a handful of elements permeating fore- and background, giving each piece a direction that 1) frees it from stark genre delineation and 2) gives each piece greater individual life. Both factors contribute to his works being intriguing and engaging. I would prefer, for this review, to steer clear of “it sounds like…” because that cheapens the excitement of experiencing the sound and moreover reduces his sound to something that can be described by slapping together some adjectives and nouns, which simply is not fair. Anyway. Although my overall impression is the pieces on this disc have a more composed feel -- as opposed to rawer research documents -- it's also inaccurate to say this disc is a “return to form.” Both styles (research vs. composed, and he has more than these two, fear not) have
their place, but the former is probably the one I enjoy more. This is because while I find Joe's goals / intentions -- communicating with sound / translating a state or idea into an aural experience -- a constant thread in each release, my sense is he’s also aiming to reach those goals in a different manner with each release. And I'm speaking of more than a thorough examination of “technique,” for lack of a better word. I envision Joe with a small notepad full of notes on various sound observations he's made and then thinking -- real, qualitative thinking here, not merely noodling (although noodling has its place) -- about how each sound not only conveys or captures an idea but how sounds working together -- either sliding smooth like glass or grating like rusted barbed wire -- convey a (sometime different) idea than the separate elements.
       Moreover, I find these are not ideas needing explanation; Joe's work often has an extremely personal feel (something perhaps difficult to even want to attempt transmitting live [hence, in my speculation, his infrequent live performances]), ideas that are perhaps best developed when he's able to explore them in a controlled environment (studio conditions). The delicacy and directness of his audio output (not to mention the more “obvious” aspects of the titles of the recordings) gives me the sense that he’s working for something greater than the sum of his audio output, but his sound works is as close as he’s going to get to breakthrough -- or as comfortable as he feels like getting through a public exercise / exorcising as an audio release. To jump back to Joe’s “styles,” though, I'm simultaneously not convinced of this "need" for studio works; the often analytical sterility of some of his conceptual pieces (field recordings, a DAT machine dying, static from a TV, a record player being used to play another object, the sound of clay absorbing water) works fantastic as well.
       It's this unification of opposing ideas -- and many more, as I've alluded to before, which make Joe's work stand out among the myriad sound artists in existence today. On this disc, I would describe the overall sound of any given piece in the following way (which I believe will not contradict my earlier desire to not “describe” the sounds): take several layers of thin ice, the topmost being the thinnest and the bottom-most the thickest, and place them a few inches from each other suspended by thin wires. In each piece of ice embed a few objects, running on batteries. Each object makes a sound, affected by 1) the batteries as they slowly die, 2) the vibration of the ice, 3) the vibration of the wires, 4) the vibration and vibration frequency of the other object(s) in the ice. Eventually the thinnest ice melts away and the objects fall to the next level below. The process and interaction of sounds begins anew, yet permutated; the ice continues to melt until all objects have collapsed through the last piece of ice and all batteries have expired. Joe's work is beautifully complex, beautifully simple; it is determined both by chance and by a highly discerning ear. Often, seemingly divergent elements are brought together in Joe's works to resolve ideas -- the resolution of which is only of concern to him. As a listener, you are fortunate enough to hear the fruit of his labor and peek aurally into an amazing place.

So who’s your greatest influence?

by Tracy Heightchew

ECHO IS YOUR LOVE (paper cut eye) were definitely weaned on Sonic Youth, but early Sonic Youth, so that’s a good thing in my book. Can’t figure out if all petite Finnish girls sound this otherworldly, or if this chick’s great accent is being distorted to achieve an alien effect. Musically strong and self-assured w/long moments of guitar walls of sound. This is good layered indie rock, the psycho-sexual loveliness of “Haste Nowhere” is well worth the CD, though it is pretty familiar, think of good Yo La Tengo or, sigh, My Bloody Valentine w/easy to understand lyrics. GO LIKE HELL (hell bend rock n roll) really wish they were the Plasmatics. BUT NOBODY IS THE PLASMATICS! These guys are fun, probably a decent live show if you get in for free, but man I hate ripoffs! Especially ones that are so obvious yet call themselves ‘a homage to’ band. Even the cover is an obvious rethought Coup E’tat/New Hope For the Wretched, minus the tank or swimming pool. CLOCK-CLEANER (the hassler) I will quote the promo material: “FLIPPER, BLACK FLAG, MELVINS, BIG BLACK, JESUS LIZARD, SCRATCH ACID. “ Enough said, either you will like those titles or not. Clockcleaner doesn’t do a bad job, but really isn’t David Yow enough? ANNIHILATION TIME these guys like Black Flag, probably all eras. GREENLIGHT PROMISE (in a mirror that lied the truth) Remember Soul Asylum? Toad the Wet Sprocket? Man, when there is an early 90s nostalgic movement, the band is going to cash in! Good luck!

THE MOANERS dark snack I saw The Moaners open for Wanda Jackson and fell in love. And Trailer Bride (Melissa Swingle’s first band) is in my top ten bands. Duo: drums, guitars and vocals. I keep reading all the press releases and reviews that kinda down on Trailer Bride for being too dark and whatnot, too slow and comparing The Moaners to PJ Harvey. So PJ…well there is something to this but this album is definetly homegrown, no Brits here. From the mountains of North Carolina, and streets of Balitmore, these are songs about Flannery O’Connor and Elizabeth Cotton, with heavy blues riffs. A mean ass girl with a lazy drawl and smart lyrics, this album is best when it is dark, and though Melissa wants to get away from the ‘mournful’ music of Trailer Bride, songs like ‘Hard Times’ are the best songs of the album.

UNICORN playing with light Soundtrack music, literally. This release also includes 3 short films by Stephanie Miller. Sparse electronic, soft sounds that make for great lullabies for folks on the brink of sleep, you know, when your mind is wondering, figuring out what dream images you’re going to be using that night.

