The album Super Session grew out of a single nine hour jam in 1968 by guitarists Stephen Stills and Mike Bloomfield and multi-instrumentalist Al Kooper. Kooper and Bloomfield had both previously worked in support of Bob Dylan, in concert and appearing on his ground-breaking classic, Highway 61 Revisited.
Kooper, fresh from having assembled and recorded the inaugural incarnation of Blood, Sweat & Tears, booked two days of studio time with Bloomfield in May 1968 in Los Angeles. They recruited keyboardist Barry Goldberg and bassist Harvey Brooks, both members of the band that Bloomfield was in the process of leaving, Electric Flag, and well-known session drummer "Fast" Eddie Hoh. On the first day the quintet recorded the first side of the album, tracks one through five of the CD version; the next day, Bloomfield, who was a heroin addict, abruptly disappeared after suffering an attack of what was euphemistically referred to as "chronic insomnia." Kooper hastily called on Stephen Stills to sit in for Bloomfield on what would become the second side of the album, tracks six through nine, including a lengthy cover version of Donovan's "Season of the Witch."[1]
Some overdubbed horns were later added while the album was being mixed, which were eventually subtracted from the bonus tracks on the CD version. The album, which cost just $13,000 to make, was a top-20 hit which garnered a Gold Record award. Kooper forgave Bloomfield, and the two of them made several concert appearances after the album was released. -- wikipedia
Covered in a variegated spray of New Orleans Mardi Gras feathers and shiny voodoo baubles, Mac Rebennack's highly personal mythology was finally made real on this 1968 album. This was his first appearance made under the new guise of Dr. John Creaux, the Night Tripper. Before then, he'd been a pivotal figure on the Crescent City R&B circuit. Afterward, he became one of its most significant blues ambassadors. This album is a classic of the admittedly specialized psychedelic swamp-gumbo genre, boasting at least four tracks that have become cult favorites. "Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya-Ya," "Mama Roux," "Jump Sturdy," and "I Walk on Gilded Splinters" each delicately mix catchy choruses and weird spatial sound effects, with radical stereo separation, intensely croaking, close-quarter vocals from the doctor, pneumatic keyboard riffs, pinprick electric guitar, and booming Afro-Caribbean percussion. The album still stands at its original 33-minute length, with no bonus cuts unearthed, but its high density more than compensates for any brevity. - Martin Lonely
Imagine a cross between the latin rock of Santana and the funky progressions of Sly Stone and thats where you'll find Demon Fuzz" -From th tour promo notes in 1970 Messed-up funky jazz from an obscure early 70s UK group and an album that really lives up to its trippy cover! The tracks are all long and stretched out with lots of organ, sax, and spaced out drums and the overall style is a mix of dub-heavy funk, Afro jazz, and a bit of jazz rock jamming! There's a bit of vocals on the album, but overall most of the set is instrumental in a really right on and progressive style thatis great. This is the kind of record that always got passed by in the 80s when everyone was looking for hard James Brown grooves, but which is very much in fashion now with the blunted funky crowd.
In a just world, Demon Fuzz would have been very successful. Sadly, however, the only real success they enjoyed is the fact that many club DJs now use their samples frequently. Although the band played most of the British underground festivals in the early seventies, Demon Fuzz were simply too way-out to make a significant impact on the college crowd and as a result they broke up after 18 months on the scene. Released in 1970 the band’s only album, the extraordinary Afreaka!, demonstrates their excellence in playing psychedelic soul, dub-heavy funk, progressive rock, Afro-jazz and black acid rock. Demon Fuzz these days are amongst the most bootlegged and sampled bands from the early 70s British underground. This re-release, which includes the stunning and rare EP that at the time was released along with the album, tells the band’s full story for the first time ever.
Messed-up funky jazz from an obscure early 70s UK group -- and an album that really lives up to its trippy cover! The tracks are all long and stretched out -- with lots of organ, sax, and spaced out drums -- and the overall style is a mix of dub-heavy funk, Afro jazz, and a bit of jazz rock jamming! There's a bit of vocals on the album, but overall most of the set is instrumental -- in a really right on and progressive style that we totally love. This is the kind of record that always got passed by in the 80s when everyone was looking for hard James Brown grooves, but which is very much in fashion now with the blunted funky crowd. Cuts include "Hymn To Mother Earth", "Another Country", "Disillusioned Man", and "Mercy (Variation No. 1)" -- plus bonus tracks "Fuzz Oriental Blues", "I Put A Spell On You", and "Message To Mankind". --- Thanks ChrisGoesRock (THE GREATEST BLOG EVER) password: phrockblog.blogspot.com (another favorite blog)
One of the best and most reverenced albums in the history of "underground" rock music, Tago Mago was my introduction to Can, and I frankly wouldn't have had it any other way. It's an album that can satisfy snooty prog-rock fans and snooty indie-rock fans alike, combining incredible chops and grooves with incredible sounds and textures in a way that must have been beyond mind-blowing back in 1971 (and that's to say nothing about the creepiness factor). In short, this is the ultimate Can experience.
