Friday, September 30, 2011

Airways-Live at the L.A.C.E.

So there's a bit of confusion on my part here that maybe a few of you can clarify. I know there's a vinyl copy of this and the tracks are longer but the fidelity is shit. So I ripped this out of this impressive box that I picked up for a sou. And there's additional tracks too. So why not crop the tracks, amp up the quality, and give you more variety of what this band is capable of. Apparently there's all this subliminal messaging going on and I can't speak to that (hence it's subliminality) but I can say the urge to milk a goat and eat a card board box has never been felt so strongly. Sure it's noisesome but that's all enfolded into something womb-like and comforting. All the while you realize this is picking your pockets and leaving you destitute. If you want to hear this the way it was meant to be heard finish up that time machine, go to the show, position yourself about a block and a have East-South-East, have your friend give you a charlie horse and you'll be set.

Here (reuped 7/19/12)

Norma Loy-Romance 12"

These guys seem to be footnoted as for the fact that they were named by Alan Vega (is this really true?). That seems a bit daft as the record holds up on its own merits. Nice and buzzy and synthy as it should be. I know the kids like this kinda thing but just talking to someone I was reminded how much more I'd rather listen to some Gordon Lightfoot. So this is good and it's here to download. But young uns don't forget to pick up thy Lightfoot. Synthesizers will only take you so far.

Here (reuped 7/19/12)

David Sylvian-Blemish

Always the dapper gent, this cover illustration betrays Sylvain's charm by depicting him as some slackerish bum with bad fashion sense. Perhaps it was his transformation from the highly constructed elegance he advanced while fronting Japan. And while they had some moments, they were always a little too slick for mine ears (fretless bass, no matter how well played, is a no no). So how did this guy get from glam to new wave to what ever the hell this is? Not too sure, but he clearly got weirder and better with age. As most of us who actually know a thing or two actually do. For fans of late Talk Talk, late Scott Walker, all Martyn Bates. Basically, the type of music I am obsessed with but have the greatest difficulty finding. Sam, you will like this one.

Here (reuped 7/19/12)

Milton Nascimento-Clube da Esquino

Well shit. This was one that I definitely thought I'd post on some breezy summer night where all the daily bullshit has been washed away and it almost has you thinking that there actually is such a thing as a soul and that at that moment you actually have one. Those be rare moments indeed. And fictional ones too mind you. But you know kinda what I mean. This album can actually enhance those moods. Not to say that it's going to all the sudden bring you to some new faith or anything (why would I post that?) but that it certainly gives you that warm, almost buzz-like, spine tingly feeling that you might have gotten occasionally in your youth when things seem to be going right momentarily. My ex once explained this phenomenon as akin to listening to Tina Turner's version of River Deep, Mountain High (though she thought the song was called Rag Doll). And I knew what she was talking about. For me, I remember a time in kindergarten when I picked up this dwarf-sized girl in my class and receiving a furious scolding, but I'm not too sure what that says about me or why I would write that (I do recall, however, a particular penchant for small people). Anyways...As you got older that feeling just seemed more like a memory or a half memory so far removed from the present that you began to doubt its actual existence. Then it somehow surfaces again and your reminded of this strange sensation that seems more of a fiction than an actual experience. Like looking at that childhood photo of yourself that seems so defamiliarized and detached from your current existence. I suppose its the feeling of connectivity. "Only connect," right Forster?

Here (reuped 7/19/12)

The Wooden O-A Handful of Pleasant Delites

Tis true, nothing does compare to languidly reclining whilst one dearly loved caresses you inner ear hole with the soothing sounds of a recorder. Just look at this Pre-Raphaelite-cum-hippy filth cover and you just want to grab them grapes and squeeze. This is one of the lesser known in that pagan loving, olde tymey, return to the Earth Limey brilliance that readers around here seem to fetishize. But really, if you're not up for some fluting than forget it. But back on that cover. Doesn't that really seem like such a charming way to pass some sunny fall day?

Here (reuped 7/19/12)

Friday, September 16, 2011

Astor Piazolla-Tango: Zero Hour

For my grandfather who plays the accordion/concertina. I'll cop to the fact that I was never to big on this instrument. Even though gramps (never actually called him this) knows how to play, I can't really get behind that Polack oompah polka business. However, this is where the instrument truly becomes captivating and speaks to those grand romantic gestures you almost never make but wish you have. Gosh, it's funny that music created in the whore houses of Argentina (ed. thanks for catching such an egregious error) to soundtrack god know what type of insidious escapades can be so damned enthralling. I guess that's what happens when you place the old squeeze box in the hands of a true master.