A series of releases from Jeremy Kennedy and pals, otherwise known as ‘the fuck me stupid mountain princess recording collective’, from bloomington, IN:

D.K.G. SLEEP TRIO wow, this is fun! Minimalist. Funny keyboards. Hippy electronics. Which I usually hate, but hey! Why not?! Silly Devoesque lyrics faded in the background that made smile. Probably boring live. On the other hand are the MEAN-AGERS. Same ole punk rock, three cord noise and screaming vocals with titles like ‘I’m not poor, I’m punk.’ Maybe you have a dozen records that are like this, folks who listened to a lot of dirty punk bands, the girl/guy mixed vocals a lot like faster X, but the record’s fun and I especially liked ‘robots 1.’ The chick sometimes sounds like Yoshimi when she forces her voice too high, then when her voice is low, she’s channeling Tragic Mulatto. PUPPY VS. DYSLEXIA the legend of the elk band Okay, so I’m thinking The Frogs. Not really, cuz the lyrics are never quite in league w/’dead pussy in the road’ though ‘I wanna do cocaine’ and ‘blackout gonerrhea madness” does contain a lot of promise. And sometimes, the girl’s voice recalls Garbage and the Flowers, or DadaMah (go New Zealand!) which I don’t understand, cuz these folks are from Bloomington! See, hooisers are okay. Sometimes. No, if you like your noise homebrewed and you like all the above folks, and would like some kind of mixture of them, check this lineup out. I think I might be a ‘...fuck me mountain princess...’ fan.

Retarded Albums — Reviewed!!
by Patty Hearst

To get attention from people, you’re going to have to try harder than playing acoustic songs that are supposed to piss people off. If these songs are not trying to piss people off, they shouldn’t contain the lyrics, “God had a plan when he made woman and man man and woman fit like a puzzle.” And the worst part is that this is a band made up of a couple. Oh please! If you’re trying to be a cute couple band, try Mates of State, and if you’re trying to piss people off, try The Corndawg. One saving grace is the beautiful erotic innuendo in the lyrics on the song entitled Lemons, “squeeze that lemon til the juice runs down my leg ooh girl.”

Nintendo songs are pretty awesome! Whether you have no idea what game these songs are based off of, or you beat the game 10 trillion times in 2nd grade, you can’t deny the nostalgic bleepy madness in these songs, calculated patterns chopped, skewed, and reset. Listen and always feel like you’ve killed all the monsters! Or saved a pretty lady! Or made it past level 5 on Excite Bike! Christ that game was hard!!
Komputergurl’s drum n bass hit was made on a speak and spell, and a great dance hit, like Kraftwerk’s Pocket Calculator. There are great pitch shifted melodies, and someone spells electric. The downside is that if you liked this artist’s work, you can’t find any more music they made; the insert reads, “no information available” which is kinda cheap. Should it have been on vinyl, you could drop this record into your DJ set, and make the crowd go wild. Minibosses are on this one, the great masters of the nintendo music! But who mixes cds, really? No one really beat matches cd tables… So.. that’s the give and take. Good nostalgic electronic hits!

High pitched ocean froth sounds, squeaks to show the audience, “you are in a world that has already fallen apart,” and the ambient doom of this album makes for the most post-apocalyptic dance shindig of all time. That is, if you dance like a zombie on ecstasy, and you’re glad that the world fell apart. Tickle-ish, squiggly, uncomfortable sounds, echoed wind, sounds resembling icicles falling from the sky onto a frozen man’s beard. The first song is called A Pedestal to Support The Invaders, arousing the imagery of a suspicious colliding of outer space with the earth. Maybe enlarged insects gliding across the cosmos at advanced speed, making communications with each other of which part of the world to chomp down on first?
The first song combines Wiese & Wood with Jesus Philben, a live track from February 2002. Human Denial, featuring the death voice vocals of Guilt Connector, slaughters ears, splitting freedom, from reality, makes slaves out of the audience, shattered into a million bits of glass. The rest are exclusively Wiese & Wood together. Seeding Interstellar Space, a 25 minute live song, really is just that. Planting seeds interstellarly. Perhaps that is what all “noise” musicians are doing these days. Signals to the aliens perhaps? Enjoy it, this is among the pinnacles of noise music.

DEAD LIKE DALLAS: The Great Midwestern Tragedy CD The Great Midwestern Tragedy is, like most hardcore these days, spotted with beautiful Modest Mouse like vocals and guitar riffs, which decay into loud onslaughts that will guarantee any 18 year old audience a major freak-out, headbanging, pit dancing session. Or maybe no one crushes each other in a pit anymore. Who knows. If they don’t though, that’s like at least half the reason this band exists. The other is for pretty fresh guitar riffs. But even those aren’t even so original, and tend to repeat the same notes over and over. What may be the case it the lead guitarist doesn’t have the guts or the self esteem enough to follow through with his dreams of epic Cliffs of Dover style song writing. Maybe he really is better than the rest, but his scene is reinforcing his mediocrity? Just stuff for teenage kids to go wild, which is something to respect, for absolute certain. Maybe not for your average Blastitude reader. This is totally the kind of album that will help bring teenagers in the Midwest leading tragic lives into late adolescence. We should all support that.