And you know what, that's a pretty remarkable achievement for an album that, for just under thirty minutes, is pretty danged close to unlistenable. This is a seven-track double album (it fits on one CD, though) that, while starting and ending on perfectly solid notes, hits a whole lot of sour notes (when they can even be called notes) in tracks five and six. Track five is a 17:22 sound collage called Aumgn, and while I'm certainly tolerant of the kinds of noises Schmidt and Czukay (not to mention Damo, though he's not really in the forefront) fill this track with, I'm not all that sold on the seemingly directionless way in which they're presented here. Track six, entitled Peking O, mainly features a completely unleashed Damo Suzuki, going nuts with some hyperactive verbal assaults that, if nothing else, certainly foreshadow the works of the later infamous abstract vocalization artist, The Great Cornholio. If ever Can could be accused of truly pointless experimentation, it would be in these two tracks.
On the other hand, though, while part of me certainly wants to accuse Can of this, there's also a part of me that doesn't entirely buy that accusation. Call me nuts, but as mind-boggling and even silly as these pieces might get at points, I never really get the feeling that Can are just BS'ing me and hoping to get away with it. Aumgn, for all of its wandering wailings, has some really lovely, depressing downbeat sounds and vibes to it (listen to that first minute or so and tell me you don't get a chill or two), and while it certainly suffers from not having an underlying Jaki "thunka-thunka" driving it forward, there's at least a brief patch near the end where the drums show up to make things feel better than they had at first. And in Peking O, well, it would be noteworthy if for no other reason than for that electronic pitter-patter drum sound that sounds exactly like what I've heard in much of the bits and pieces of 90's "electronica" and beyond (which is almost nothing, but my point stands), and anytime you can predate something that closely by 25+ years, you're going to win my respect. And, doggone it, I like hearing Schmidt playing off of Damo's wails with his electric piano, and I like hearing Damo go so wacky that he even ends up making a *bpbpbpbpbpbpbpbpbpbpb* (fingers running over lips) sound at one point. The point is, these tracks are disturbing and uncomfortable and experiments gone horribly horribly wrong, but they also contain a badly required air of competency to them, and given how they accentuate the vibes of going insane that occupy much of the rest of the album, it's hard for me to completely condemn them. I'll probably go back to skipping them when I listen to the album in the future, but I don't completely rue the time I've spent getting seriously reacquainted with them for this review.
That leaves five tracks, which are so mind-bogglingly great that they make this nearly a no-brainer 13 in my eyes. I used to slightly overlook the opening Paperhouse, but I eventually repented of that. The opening, slower section may not be as immediately grabbing as the hyperactive robotic groove that the piece turns into, but it's got some really lovely piano tinklings buried in the mix if you want to listen to them. Plus, the whole track features a guitar attack that I find more and more interesting every time I listen to it; I'm continually amazed at how graceful the parts from Karoli tend to be here. Of course, it's much easier on this track (as on many Can tracks) to pay attention to the drumming and Suzuki's vocals than to anything else, and that does a good job of setting the tone for Mushroom, which is everything great about Can poured into a single 4:08 burst. The drums sound even more lo-fi than usual, but they're no less powerful or steady or rhythmic than before, and Suzuki's alternations between low mumbling and loud wailing are arguably better structured here than anywhere else. And dig the explosion at the end, which I guess is supposed to be like the mushroom cloud on the cover, unless of course you think it looks more like a skull getting shot through.
Whatever, we then come to the amazing Oh Yeah, which initially features backwards vocals and cymbals (but forwards driving rhythm from the drums, yessirree), covered in some of the best low key, atmospheric keyboard noises for this kind of music imaginable, before Damo snaps from the rewind button to the play button, not that it makes any difference for figuring out what he's saying. Sheesh, there's more terrific moody, jazzy, gritty guitar parts, some more of Czukay knowing exactly how much to just hold the piece together and how much to step slightly into the spotlight, and everywhere there's those drums that just seem they could go on for eternity without losing the groove. Amazing.
But not as amazing as the behemoth that comes after. I LOVED Halleluwah on my very first listen to it, and that initial infatuation hasn't receded one bit. Four years after first listening to this (my first listen was late 2001), I'm still finding new bits to grab my attention. The drumming on here is absolutely transcendant, even by Jaki's standards; just listen to that complicated rhythm that he's keeping so rock-steady and pounding for almost the entirety of the 18+ minutes of this track, and then notice the rolls he's putting underneath it without once losing the beat in the third minute or so of the piece, and then tell me that he wasn't one of the greatest drummers on earth. And everybody else, well, they take full advantage of this foundation, even more than on the amazing Mother Sky. More jazzy, even Spanishy-in-places guitar parts, more synth and piano breaks, some amazingly creepy violin noises for good measure, and above all there's Damo. Lessee, there's that one bit where I think he's singing about recording the other tracks on the album (the only vaguely rational explanation I can give for the fact that he's reciting titles of other songs); there's that opening "Well has anybody ever seen the snowman *something* *something* ..." bit; and of course there's the climactic wailings of "HALLELELELELELELELUWAH HALLELELELELELELELUWAH." Does this look scary on paper? Well, trust me, it would to me too, but it all sounds ridiculously awesome when you actually hear it, unless having a musical representation of a person going completely nuts can't possibly represent your idea of awesome.