Here (reuped 7/19/12)

Cozmic Corridors

Pure synth-esthesia for those looking for some analog bliss. Everything I see on line tells me that this is something German from the 70s, but there's a weird part of me that seems to remember this being some fake out that was part of a hoax concocted by one of the guys from Sundial. Am I wrong about that? Is this one of those fake lost classics, or is legit? I can remember. I don't care. Neither should you. this one spans the spectrum, moving from some enlightened cosmic clouds to some trenchant darkspaces. It's forward thinking sounds only reinforces my believe this fraudulent. If it be the case that I'm wrong about this one, then it only makes it all the more a success.

Here (reuped 7/19/12)

Ruby Andrews-Casanova (Your Playing Days are Over)

This album just seems to reinforce my current state, and it's one I'm sure readers have found themselves in. i know it's a predicament that I am inevitably bound to repeat an endless amount of times since it's one of those things that even if you learn from it, it seems foolish to accept the lesson. So I'm sure everyone can surmise from that prologue that I'm talking about romance and the stupid things it leads us to do. It's funny that often times (at least with myself) I can see that what I am doing is most likely stupid and will probably only make matters worse, yet that attraction is strong enough to force me to preclude reason and experience and act like that junior high boy that we've all tried to forget is still lurking somewhere within us. And that's why I'm been listening to this album. This is a case where not fitting into a particular region helps the artist as she is able to draw from all modes of soul. I think if you listen closely you can find elements of nearly all of her contemporaries, yet it is distinctly her own work. Hail Chicago soul.


Saturday, September 3, 2011

C.O.B.-Spirit of Love

On one of my too many flights around the country this summer I had one of those unexpected moments where all the antipathy and misanthropy seem to just dissolve due to some kind stranger. Surprisingly, the stranger here was a Texan. I won't hold that against her even though I couldn't wait to stop hearing her accent. Anyways, sharing a flight to somewhere (can't even remember anymore) we decided just to snuggle under her blanket and take a nap together. I know it's no penthouse forum letter or anything, but it was oddly more significant in that something as simple as falling asleep next to a beautiful girl could even make a staunch grouch like myself feel something long dead. Then we got off the plane and that was that. I don't know her name even but it was something simple that just sticks in the mind. Well, there's something warm and comforting about this album that made me think of that time. If you're like me then you'll probably find it easy to slip in to some cocoon of sad music and get comfy with your misery and that is exactly why albums like this are so dear. This isn't some bubbleheaded, life affirming, vapidness but something precious and human and fragile. So by now you've surmised that I am the world's biggest pussy. Top flight sleuthing skills there Poirot.


Third World War

Infinite screaming baby heads within another is certainly an unpleasant image. Imagining the cacophony this abomination would produce just makes me want to pour some tar in my ears. Whistling aside, that shrill cry from unformed humans is definitely on my list of shit I never want to hear but somehow find myself hearing every day. But I'm sure Third World War was aware of this reaction when choosing cover art since it seems appropriate when considering their no bullshit stance. Confrontation and political years before some upstart twats decided to hide their love of Genesis and pierce their cocks and shop at boutiques. This is real punk played by people who sound like their would seriously fuck you up rather than knit a scarf while complaining about how bored they are. Seriously though punks, I love you. You have such cute little uniforms.


Friday, September 2, 2011

Urban Sax

Yo cuz, why you gettin' all jeffy with me? Don't be gettin' all ornery and shit. Bro, you know this album is crispy, right? So why you tryna play? Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag. Swag.

See, it's true. Teachers do learn from their students. Just don't ask me to translate.


Vorgrow-Black Metal is Elitism

Hey Matt, you know how you always whole "I just can't stand the silly vocals" thing everytime I get on a jag about some metal album? Well amigo, I now have something that we can share since it's basically a metal record (albeit a rather strange one) that has NO VOCALS to worry about. That's right others, if you're the type that wouldn't download other metal albums I've posted because you can't stand the singing then this is the one to grab since it might just be the turning point where you realize that not all singing has to come from the maw of some crybaby "poet." Just check the title and you can see that this dude knows what he's talking about.


Art Bears-Winter Songs

Art rock in the way that the term used to mean before a buncha kids in plushy costumes started to breath their rancorous breath into some melodica whilst a naked drummer molests an audience member. There's no art in that shit. It's all tacky gimmickry. And it's stale at that. So art kids, stay away from rock (please don't mention that the Talking Heads wend to RISD--they suck too). And please stay away from art for that matter. I've seen your work and you'd be lucky to get it hung on a convalescent home's wall. So that's why albums like this are important, see? I'm sure everyone is aware that anything with Fred Frith's involvement is at least worth a listen (not going to say that it's all gold however). But this shit is 32 years old (if I recollect correctly) and it still out weirds most of the lame-os who think beards and ironic shirts are edgy. I can't wait for you dumb shits to explain to your equally dumb children why your tattoo of a bunny fucking a robot is hilarious.