VARIOUS ARTISTS: Songs of Freedom and Joy, A Collection of Bad Music and Random Weirdness CD (ALSO-RAN RECORDS)
Also-Ran Records’ motto is “Never for money, always for love.” With a slogan like that, you can tell it’s either hippies or Christians. Well, it sounds like both, and the liner notes say, “Our purpose at Also-Ran Records is to increase faith in the hearts of growing Christians, inspire holiness in the lives of believers, and instill hope in the hearts of struggling people everywhere because He is coming!” Well, with that kind of attitude, maybe putting out records ought to be someone else’s business? Especially if the album’s title reflects that the compilation curators are choosing “Bad Music” (which it kinda is) and “Random Weirdness” (couldn’t agree more!)!
A song by “The Crispin Glover Experience” called Not 4 Rape on Me is a story about something like a rape drama, which isn’t that cool, and really not feminist in any way, as it’s about a woman who was raped, but won’t fess up because the cops “woulda had to take a hair sample, woulda had to inspect your pussy” which is not cool, I guess, and why is it by “The Crispin Glover Experience”?
This difficult album claims to be music made by a number of different people. The song titles don’t match up with each other on various printed matter, and there are also a number of outright lies regarding the mastering and making of this cd. I will not indulge any creators by even mentioning who they bothered to falsely name-drop here, but it seems obvious that this is a practical joke that went way too far.

CAESURA: Wallpaper The Witness CD (BIRDS GO SOUTH)
Wallpaper the Witness is much like Old Time Relijun’s verve of existence. Bouncy beautiful bass lines, and operatic style vocals, that can only resemble Arrington’s. The drummer is forceful and springy, inducing ruptures of spastic dancing, as only a band from San Francisco can! Evan Rehill plays a mean bluesy guitar howling in beside the groovy chord-ridden bass lines. Discombobulated broken beat sort of song writing with the wobbly melodic tones make it a great party album. Dead on, this is an awesome album. The recording is so crisp, that all the songs are pretty great, but nothing compares to their opener. It only gets noisier and shoegazier from there. Killer B is the climax song here, a true epic anthem to incite riots. The music goes from shoegazey songs into art damaged noise, which is an incredible feat, truly.

This album was “Recorded in Da Bronx” which causes one to wonder just what kind of cred you get by recording in “Da Bronx,” and who can be certain!
        Certainly an exciting album, mixing tuba, banjo, and tape, with some vocals, unless those are from the tape. This is some experimental noise music for certain, sounds like improvised jazz. Awesome music to listen to anytime, anywhere, doing whatever. Put it on a boombox and ride from “Da Bronx” to Queens, and you probably wouldn’t piss off anybody else on the train. This is good hearted, funky, calm, unpretentious, laughable, awesome, instinctual, and animalistic. The banjo is played by Brandon Seabrook like a drum, whispy and poppy. The tuba has a mind of it’s own, played by Jesse Dulman. Part of the same sphere of sound, everything comes together, an amulet of kindered spirits. The song Grimy really is the noisiest on here, with total banjo plucking madness! The hit of this little album is song number 4, Flimsy, truly a shining star! This group complements bands like Gang Wizard and Sunburned Hand of the Man as it’s the same element and genre, but it’s so low key and gorgeous, anyone would enjoy a listen.

Now, it’s really tough to keep track of all the Tori Amos imitators in the world, and maybe that’s the wrong perspective to have here, because it sounds like Paula Maya is a bit more like, say, Sheryl Crow, as it is an upbeat and friendly album, in terms of tone, voice, and subject matter. Aesthetically, it is a bit more whiney and sensitive sounding like Tori Amos. Too sensitive. If Sheryl Crow is rock and roll, Tori Amos is the Queen of Emo, and this is like the Princess of Emo who played Dungeons and Dragons with some other kids. The lyrics are great evidence of the problem inherent within this album, “Obsession/despair/insanity/freedom” which are all cool things to talk about, and maybe in one song, but not when you’re whining and half positive about the whole thing. The keyboard parts are way too simple and straightforward. The title track Resurrection is in Portuguese and English, and does not, like another reviewer suggests, remind one of Peter Gabriel. Peter Gabriel is way more inspired. If you like Kenny G and Tori Amos you might enjoy this!

Sometimes they sound like John Cougar Mellancamp meets Built to Spill, which could lead you to believe that this is a kinda ok rock album, on the extraordinarily poppy side. And then, out of nowhere, the song Carbon Dioxide sounds like a Green Day song. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, can you fault a band for not being able to stick to one set idea? Trial and Error sounds like Rush meets Elvis Costello. This album is extraordinarily schizophrenic, which is exactly why perhaps they can’t find a girlfriend.

To their credit, they do label this album as power pop on a sticker, which will not mislead anyone. Lead singer Martin Blasick has a voice like a young Robert Pollard! If Guided By Voices played songs like The Ramones which would be about what it would sound like, also, Pollard would have to be on prozac to produce this result. Should they go on a month long drinking bender? A keg on stage per show across the country? Then they could be Guided by Voices Part II and it would be awesome! As it is, they’re very talented and awesome musicians, who will definitely be around in the future.

ALEC K. REDFEARN & THE EYESORES: Every Man for Himself & God Against All CD (CORLEONE RECORDS)
Exciting delivery of vocals, different use of instrumentation, and passion are what separates this album from the rest. In the first ten seconds there is already passion, emotion, and something awesome shaking. Gorgeous bass drum. Incredible back up singers. Serious lyrics and plucking away at the guitar. This is some great music here, inspired, so it seems by both independent American pop music and also some international flavors here, perhaps evident mostly in the horn orchestration.
On Candy-Ass, around the minute and a half mark, the song embarks on a fluid churned out vision of intense fever dreams, making this sound of cacophanous ballroom expression, which stops on a dime to return to the sweet sing songy voices within.
The last song, Coccyx, is a bit more noise echo than the rest, and seems to stem from a dark inclination, rather than the sugar coated songs on the rest of the album. It is just as pretty as the rest of the songs.
There is so much in the way of cool kinds of stuff on this album. If you like The Blow, or other indie K Records type stuff, you ought to jump on this too.