The album then hits Aumgn and Peking O, but just when it seems we're destined to have such a great start tainted by such a bitter taste to finish it, the band is kind enough to finish off with another classic in Bring Me Coffee or Tea. It's like, I dunno, it's like coming out of the most wicked, nightmarish acid trip imaginable, and waking up and trying to meditate it off in a dark room. The drums here are different from the rest of the album; not hyper-rhythmic, but definitely not chaotic like on much of the last two tracks. Rather, they're just there to help with the general mood, which is primarily set by the guitars (augmented by sitars quite a bit), and Suzuki's Easternish wails in his typical manner. Imagine a slightly more intense version of Don't Turn the Light On, Leave Me Alone, with the trappings I described, and there you go.
And there you have it, one of the most incredibly screwed up, but also one of the most incredible, albums made in the 70's. The most experimental tracks can scare away even the faithful, but if you can't get into Mushroom, Oh Yeah or Halleluwah, then Can is simply not for you. Any adventerous music lover should have this.
Over its seven-year gestation, Christmas on Mars had come to represent everything wonderful and frustrating about the Flaming Lips. As much as we loved the idea of Wayne Coyne producing a sci-fi flick in his backyard with hardware-store materials, the Lips' musical production became less frequent-- and less consistent-- during its making. 2006's scattershot At War With the Mystics tried to cut down on the lightness of their two previous landmark albums but was largely overwhelmed by cloying singles ("The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song", "Free Radicals") that felt like little more than excuses to shoot off their confetti cannons. The trio's desire to produce crowd-pleasing spectacle-- whether on stage or on film-- had seemingly taken priority over their desire to be a band.
But when Christmas on Mars finally surfaced in late 2008, it came with a peace offering to fans longing for a return to the band's bizarro roots: a full-length soundtrack of unsettling instrumentals that conjured the film's icy desolation. Now, rather than close a chapter on this seven-year saga, the Flaming Lips have taken a dramatic left turn with their Mystics follow-up-- the double album Embryonic is the band's most audacious undertaking since 1997's Zaireeka. The sprawling 70-minute marathon ruminates on themes of madness, isolation, and hallucinogenic horror, translating them into an unrelentingly paranoid, static-soaked acid-rock epic. Embryonic actually feels like it was produced in one of Christmas on Mars' hermetic space-station labs, with squelching equipment that takes a few moments to warm up and frequent instructional studio chatter that gives the impression of a subject under observation.
There's a raw directness to Embryonic that's been largely absent from Lips records since the mid-90s. For the first time in years, they've made an album that actually sounds like a band playing live together in a small room. In light of Mystics' overly processed, grab-bag quality, the holistic, audio-vérité approach on display here is remarkable-- the record is extremely dense, initially overwhelming, but unusually rewarding upon repeat listens. Like the double-disc, high-concept rock epics of yore (think Physical Graffiti or Bitches Brew), it captures them at their most sprawling and ambitious, boldly pushing themselves towards more adventurous horizons.
Musically, too, Embryonic leans heavily on the Lips' formative 60s/70s psych-rock influence (like In a Priest Driven Ambulance's "Take Meta Mars" before it, Embryonic's formidable opener "Convinced of the Hex" grooves heavily on Can's "Mushroom"), but never before has the band recorded an album so unwaveringly sinister, or so devoid of pop-song levity. (Hell, even Zaireeka had "The Big Ol' Bug Is the New Baby Now".) Wayne Coyne no longer assumes the role of the endearingly creaky, puppet-toting crooner. Instead, he's a world-weary fatalist describing scenes of environmental holocaust in a chillingly unaffected monotone on the rampaging "See the Leaves". Or he's a cult leader deviously summoning his minions on "Sagittarius Silver Announcement", before leading them to a fiery demise on the monstrous, stoner-metal onslaught of "Worm Mountain" (featuring fuzzbox-stomping assistance from MGMT). The atmosphere of dread reaches its fever pitch in the album's spellbinding seven-minute centerpiece "Powerless", where, over top a coolly ominous bass riff, Coyne's nervous verses yield to a Syd Barrett-on-Mandrax guitar freak out.
There are brief respites amid Embryonic's thundering eruptions, but even these carry a calm-before-the-storm unease: On paper, "I Can Be a Frog" reads like another of Coyne's animal-populated nursery rhymes, but the foreboding orchestration and giggly background squawks (courtesy of Karen O) render it too creepy for kindergarten. And the vocoderized lullaby "The Impulse" serves only to make the screaming intro to strobe-lit freakout "Silver Trembling Hands" all the more startling. True to an album named Embryonic, there are tracks that aren't fully formed (namely, the drunken Bonham stumble of "Your Bats" or the free-psych splatter of "Scorpio Swords"), but even in its slighter moments, Embryonic exhibits a renewed sense of fearless freakery for a band who so recently threatened to lapse into stagy routine.