WORLD: Portland, OR live song
This one song live recording that was received by a compilation committee has not been released in any way at this time. Featuring Honey Owens and Adam Forkner, who also perform in bands Jackie O Motherfucker, and singularly in many other projects (too many to name!), this is a total new and lo fi version, in one perspective, of some Led Zeppelin song, only maybe it’s not just one Zeppelin song, maybe it’s a bunch of them. Adam’s guitar playing stops for no man, just totally grooving jam band style, while Honey’s vocals overtake the album through the use of some fuzzy effects, like she’s in outer space in a cloud and Adam is flying a kite with an anchor on it. Get anything you can by them, because it all rips most experimental dance music out of the ballpark. http://www.yarnlazer.com

VARIOUS ARTISTS: The Immaculate Deception, A Tribute To Madonna (DELIRIUM RECORDS)
So, a few people went to a bar together, and they had had a few beers at this point, and one of them said, “Hey, punks are just as much influenced by Madonna as they are by The Stooges!” and one of the other people there said, “Oh yeah, prove it” and the original speaker went out and produced this compilation.
         Of course, they are talented, but the idea is a bit played out, and while it must be a pretty big ego boost to play a Madonna song like it’s all punk, still, who wouldn’t rather hear Madonna than some punk guitar solo in the middle of Burnin Up? Of course, this all depends on whether or not you’re into that sort of thing. Granted, a lot of these songs are accurate depictions of the original, but that’s not what people like in a cover album. People like things to sound a little different. And this is just off just enough to make the audience crave the original: talented women singers, talented drum programmers and musicians. The best/worst song on here is a tie between the Material Girl and Like A Prayer covers. Like A Prayer is so serious, it’s hard to take seriously, and Material Girl features goofy guy singers singing as if it were reggae. Sorta weird, and doesn’t stray far enough from the original. Yep.

Fucking crazy sounds, here. There are some rad Guns n Roses style solos, some warped guitar moves, and some rad singing, all operatic and gothic sounding, but the beats are off, like in the recording process they missed a few lines of something, and the effect ends up sounding like it’s at a drunk party, not the masterpiece of perfection that this could be if they had gone in and recorded it a second time. The vocal delivery is so far off that it’s really just hard to listen, but the ideas are like a warm day on Mount Everest, and the sounds are truly out of this ecosystem. Here’s to hoping that they go at it again, giving the gothic elements a bit of a rest, and encouraging the spacey ideas that come out in this mix.
This harsh industrial wacky layering is freaky in it’s own right, though, and is worth a listen to know what the voices inside their head kinda sound like.

Is New York City Positive Bar Rock anybody’s cup of tea? Jackson believes the message is in the music, and that song writing comes first and foremost, and has won some awards, but this stuff, as much as it is impeccably produced, mastered, and has some greatly traditional rock and roll sounds, it is completely lacking in anything really truly touching and new. Hard to feel like you’re really with him, it’s so clean and easy listening, like it was supposed to be played at Nordstrom Rack on a pretty sunshiny Saturday morning, like, if you’re into buying discounted mom jeans that you think are maybe cool, than this music is for you. The “punk” song on here called Dead Yuppies on the Highway is hardly worth the time for a listen, it is such a fake anthem that it’s impossible to believe that he could even for a fucking second believe that he is really tough enough to think it’s “rad” to see “cappuccino in the mud.” Oh, please, spare me your Jesus, and your surf rock too.

THE NORTH SEA: The Oscelot Chronicles Volume One
People in Oklahoma do indeed like twee pop, but this is not twee pop. This is waves of chords, played through some delay, and it’s more or less nice sounding, and a bit echoey, and not really appropriate for more than intense listening. The moving sounds overhead flange like a drive by radar, and the guitar flounders about aimlessly repeating itself, with good intentions. The title of the first song is Drinking Gallo By The Seaside, which sounds about right: being drunk and sea sick at the same time?
Next songs are more “wow” oriented, with beepy blips and bizarre struggling drops of water cascading somewhere, as if they contact mic’d the rain. Things get more interesting as sounds layer upon each other and form some kinda rainforest of virtual sound land scape blend. But this album flip flops between repeating guitar moves, and these weird land/sound scapes, and doesn’t move beyond this. Even the song Vegas, which ought to be a bit about bright lights, and hookers, doesn’t even have the right ring to it: still this acoustic guitar with some chord progressions, and this time, without effects. This is uninteresting noise oriented folk music at its least pretentious, at least, and that is the best thing one can say about it, other than it’s not at all harsh on the ears, and is a great introduction for your folk friend, if you want him or her to start liking Wolf Eyes one day.
Also, The North Sea gets an A+ for packaging ideas, which include some batik fabric.

Extraordinary hard rock cello opening, that starts some seriously awesome quick paced drumming and gear shifts, from beat to beat, but then the first song is also called 50 Percent Metal. Where do you go from here? Presenting every genre in the world in cello and drums? No, it’s all metal. This is a DIY Metal Screaming Drums and Cello album, and it rules. There is no information on how to get more copies of this, but hopefully you can contact them at this address, and since this was recorded in 2002, it’s probably outdated at this point, and there is no way to get copies of it anymore, nor even find out where these people are.
The break downs here are super cordial displays of what you can really do as a duo using some original sounding instrumentation, some extra sparse notation, some serious exploring of what can be done, but most importantly these people are really, really paying attention to each other and listening, totally grasping the importance of the present moment to fill the gaps of time where emotions don’t need to be spoken, merely expressed in sounds, perfected, and headbangingly. Are Andy and Melissa out there? Are they opening their email inbox? Boy, one should hope, we need more bridges of classical to noise that are as intensely gorgeous as this on the planet. Let their intentions be sung high: this is melodic, emotional, and grating to reality. There is everything to love.

(show review)
I should really start this off by just saying that I went to a show last Friday. I really want to bore you with the details of the history of the Portland underground weird/experimental/
rock/noise scene, but I can’t. In the amount of time that it would take for me to do that, Blastitude would totally be on issue 127. At least. This show was perhaps the penultimate version of everything you could ever want in underground music, and let me explain why.
        For one, everybody who played broke all the rules, and the people who put on the show broke a lot of rules too, and this is really the most important aspect of our daily life: which rules will you break today? Today I am breaking all the journalism rules, and I am using the word I, and I will also use the word fuck if I have to. Not every article you read is gonna do that, and I know, cuz I’ve read the rules, and the best piece of advice I’ve gotten in my adult life was from Richard Meltzer: you gotta break the rules.
        So this show may or may have taken place somewhere in Portland, and I can’t tell you where, and that’s probably for the best.
        I pulled up in the Monster Dudes tour van, which was a relatively non descript minivan which Jeremy described as fancy, and Venec insisted was absolutely not fancy, not that I can remember a reason why. For anyone who thinks that this is a “band with a kid in it” you’re right, but what you don’t understand is that this is a serious rock and roll band, and that Jeremy plays with his son is really just the tip of the iceberg. This music is raw, and serious, and Venec writes most of the songs. He loves Bad Religion, The Ramones, and anything that particularly strikes his fancy, for example, he really took to this one song off of the Belgian Compilation FOKROKTOP which did indeed feature belching.
        So, Monster Dudes unloaded in this totally unadvertised show space, where they had not really had any shows prior, and will probably not again, really, either, for no real reason, other than legality, hospitality, and perhaps cleanliness issues, but the point here is that it is the absolutely unadvertised shows in Portland that really make the floodgates fall wide open, and I mean wide fucking open.
        Monster Dudes' set consisted of a few surprises, some songs written by Venec, and some instrumentation that seemed live, but was then looped in a special way to allow for both Venec and Jeremy to run around chasing each other, and wrestling; all the while, a second back up drummer took up the slack where Venec was, and the music came back and forth in that manner for some time, each time increasingly more and more catchy, adorable, ecstatic and full of life. And then their set was over, and Venec was left to tinker with everything left in the room.

from http://www.urbanhonking.com/kill/

There were some kegs, but I think they were finished early on, and everyone was at that point where they were just teetering on the edges of reality so much so that someone was projectile pooping in a bathroom somewhere, and someone was able to walk in on them, and proceed to announce to several rooms of party what had just transpired.
         When the extra-winged out-metal band Otum Rectepulant played, one member's girlfriend was dancing in a circular trance on top of a sort of catwalk, and was so tranced out by the circles that she lost sight of her purpose, forgetting to throw a bucket of blood on the performers who had asked her to do just that. Otum Rectepulant played with a very large and ornate scepter that glowed upon being slammed into the ground ruled the crowd with such ambience, and although the sound was truly secondary to the performance, the performance was the most entertaining thing anyone had seen in months, and the front line of spectators stood with beer in hand, mouth agape, hanging onto each other for dear life that they could not believe what was before their very own eyes.

from http://www.urbanhonking.com/kill/

Mikaela’s Fiend played next, and by then the place was getting packed, and this was a big space. It was just so very Portland, perfect for Hustler White, and Mikaela’s Fiend’s tour kickoff show: tons of energy, brightly colored faces, and musicians and art everywhere you turn. It is indeed a rare moment that you see this many people come out to a show, and that deserves as much praise as can be brandished on the audience, who all rocked out to Mikaela’s Fiend, a bright young group from Seattle, Washington. They play with the most incredible sort of rambunctiousness you could dream of seeing, hair flipping around all over the place, and stylish kids gyrating in the same motion.
        For the remainder of the groups playing (Hustler White, Battleship, and Sickie Sickie) a distinction has to be made, because the first three bands seemed like one show, and the remainder of the three seemed to be another show. Not in terms of sound, but in terms of judging how well I remember the events that took place that night. For example, it’s hard to remember which band played next, but I think it was Sickie Sickie, and did I mention yet that this was all part of one large Animal Prom? Well, it was an animal prom, so people were dressed like they were animals – at a prom.
         Dressed in scavenged prom dresses, Sickie Sickie took to the stage in a punk rock rage (no joke!). My favorite song of theirs is Humming Bird, and features some of the most incredible dynamics since punk broke. There are three girls in the group, all of whom love playing with each other, and they work with each other screaming and singing, producing extra loud bass sounds, and dancey drum parts, it’s a super arty dance band that is just so fabulous, they are not to be missed, nor messed with. These girls know what’s up musically and otherwise. Raw, beautiful, and passionate, they are the best new underground band in Portland.
         Now, when I say underground, I mean that these people in these underground bands aren’t really shelling out the big bucks for their gear, hell, who knows if any of the bands considered underground can afford to. Probably not, but this music is made out of necessity, it is always going to be do it or die, and basically presents an awful lot of this realized dream like energy, and shows that are sometimes more like punk art installations. This show was the pinnacle of that kind of expression.
         Battleship, who are from Oakland, performed a rockin, and beautiful set, followed by Hustler White, and both bands are perhaps the epitome of this expression. Meghan of Hustler White used to sign her email with a signature about how rock and roll has kidnapped her, and she’s not running away screaming. It’s true in many ways, for most of these souls that something concerning rock and roll has captured them, myself included, and there is no turning back. Maybe we’ve been waiting our whole lives for this moment, and here it is, some of the most raw and eternal sounds of the future of real, honest, and true music.

from http://www.urbanhonking.com/kill/

Hustler White sounds pretty wild, these kids indeed are wild. Made up of some of the wreckages of the bands Hux, and Alarmist, there are two lead vocalists who do a fair amount of no wavey theatrics, running and singing, and doing some weird, funny stuff, like Mariel who runs up to members of the audience and tries to make them move. It’s good energy.
Overall, this is the sound of the future of Portland. People who are doing it because they love to fucking do it. And these people all are gonna break all the rules: of playing music, of recording, of what performance is, and reinvent the fucking wheel. They’re all breaking all these rules, and you’re gonna miss out on it, unless you hear the call too. It’s do or die. And that is all.