"I wish I could go back, go back in time," Coyne sings on "Evil", Embryonic's most conventionally Lips-ian ballad, but the nostalgic impulse is immediately undercut by the admission that "no one really ever can." Perhaps Coyne is anticipating the confused reactions of recent Lips converts expecting more life-affirming anthems along the lines of "Do You Realize??" or "Race for the Prize". But given the band's history, Embryonic's sea change arrives right on time to herald a new Flaming Lips for a new decade. Back in 1990, In a Priest Driven Ambulance signaled the Lips' transformation from garage-punk misfits into a splendorous, kaleidoscopic rock outfit; 1999's The Soft Bulletin reconfigured them once again into a sophisticated, sincere symphonic-pop troupe bestowed with increasing commercial acclaim and street-naming ceremonies in their honor. We can only hope that, as we enter the 2010s, Embryonic portends yet another new phase for the Flaming Lips-- one that's equally as improbable and rewarding as the ones that have preceded it.
Blitzen Trapper's breakthrough album, Wild Mountain Nation (which they self-released last year), caught fire thanks, in part, to its eclecticism and try-anything-once spirit. The Portland, Oregon-based sextet poured twangy Deadhead jams, loose, do-it-yourself Pavement sprawl, muscular Lynyrd Skynyrd riffs, anachronistic synthesizer bursts, and scruffy Band melodies into a rangy collection that was as thrilling for its stylistic alchemy as it was for its infectious good vibes. Precisely what made it so beguiling, however, also made it slightly infuriating: there was no cohesion between all of the diverse yet charmingly shaggy tracks, each one representing a specific sliver of Blitzen Trapper's multiple personalities. It was a gripping mishmash, and it proved that its creators had an obsession with the sounds of the 1970s and a gift for ramshackle melodies. But it left curious listeners wondering who Blitzen Trapper really were. For their follow-up (and Sub Pop debut), the band has narrowed its scope, sharpening their focus, and the result proves they don't need to try so many different approaches when they've found one that works so well.
Furr, the band's fourth full-length, finds the six-piece giving in to their Basement Tapes urges. On acoustic tracks "Lady on the Water" and "Black River Killer", singer Eric Earley offers the most convincing Dylan vocals of this young century. And though the latter-- a gothic fugitive tale of sin, sheriffs, and stolen horses-- is bolstered by an unexpectedly spacey synth line, the former is the sort of sensual, stripped down song that Bob could have performed before he went electric at Newport. The band further pays homage to Mr. Zimmerman with the harmonicas they've spackled onto the title track's folky strummed tale of a wolfman's transformation and the spare, bittersweet piano hymn "Not Your Lover" (incidentally, the album's standout track).
Blitzen Trapper's more cohesive approach has yielded something that is becoming increasingly rare these days: An essential 13-song LP with no filler. There isn't an extraneous verse, much less a superfluous track here. Though they have more clearly defined their shambolic Americana this time around, they still show great range and unpredictability with their songwriting. The harmony-laden, 40-second pastoral coda to "Love U" and the entirety of the drawling, honeyed pedal-steel showcase "Stolen Shoes & a Rifle" make a convincing argument that the dominant sound of Sub Pop in 2008 owes more to the country-rock poignancy of CSNY than the label's punk past (see also: Fleet Foxes, Hardly Art's Moondoggies). The first two and a half minutes of "Love U", however, are a fuzzy, howling soup of reverberating guitars and jittery drum fills set amidst a molasses-slow dirge. And "Echo/Always On/EZ Con" pulls their organic, earnest sound into strange territory, bleeding a "See The Sky About to Rain"-like piano weeper into a brief, burbling mess of tech sounds that evolve into a funky disco strut. It is those sorts of unexpected flourishes that keep the album crackling with excitement and separate Blitzen Trapper from the rest of the bands that are trying their hands at a similar throwback sound.
It would have been hard to follow Wild Mountain Nation with anything as sprawling, expansive, or diverse, so Blitzen Trapper didn't try. Instead, they settled down, focused, and managed to create something even better. This imaginative, heartfelt collection is more intimate than its predecessor, reveling less in boundless stylistic freedom and more in the creativity afforded by structure. Blitzen Trapper are no longer talented jacks-of-all-trades, but a master of one, and Furr is proof that this already-great band gets even better as they define themselves more specifically.
Although rock en espanol was huge in the Latin market in the '80s and '90s, the language barrier kept it from reaching non-Latin audiences. The non-Latin divisions of major labels shied away from Spanish-language rock, and most programmers at alternative rock stations rejected songs that weren't in English. Released by MCA in early 1999, Fundamental is a rare example of a major label's non-Latin division taking a gamble on a rock en espanol CD. Although not all of the disc's lyrics are in Spanish, most of them are. But whether or not one understands Spanish, it's crystal clear that Fundamental is strong musically. Puya offers an abrasive, forceful mixture of alternative rock, thrash metal and rap, and tunes like "Sal Pa' Fuera" and "Montate" have a lot to offer those who appreciate Sevendust, Korn or Rage Against the Machine. But unlike those bands, Puya sometimes incorporates elements of salsa — and, of course, another main difference is the fact that most of Puya's lyrics aren't in English. This is a fine album; one hopes that the language barrier won't prevent English-speaking rockers from enjoying it. by Alex Henderson
Catching the attention of Ex-Faith No More honcho Mike Patton and being picked to join the ranks of his highly regarded Ipecac label in company with artists such as Melvins, Hella, and the Locust, would be one hell of a high point for the majority of heavy, avant-rock bands currently making music. Zu, one of the most progressive no-wave metal bands ever to come out of Italy, were recruited by Patton for the release of their 14th album, Carboniferous , and one cannot conceive a more fitting home for the trio.
Drummer Jacopo Battaglia, saxophonist Luca T. Mai, and bass player Massimo Pupillo, formed Zu in Rome 10 years ago. Since then, aside from releasing records at the rate of more than one per year, the band have toured the world relentlessly (their self-described Black Flag-esque work ethic has motivated them to play over 1,000 live shows), and collaborated with an impressive range of sterling artists such as Hamid Drake, the Ex, Han Bennink, Damo Suzuki, Alvin Curran, and the Stooges' saxophonist Steve MacKay. Given their predilection for ingenious improvisation, combined with the ability to absorb and incorporate an exhilarating variety of musical styles into their material, it is not surprising that Zu often sounds like a hundred bands in one, although the way they piece together their wild sonic jigsaw is unique to them alone.
Entirely instrumental except for Patton's guest vocals on "Soulympics", Carboniferous veers alternately from free jazz and punk, to sheer metal, math, and hair-raising noise. By the time the album reaches the finish line, there aren't many stones left unturned. It sounds as though Zu have wrung out every last drop from their musical cloth, yet one doubts whether their imagination can possibly run dry. Arguably the most aggressive album the band has ever recorded, Carboniferous is relentless in its volatile ferocity. Any brief moment of calm is torn from limb to limb by a monstrous tide of free jazz or Behemoth-style mania. On a song such as "Carbon", Mai's saxophone, the perfect melodic replacement for Zu's lack of vocals, sounds like it is fighting a battle as it screams and struggles against the rhythm section in an effort to set itself free. Other tracks take the listener inside the workings of an industrial factory. "Chthonian" and "Axion" are so forcefully precise and metallic sounding that it feels as though you are trapped in a steel foundry, narrowly escaping darts of sparks and rivers of molten metal.
At times the songs can sound cold, as though they want to keep their distance, refusing to shed any armor. Although this could be a handicap on other albums, it only serves to makes Carboniferous more intriguing. Not exactly an easy ride, it will undoubtedly be too dense, tough, and quite frankly deranged for some listeners to take in. For others, particularly fans of fellow Mediterranean math rockers Uzeda, John Zorn's Cobra improvisations, and all Patton-affiliated projects such as Fantômas and Mr. Bungle, Zu's massive accomplishment will be nothing short of breathtaking.
An old drum kit. Homemade amps. A dented old trombone. A bucket and a handful of firecrackers. The Reeks make a sound that is otherworldly. Dark and stumbling, folk-flecked basement blues. A mix of woozy slide guitar, swampy trombone, sparse and erratic percussion, tape hiss, amp buzz, shortwave interference and dark doomy brilliance. Like a ghostly, indie rock New Orleans funeral jazz band or Roland S. Howard fronting the Dead C. Haunting, mesmerizing, gorgeously raucous, dreamily creepy and absolutely unlike anything you have ever heard.
For years the Reeks played all up and down the West Coast, basements, back porches, living rooms, pizza parlours, with only a 12" and a battered old suitcase full of hand dubbed cassettes to their name, spreading their warm cloak of pulsing, droning creepy crawly throb over anyone lucky enough to be packed into the same sweaty space. At once jubilant and danceable, but at the same time, dark and lugubrious, ominous and somnabulent. Lovers of weird music couldn't get enough, but eventually, even dyed in the wool indie rockers began to embrace the Reeks, having perhaps found something that still smacked of their beloved indie rock, but was a little darker and a whole lot weirder than they were used to. But by then it was too late.