by Bonnie Banks

LHD: ‘Hotel Fire’
Wiese and Cherry P. knock on a metal basement echo setting for a whirring saucer attack. They operate a stumbling mechano elephant, the legs are way too many, 13 or 20. Ruined city looks delicious for stumblefest. Great place to go flop around and die in some stinking melted chemical hell pit. This is the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard on a one sided 7”. You must shine your shoes, put on your canary yellow cravat, and dunk your head in the chlorine hole with these farting fishsticks. You like the high pressure in the ears right? This one will not let you down. Get it! P Tapes. Distr: http://www.erstwhilerecords.com/

Critical Monkey "Failure of an Intelligent Design"
Robi Kauker is a computer sound designer who makes effects for the Sims games. He runs around empty ships and plays everything that creaks and goes bump in the dark. On this cd he makes hollow spider mandibles spit gloop from ketchup packs. Repeatedly. Then he goes off on a sensitive uncontrolled tear drop piano plink. This goes on for nine minutes. I forgive you! This is a good thing to hear in the middle of the night, for me anyways, after walking in a roomful of rusty nails intending to needle and dawdle your foot soles. Alrighty, after the nine, there are beegnats and stainless steel radiators getting it on in a syrup filled dumpster which goes into disapproving fuzz mold (track 4). A very processed glimmer glitty guitar processes itself into puree for a vacation in cyberland. More piana banana focusing on scamper fingers and silence. Then at the end locusts talk to you from far away, then they burrow into your head because you don’t listen! You never listen to locust swarms! You can be happy about this silly incident though, yes!, because an organic chicken gristle clock has been put into your colon, happily working itself up your spine with a chorus effect box in tow. This is your first day of your new life as a two footed tree fungus. http://www.resipiscent.com

Wolf Eyes: ‘It’s a Mug’s Life -Looped Laserdisc’
One side is a straight cut, sort of. Groaning bummmm bass, with feed back stone age birds sucking pool cleaner from low flying spore clouds. The side ends with a locked groove that could be a cartoon dinosaur feather in a throat tickle and barf scene, doom to kiddies everywhere, drop in. Absolutely wonderful! If your cuts don’t work, the lathing Wolf Eye will recut it, how’s that for service?
The looped grooves side kept me going for a long time. I could’ve played a few of these all day, but I needed to inform you all of this rackley mud ok? So back off muckchacho! One of the loops locks onto a this heat type riff done by our pal Czoko the Czech robot original. All machine drudge sock-it-to-me misery! Fab. One is a windup Wolf Eyes toy, shoots into space while the lower parts of your body are torn off. Stomping out an acid burn sound….spinning top-on-fire takes out a pile of trash-on-fire. Thank you Wolf Eyes. Available at shows, with luck.

LHD: ‘Young and Restless’
I woke up after dreaming that my grandmother was driving this old Lincoln car down a hill with a bunch of turns too fast, I say to her ‘Old lady! Lay off the pedal! I’m trying to take in some scenery! This thing is going to run right off into a ditch!’ so I get a coffee table we can fit the whole family around and drive that sideways down the street eating some snacks and listening to the metal wheels on the pavement. Night comes, there’s no headlights so we have to camp in a barn. I’m going to back up a little to grandma on the pedal, and tie it in with this LHD release. You can almost hear the retethering of the mouse to a different wave file (this is a wild guess, there’s some silent butterfudge stuck in there, esp. on track one) when there’s a little pause before the next fuzzy ass blast. The pedal action though, it’s a little too heavy and rambunctious for me around 4 mins into track 2 and parts of track 3. I get blood caked by the blurry digital (?) distortion that is going on before the 16 minute ride is over. It’s over? My popcorn is all over my chest. You lousy sons of bitches! I play it three times in a row every time I listen to it, this is no lie! I like it very much like a tobacco habit, cough, lung launch, spit. I just wish these guys would do a little more foreplay with the gasoline before torching themselves. www.blossomingnoise.com

This guy is going to be a major contender if he gets his flashpots and pint of kalaazar ‘scum demon robot’ arms working. On this 3” there’s a overdriven guitar beeping on the high end, regurgitating string treason on the low end to kick this sucker off. Then he turns the echo and blug blug into a humming warm tubular bell bottom, coated in chewed up rat turd frosted oscillotone, to make tubular bees with a slobbering smoked hive drip, the organic tubular bell hymn. Then guitar light ala Popul Vuh plays into the leather calloused mits of a storm stick, coated in duct tape and mop water stuck between the strings horns of a Herzog film. All over the place in a short time, perfect for the movie nut aka Pengo fan. joshuachurchill.com/tr.html

Damion Romero and David Scott Stone
This 3" has all the elements of a energized refrigerator making it's own decisions and taking it to the soundtrack of `Terrore nello Spazio di Biciclette'. Waves of maddening syntho drool underwater palsy twitch go up against a deep tone of syrup filled cattle prod. Hissing fuzz of the radar colossus wanders in the middle of the sponge covered earth. The invention of the endorphine cannon focuses on the eyes of the blood spider. Everything moves really slow upsidedown. The solar edification of the sponge earth makes all the milk pumping varmints blood simmer and cook themselves. We are finished! Death! 17:40 mins later.
What a beautiful thing this little sucker is. Instant `Halice in
Wonderland: 2001'. I'm going to stuff it in grampa's pants so he doesn't bitch about how boring the USO reruns are in his head. P Tapes. Distr: http://www.erstwhilerecords.com/