The release of Knife Hits is truly bittersweet. After years of recording and re-recording, mixing and remixing, when Knife Hits was finally ready to be released, and the rest of the world would finally get to hear the Reeks' amazing off kilter avant indie funeral folk, Orion Satushek, Reeks mainman, guitar player, instrument builder and one of the nicest guys ever, was tragically hit and killed by a drunk driver. The personal loss, is indescribable, a deep sting everytime we think about him, his band, his music, his friendship. But the loss to music, to the music community, is immeasurable. Years of playing, and practicing and rocking and sweating in tiny cramped basements and doing with a crappy old drum kit and a couple of homemade amps what most bands can't do with all the equipment in the world is somehow all crammed onto this single disc. These ten songs. The passion, the playfulness, the dark moodiness, the spaced out droniness, the wild sweaty chaos, the sheer joy of making an unholy racket. This record is not only a totally unique chunk of damaged outsider rock brilliance, but it's also a fitting tribute to a friend we will never get over losing. -- tUMULt
Here’s what the Encyclopedia Galactica has to say about Kobaïan. It says that Kobaïan is a language of cosmic revelation developed thousands of years in Earth’s future by inter-galactic refugees fleeing the spiritual depravity of the space age.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy also mentions Kobaïan. It says that if you are unfortunate enough to visit Kobaïa don’t bother asking for the toilet. Or ordering a drink. And don’t even think about picking up a date. Kobaïan has no phrases for these distractions. It does, however, have over forty words for war.
Tiny Mix Tapes elaborates upon the matter. It says that Kobaïa’s mythology is revealed in a series of movements spanning ten albums orchestrated by French prog-rockers Magma. Presented as pan-historical space-opera sung in Kobaïan, the story is as old as time: persecuted spiritualists flee home planet, colonize alien world under principles of transcendental harmony, reestablish communications with Earth only to be betrayed by their now distant Earth-cousins. The Intergalactic death ray is brandished, and Kobaïa breaks ties with Earth for centuries. Mekanik Destruktiw Kommandoh introduces an unrealized song cycle of epic proportions titled "Theusz Hamtaahk" (trans: Time of Hatred) which would have explained the eons between initial contact and universal enlightenment over the course of nine albums. Mekanik Destruktiw Kommandoh is the final movement of the "Theusz Hamtaahk" and depicts the humanities’ liberation from the mortal coil through commune with the supreme entity Kreuhn Kohrman. After the first four albums the story of Kobaïa becomes nebulous, veering away from the fictitious timeline and into conceptual parables that vary in theme. Of course, none of this can be garnered from the lyrics, which explode from the chorus in the Wagnerian violence of Kobaïan. One must pick through the French liner notes for clues as to the album’s explication, but clearly the intent of Magma front man Christian Vander was to avoid concrete artifice and nourish the cosmic mysteries of the ’70s.
Ostensibly, Kobaïan dissuades the textualist from over-analyzing the universal message of Magma’s movements. The themes of spiritual transcendence are described in Vander’s umbral Esperanto with enormous success, or at least in contrast to the emotional content conveyed in Italian and German operas whose tropes concern sex, murder and motherhood. Kobaïan’s Franco-Germanic roots are obvious in the song titles if not in the lyrics themselves. The opening of MDK stages soldiers marching against the sectarians, denouncing the visionaries in a dark, gothic chant that erupts into the shrill protests of the believers. The aural battle concludes as the soldiers are forced to leave their corporal state and the gothic tones are replaced by chorus of celestial fury and then an ethereal prostration before the Universal. MDK favors the operatic chants above the prog guitar heroics, utilizing percussion and glistening horns to represent the alien orchestra. The base lines are functional and straight forward on MDK, though other Magma records take on a jazzier motif. There are chorographical cues which force a theatrical slant to the album, and I can imagine nothing finer than landscapes of spray-painted cardboard behind a robed chorus clutching enormous medallions and chanting the sacred words of Nebehr Gudahht. But I used to play a lot of AD&D.
Many other subtleties of the record defy delineation. You can access unofficial Kobaïan lexicons online, and many words have been translated by Vander in the course of Magma’s career, but keep in mind that the intention was to escape semantics.
Magma suffered from line-up changes on nearly every album, a fact which distinguishes the various movements from one another by scope and sound. Many of the former members borrowed from Vander unique vision in their proceeding projects, so much so that a new genre was birthed upon the French music scene. Called "Zeuhl" after the Kobaïan word for celestial, the new sound incorporates the fusion techniques of Magma and has gained popularity in Japanese rock circuits (notably Ruins.) These derivatives are a testament to the extraordinary scope of Magma’s sound. -- by Milquetoast
Some boxers are like Roy Jones Jr. in his prime and are damned near impossible to hit, some are like Pacquiao and just overwhelm opponents with power & handspeed, while others are like a young Tyson and eschew all style points for pure power. Left Lane Cruiser are like Tyson, and with All You Can Eat, their second album with Alive Records, they’re throwing haymakers from the opening track “Crackalacka” and their power is showing no signs of waning some 9 tracks later as they close with “Waynedale”.
Those familiar with Left Lane Cruiser know exactly what I am talking about. Those that aren’t familiar with this duo from Fort Wayne, Indiana, I gotta ask…why not? Left Lane Cruiser is Freddy J. Evans IV on vocals and guitar assault, while Brenn Beck is responsible for drum abuse and an array of other sounds including washboards and mouth harps. Folks that come around ninebullets with any regularity know that I’ve been singing the praises of these guys since before they were signed to Alive Records, and I can assure you that I will not be stopping with All You Can Eat. Matter of fact, one could say that the band has actually gotten better thanks to the production talents of Jim Diamond. The recording quality of All You Can Eat is night and day better than the previous albums, leaving every instrument clear and audible at high volumes (and believe me, I’ve put it to the test).
So, next time you find yourself in the need of blues-fueled, rock-driven cd in the midst of a whiskey rage, then this, the newest entry to the 9b.net Essential Listening list, is exactly what the doctor requires. You like this site? You’ll love this disc…trust me. - NINE BULLETS
I don't usually listen to the CD's that I didn't ask for right away, simply because I can't listen to everything. But there are two reasons why I popped this one in my CD player earlier than usual: First of all, I quickly looked at the title and mistakenly thought it was a new album by the band Rogue Wave. But secondly, and this is the main reason, the CD's trippy cover looked like something circa 1967, leading me to believe that this is likely another psych-rock recording that I am sure to dig. Looks like, in this case, I can judge a book by its cover, because psych-rock this is, and sure enough, I'm digging it immensely.
Upon researching this band from Nova Scotia, I was blown away to find out that this is their fourth album. It certainly sounds like a band that has experience behind it, but how come I've never heard of them before? To pigeonhole them into the psych-rock genre isn't exactly accurate, since they seem to find inspiration in all of the music of the sixties. The album opens with the soulful piano of Ain't Runnin' Scared, which is a song that oozes a real Motown vibe. Spreadin' The Blues, as its title would suggest, is a bluesier number, reminiscent of some of the classic rock output of artists like Cream, or perhaps even the Grateful Dead without all of the jammy-ness. Songs like Lucky and Without You take us back to the early 60's, with a sweetly saccharine malt shop style; the latter song even boasting a syrupy female vocal that is hard not to be charmed by. The psych-rock tag gets more appropriate in the loud and freaky The Ballad of Davey Jones while their sense of melody in Down At The Station reminds me of Big Star, Matthew Sweet or even The Action's Rolled Gold album. And the whole things ends with the southern rock jam of Skyline Daisy, showing that the band still knows how to bring the country that earned them a nom for Best Country/Bluegrass Recording at the Nova Scotia Music Awards back in 2006.
Rogue Waves is a really good album that makes me want to go back and examine the rest of their catalogue since they seem to find inspiration amongst many of my personal faves. - itsnotthebandihateitstheirfans.blogspot.com
This Baltimore band doesn’t rock so much as they roll, with soundscape guitar screeds laid out in long wave patterns. James Johnson, Brian Gossman, William Goode and Colin McCann seem to defy gravity, never quite letting their songs settle completely to the ground. As a result, things never seem very comforting, and that’s a good thing. Created in collaboration with visual artist Charles Long to accompany his exhibit at the Whitney Museum Biennial in Spring 2008, this album consists of eight “parts” that are all intended to flow together, not only internally, but externally, and not only on a micro level but on a macro level.
They work with unconventional structures, but there are not aggressively disjointed tracks or overly abstract interludes for their own sake; simultaneously, much of it sounds spontaneous, giving the impression that it's being divined with immediacy in the studio. One could cite Explosions In The Sky, or a few other semi-instro bands, for the sake of general comparisons, but those comparisons wouldn’t be fair to any of those bands because they all, by their very post-rock nature, exist somewhat beyond the bounds of traditional song structures.
Upon first pass it’s hard to take in everything that’s happening behind the curtain. Even the most minimal instrumentals are usually weighted with some intricacy, a point-counterpoint. But by the second listen, shapes start to emerge from the dark, sometimes murky tapestry. The shifty sub-sonics formalize loosely, to the point where the whole thing could be compared to a low hanging cloud- distinguishable, within reach, but just barely.
Johnson’s theatrical vocals tend to be cloudy as well, and just uneasy enough to lure you in on “High Nero”, “(p)ablum” and “Silver Gene.” And “Soft Cage” is over the top with great nervous guitar jizz.