Richard Ramirez and Skin Crime: 'Pleasure, Commerce & Disease'
Some high falooting fuzz on this nugget. I have to say that when the full bodied distortion checks out for the Baja vacation offer to let the electrified chipmunks squeek and string tailed jerboa root around in the wall socket it's pretty moving. Track two is a total kickback warm pee sea floater with slow motion storm overhead. I have a feeling that the growth rate of burdock roots to hydrocephalism is pretty equal after playing this one on the noise consumer market. The detuned tv set on track 3 `Days Become Numbered' drops into a slow motion tubular bells twist done with glass comets hitting the ocean. A ripple occurs, comets get the bends, benefits lost, turned way up, up! and then…you guess the rest. Track 4 `This is the Body I Once Occupied' is like a frozen you harnessed to a Bantu tribe aggressively trying to saw off your sick head. You like putting roofing sealant in your frozen earholes and neck stump right? good for you idiot. The following white hiss swear words you can hear in your very snot if you have a legitimate unthawed corpse. Down the drain goes the metal thallus, repeat and ……..the end! iheartnoise.com

Gerrit: 'Chill Pill'
Starting with the microphone drag and clothe percolator, this 3 inch develops into a dynamic disaster of spinning planet tops that echo out into galaxy 11. Echo death radio turns on for a few seconds before planet zero is launched into Gamora's spinning turntable back. Ok, now that was the first few minutes, really dynamic compared to the other stuff I've heard (not much). Track 2 is chewing echo trolls fighting over some wooden intestine thing. Track 3 is dinosaur bird park when they all eat pennies and microphones slowly in an echoing garage. Tin Can rattle and chopstick clicks into hiss den in the house of mosquito. Someone dropped the spoon box again. Iron teeth can pick `em up to the beat of chimes and dime fights! I've had enough of this lsd trip, I am drinking my caramel body bag already. Dynamic musk flows out of my talking flowers made of limpet dough. Surprise, this cdr is tops. P Tapes. Distr: http://www.erstwhilerecords.

Knives -- a 7 inch
On side ___ you can hear your nearest noise goons talking about it. Hey guy! Whatcha got there? My new Knives seven inch wanna hear? Ya, why are you playing cardboard? Wont that ruin your needle? Duh, it fits on the turntable that's why! If it fits on the turntable the record geek will play it, the law of the land. Side ____ cardboard with the `hold my hand robot' fluxo pulse static dripping to a close. You like cardboard right? I do too! The other side (side ___ ___) is a more destructo distortion cardboard thing. You like hearding hammer cows across a desert of cardboard right? Me too baby! Again at the end there's the fluxo pulse radio plague-noodle getting it's pulse taken by a single bee this time. iheartnoise.com

Sissy Spacek: pow pow
The unicorn cover aside, this 7" is cut up mangle low end brain damage on planet screwmoon. Drums speed up (like some Kenneth Gaburo trick) and end up with skipping needle drum tines. Inserted digital feedback buzzes by like a lost fly in the heap. Glactic Baron shows off his wart hog rut tone followed by the Black Hole janitor barbarian unclogging the space bidet. This is done big style, big, like a hand drumming it's fingers to a non syncopated planet death. Then on the other side the radium has a slapback horse kick vacuum cleaner. Pulsing crompety clomp. You can hear the neighbors in Mexico arguing over the lottery in the distance before the burned lead paint jet spray rolls onto the styrofoam irrigation system. This is a busy, nut job here. MASS edits, perfect edits, scum covered edits, edits out the yang. Every eight seconds theres some other soundscape ruining the economy of the continent with shifted views. More seconds another fast paced chase of ice picks in the eyes and caramel pillars hitting high rise cereal boxes. You must have this one you ingrate putzturd.
Helicopter. http://

The Rita: Bodies Bear Traces of Cranial Violence
I haven't seen the live show, which apparently is really good because he has a shark encyclopedia he consults while playing? Whatever maaan. I have only cds to judge whats watt. There are four distortion pedals hooked into a microwave, a radio on El Grande del Huevos Muertos, and an intermittent volcano. North, south, east, west, distortion. This is the kind of things they play for old dirt on buildings hoping that everything will peel itself off. Very little dynamics or variance, just a full on hair stand-on-end feature-length volcano war. I would've added a few 40 foot polar bears in tutus playing snail chip Parcheesi and swung the radio dial a little, but I'm a jewel powered electric generation gooseberry from planet `fairy fuck'. www.iheartnoise.com.

Gruntsplatter: Pest Maiden
I don't know anything about this guy except he swims at one mph in frozen butter in an pink orca suit. This cd is like a test record for sonar lovers. I also get the idea that this might be the follow up to the "Erasurehead"soundtrack, "Erasurehead Reloaded Underwaterspace". I have to shake the hand of this cd a few time for calming me down when I was looking for my keys to get out of my house. What are house keys when the slowest drag race engine is driving into a wall of cat food and chocolate over the course of 24 minutes? There's one track on here that sounds like some guy (Gruntsplatter probably) hits a gong slowly, it echoes into infinity before finding backwards light sources. OK! I'm sold, this is a fine, drag your muddy bellbottoms through the moon dust over the course of a year realease. iheartnoise.com

Hive Mind: Black Tempest
Hive Mime Greh has this thing for rising and falling oscillations much like the Hamburger Lady of yore. He does this on almost every goddam release of his. He cranks in the low end up and down, up and down, minimized the hubble bubber, then dances the jig of the crawling plague. About five minutes into this cdr I realize it's actually making me want to poo. He brings in a stealth airplane motor at one point and lets it's zodiac signed eyes direct lasers from the left to right over the hamburscillator. His main weapon is that hamburscillator, half plastic box, the rest boa constrictor with the head and anus cut out. A snake hiss at one point comes in before it curls up and sleeps in warm blood. Ominous lowering slowing at the end makes a fine digital puree of earkill (with some flutter phantasms and fire snakes), if loud enough. Have you ever slept outside in the cold waiting to be ravaged by a prowling pomade pointy pawed pokerfaced plot? This is that 3 inch movie! P Tapes.
Distr: http://www.erstwhilerecords.com/

Mitchell Brown: Dance of the Dream Daikon
Mitchell has had quiet time for a while now with his little speakers and busted up ginger synth cardboard guitar. H gets a warm tone, introduces the painted rhinestone whirr and then backs off into oblivion. One track is like baby motors playing the Peter Gunn Theme. Another is a fetus rolling down a bowling lane made of clouds and glass. His buildup themes of tones register on the molecular scale. The nose twitches a little, the eyelids go down a little. The sink fills up while you nap on the sneeze at the tip of the lung. I hope he does a full out organ-hair crossbreed one day with his mazarati keyboard. This tiny thing is good for nighttime uses.