In a review of an earlier record, Magnet writer/editor Matthew Fritch compared them to cult legends Felt and referred to their sound as “desolate.” I can also hear Joy Division and Bauhaus, but there’s much more than merely the morose going down here. There’s a keen intelligence underlying all of it. -Anthony Mark Happel of imposemagazine.com
"Here's a bomb. After what felt like an ample hiatus--just starting to mourn the loss in the form of frequent checks to the website--DNT has returned not with a fully loaded batch but with one ultra focused and fondly constructed LP from Dewey Mahood's Plankton Wat project. Probably better known as a member of Eternal Tapestry, Mahood's solo ventures have actually already been captured on the DNT imprint via a cassette from a ways back. While that one was an ultra-serene pleasure cruise though, this one pushes against the shores a bit more. Opening with the flanging guitar of the "The Magic Citadel," a kind of paired down Burnt Hills psych number with real focus and drive, the piece is a call to arms for the rest of the album, which presents nine semi-miniatures in which one idea is essentially worked out and through and over. The title track, whose clattering free drums and guitar drift splay themselves out like the arched arms of illuminated cacti, segues beautifully into the Delta sproing and pan flute pitterings of "Song of Winter Death," whose Fahey allusions extend far beyond mere use of finger-picking. He somehow conjures the underlying weirdness as well, the uncertainties. "Shrouded Path of Enchantment Occult Blues" is a solo guitar venture that allows Mahood's spare caution to flower into a raga Renaissance blues style whose patient sense of time and restraint display a maturity far beyond the usual in this field, evolving incrementally as each successive leaf drifts to the floor. Closing out the side, "The Exiled Wanderer" finds parallel vocal and banjo lines sliding effortlessly into a sacred netherworld of Tibetan Appalachia, closing the side out with an emptiness immediately filled upon the flip. "Sphere Within the Lotus," like the opener of the album, harkens in the side with gusto never again reached on the side. Splashes of guitars and frolicking drums mix with bells, vocals and Harper Mahood's flute for a brief cleansing of the palette before "While the Clouds Gather" takes delayed guitar into meditative drone worlds ripe with atmospherics and tender thematic painting via harp-like gracings over the strings. Resonating hairs strum by fingers as it meanders into warm winded vocal glides over the tundra on "Other Realms," building a humble cathedral of its resonant rainfall guitar before teetering inward for a bask in the light projected on the floor. Closing it out is "Voyage of the Night Pavilion," a drone and guitar piece firmly pointing toward the eternal beginning. A beautiful one from DNT and company, and a real accomplishment for Mahood. Killer package all around, glad to have DNT back. " -ear conditioned nightmare
Pink Mountain may be a relatively new project, but the members are hardly new to the music scene. With members who have either recorded/played with the likes of Built to Spill, Tom Waits, Oxbow, and Fred Frith, they have plenty of experience. Their self-titled release Pink Mountain is intriguingly wild to say the least. With Pink Mountain’s sound stemming from the grungiest Butthole Surfers moments to the meticulous nature of any Shellac or Zu album, they are uniquely defined. Their Avant-Garde/noise-rock style is rather eclectic and haphazardly created into a twisted haze of sound that may take some time to ease in to.
Pink Mountain wastes no time before it is immersed in static wall of sound. Soon after, the bass-heavy, psychedelic nature of “Over the Rainbow, Somewhere” becomes something rather catchy, musically at least. After all, Pink Mountain are not reliant on vocals to create hooks, but rather a synthesizer, bass, and guitar. The beginning synthesizer of “Pink City” leads to an improvised horn section with squealing saxophones before the main rhythm puts everything in its place. Two of the more beautiful, less ‘disorganized’ tracks happen to compliment one another. “Eternal Halflife” and “Eternal Shelflife,” are emotionally charged songs lead by blissful vocals and off-kilter rhythm passages. The intentional discombobulated sections only make the more standard sections more pleasing.
As much as Pink Mountain is Avant-Garde, its roots lay with a noise/math-rock undertone. “Howling Fantods” and “All Fours” contain some of the heaviest riffs and horn lines found on what becomes more of a space odyssey as the record winds down. It’s safe to say that the members of Pink Mountain weren’t exactly looking to make the most accessible album, but rather something that stretched the imagination of ones mind. Like some of the heaviest Old Man Gloom tracks, “Ditch Witch” is a sonic, thunderous song glued to a sublime, fitting voice that highlights the album.
This strange journey entitled Pink Mountain will leave behind a unique blend of experimental noise-rock with a splash of Avant-Garde. While it may not be as brilliant as Boredoms’ Super Ae or other genre pacesetters, Pink Mountain are certainly appealing for anyone looking for a uncanny listen. Consider your mind to be fucked.
Finally, a new band that sounds like they might be having a little bit of fun making records. The band in question are Knoxville, TN’s Royal Bangs.
Another from City Slang’s reliable roster, Royal Bangs are basically just a bunch of geeks, and everyone knows that geeks generally have the most fun. It’s the cool kids that earn nothing and spend their days writing bitchy rhyming couplets, while the geeks own global corporations and sit on enough cash to convince Elvis that living again might actually be an option.
There’s a geeky precision to Let It Beep’s scuzzy slices of indie-funk. The use of computers is perfectly weighted, giving the album contemporary cool and little in the way of excess fat. And you’ll wear a Cheshire Cat grin all the way through it, just like the band did making it. This will sneak into a few 2009 top 100’s, methinks.
G Thanks for the review Gideon Brody of wordpress.com
Always support the artist. Go to their concerts and buy their merchandise. Everything on this site is here for promotional use only and if you would like anything added or removed please email me at schizo.jello@gmail.com
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