Space Machine: Modular Series, Model-202 (Zone of Avoidance)
Maso of Masonna does his synth party band Space Machine once in a while. This 3 inch is packet in a baby module synth pack. Full color, all out P tapes marketing assault. Beautiful thing, yes. The actual sounds on this recording are a high whine pulse that is supposed to latch onto your alpha state and drive invisible silver drops of water into your eyes while they fill up with oil and window cleaner. The pulse gets so up in your chest that your toes get lighter as you lift off the ground and drift out the open window. The strobing flutter goes in and out of your alpha state until you’re at the lip of the window 8 minutes later. There’s a violin and cascading backwards diamond chicken beak picking at glass harmonica tendons that noodle in on themselves minutes later. This is a heavenly state! Ok you’ve gone to heaven physically already, and now mentally, jump! Wait wait! Come ba- P Tapes. Distr: http://www.erstwhilerecords.com/

Heat Directors 1
4 guys play some stuff on this 7”. It’s a hoot. First off is Mitchell Brown. It’s not the tonal feed back dream stuff or the Rodelius kraut monch. He’s doing something like Astro synth loops echoing. “Oim a liyon” loop comes in with puff paws and rolls in it’s mellow filth. Dirty sea lion.
       Dave Kendall: This sound is a preparation to put your head in a freezer for another century, the good one. He has the click click, the hum and groan. All that’s missing is the rusty saw on the neck muscles and the grand plume of blood flowing into the tin bucket. That’s where you come in!
       Damion Romero: If he’s not idling his car, he’s idling a …helicopter! The next phase of America’s coolest speculum fighter is the helicopter. Humming flutter butter. Not too much in the way of variance, but if you’re going to scare the Columbian drug cartel in your backyard you want some consistency. Once again poweracoustics.org
John Wiese: This pornoise nut is busy as a rabbit in a sex factory. He makes a case in the cut “Laser Hit” playing in the toy box, fussing for the legal size quilldo, and skips into the beach setting with some wicked sockhausen gleeping. The amount of cutups on this track will boggle your mimes.
I don’t know if this single is still around, Helicopter does short runs of 7”s and then you are screwed. Let me know.

Government Alpha “Dr. Freudsten” / Third Organ “Counter Attack of Shine Shine Dan”
This seven-inch isn’t breaking new ground for these folks too much anyways. Not to say that it isn’t worth putting socks on your hands and rolling down hill to the nearest Amoeba to pick this stinker up. The Govt Alf side has what sounds like an offset record of shortwave speeding up and slowing down, this busts out of it’s shoulder holdster to go fruitbat on the feedback. Glooping gurgles pop your eyears with a pattern that you could follow with smoke signals. Dissapating squeals and peels.
       The Third Organ side starts with your needle seeming to skip all over the vinyl, clickety click. Then a shoomy tidal wave seduction starts inwarming into over crackle crumb land. Rubber hands are flattened out into a suction plunger for the pickle jar sump seranade. Fwomp. The chorus delay of an idling paper basket car with balsa wheels starts to take off, then the record ends. Cute little device of joy!
       The bonus cd: Sounds like their regular stuff, Govt Alf part is distortion in the key of grr. There's a siren and a motorized elephant shooting cannon turds in slow motion at the end. The Third Organ part is distorted pop music going into ring ovulator distortong.

Tom Grimley: The P tapes 3” cdr
Tom Grimley (aka Grimey) has these little sound bombs that he makes. They are like a fistful of Twig styled cracked electronic groovy goofery feeding back on themselves to make the squelch-o wave my twinkie finger in your whipped frosting sound. Each of the little boxes that play themselves are recorded beautifully. They have no one twiddling the knobs, one guy sets a timer, Grimey, the rest is magic robot mining sonar. Seems to me that 3 different boxbots start lippin off at different times on the 3 cuts here. No complaints, wish he would release an lp, ok nevermind about that, he has all of his stuff free up on tomgrimley.com. Do not miss the squeeking, hissing boxbots if he plays your cement floored warehouse. Sound bombs here: http://tomgrimley.com/archive.htm. P Tapes.
Distr: http://www.erstwhilerecords.com/

Andy Ortmann- Nightmania cd
I play the hell out of this cd. It’s got everything, starting with the reader’s digest Kontakte/Stockhausen stroll on the cracking broken mirror and lost wandering mobile kelp beach. He goes off with some Herschell Gordon Lewis organ fright, later into chainsawing the plywood cloud with mini sheep stumbling over it. There’s a Hanna Barbara sound effects drop in loop that jumps in the swimming pool of white shortwaving sharks on remote control antennae hooks. Wind up hatchet machine cuts the yawning chicken man into plate-sized pieces for his blank robberies. The hatchet machine makes change too, door hinges of octopus suction cups. Whip loop and giggling when the radio flamethrower pops out of the fishing gear closet. Cheep blurg-peep goes the echoing cigar box whales, and then baby Ortmann explains his philosophies to you in helium. Do not miss out on this jewel, it has all your requirements for jump rope lobotomy in nightiming. http://nihilist.com/