reviews
by
DANIEL DIMAGGIO Ones
– II cassette (Palsy)
I
have written about Ones in this publication before, though
not in any informative or decisive way. You see, I had never
heard their music before in any sort of controlled situation.
Now I have and my initial impressions were right, awesome
band. This tape is kind of short, like maybe 15 mins on each
side, which on one hand makes me feel sort of ripped off (this
tape was like 5 dollars or something) but on the other hand
is good cause I’m not trying to listen to any long tapes.
And in any case it doesn’t really matter as both sides
“rule ass”, short and sweet I guess it is. Both
pieces fall into the avant clatter genre of overdubbing antics,
with the first one being a bit more fancy sounding, as it
starts out with some folky guitar and environmental type sounds.
Then it sounds like the dude playing the guitar gets too nervous
or scared to play right and the other sounds get more prominent
and we’re off for a wild safari through the domestic
jungle in the Bkln apartment where this was probably recorded.
The second side is more straight up chains and banging on
pots and pans and gets LOUD, rules. I totally endorse this
cassette.
PS.
I just found out that one of the members of Ones is in the
band Matt Pond P.A., whose picture was in Rolling Stone this
past month. Ones is getting famous! Coming for that number
“ones” spot!!
Niwesqom
Eli Ckuwapok/Penobscot & Passamaquoddy Indian Drum Group
– Spirit Of The Dawn/To All My People
I got this at the church rummage sale up the street
from my house. It has a pink Xeroxed cover, and I was expecting
it to sound bad and new agey. This is ok though, it’s
just like typical Native American drum music I guess, some
guys chanting and a steady unchanging drum beat. Not that
good really, I was hoping there would be more drums and it
would sound like Psychedelic Underground by Amon Duul, no
jk. But this isn’t that good, don’t go out of
your way to get it, like don’t send $12 to the address
in the tape booklet like it says. It also says to look for
Vol. II, TRADITIONAL SONGS coming out Winter of ’95.
Don’t know why this one has so many titles.
Frankenstein
And The All Star Monster Band – s/t (Mystery)
My thesis for this review is that this is the weirdest and
most retarded record I have ever heard. It is definitely a
very multi-faceted album, and thus requires some explanation.
From 1984, this record was written, produced, and directed
by “Doctor. Dog”, who is in fact Kim Fowley. This
is not stated anywhere on the record and the Fowley name appears
nowhere in the credits (because of contractual obligations
perhaps?) but I’m pretty much absolutely sure its him;
the picture of Doctor Dog looks exactly like Kim Fowley and
the album’s liner notes (which mention post-Runaways
Fowley protégés Venus And The Razorblades),
monologues, and singing all bear Fowley’s distinctive
stamp.
So this is Kim
Fowley’s Halloween album, a prospect which excited me
greatly. I am an enormous fan of both Halloween and Kim Fowley,
so this album represented an unexpected combination of two
of my favorite things, the like of which had not been seen
since 50 Cent made a song that interpolated “God Rest
Ye Merry Gentlemen” a couple of years ago. (I realize
that this is the second time that I’ve mentioned 50
Cent in Blastitude, which may make me seem like a 50 Cent
fanatic. I’m not though, I only like his earlier work
for the most part. I guess I just think about him a lot.)
The title of this LP suggests a typical kitschy Halloween
album, which would be awesome in of itself, but even a cursory
scan of the record makes it clear that the listener is in
for something more confusing. The cover is made up of six
pictures, two rows of three, one of each member of the “All-Star
Monster Band”. They are as follows, from left to right:
“Jumbo Frog” (dude with werewolf mask and fake
werewolf hands playing violin in purple, pink and yellow sweater
and red cape), “Doctor Dog” (head shot of Fowley
with shiny blue scarf and extremely heavy white pancake makeup),
“Larry Lizard” (dude with half devil/half gorilla
mask, gorilla hands, and yellow captain’s uniform, holding
a guitar), “Video Pig” (dude with partial ugly
man mask and vampire teeth, rope around his neck, and normal
arms, playing bass), “Dorothy Dinosaur” (little
girl in witches hat), and “Empress Of The Underworld”
(kind of hot blonde lady in pretty normal clothes, wearing
one of those handheld masquerade masks).
As one listens
to the record and reads the liners, it sort of becomes clear
that the whole Halloween thing is sort of a cover-up, or maybe
metaphor, for the main theme of the record, specifically that
of the ugly people of the world and how they are treated as
outcasts by society, and also how they find kinship with other
ugly people, though like, frankly, I’m sort of just
going off the first few songs here, as the whole album is
pretty hard to follow. This may make it sound like the album
is like sad or solemn, but this is far from the case. Any
serious emotions caused by the lyrics (none probably) are
offset by retarded monster voices on each song. The voices
are straight up “I vant to suck your blood” monster
accents, but saying weird Fowley shit like:
(Doctor Dog): “Where
did you ever find all that blue mud?” (monster
voice): ”In the classified ads from the canyons
of my mind.”
(Doctor Dog):
“Are you coming tomorrow to the midnight movie?”
(monster voice): “If I’m on the backstage
guestlist.”
(Doctor Dog):
“Who’s that werewolf over there?” (monster
voice): “Jumbo Frog from the fiery garbage can!"
(monster voice):
“I the Sea Wolf, captain of the vampire navy, guarantee
your safety.”
The music is generally
funny/bad 80s synth rocking, similar kind of to Let’s
Dance-era Bowie, and Fowley/Doctor Dog follows suit vocally
on a couple of tracks by turning in very Bowie-esque performances.
It would be misleading tho, to suggest that all of the record’s
tracks follow one uniform style. Each song is pretty distinct,
both stylistically and in terms of subject matter. Appropriately,
Fowley/Doctor Dog provides individual track descriptions,
describing each song’s theme. About the song “What
Happens To People Like You”, he says: “A more
serious subject than one night (sic) expect from
Frankenstein, but quite in line with Doctor Dog’s new
approach to the old boy: What makes us what we are? What makes
us different from one another?”
If I tried to describe
every funny thing about this album I’d be here (the
computer) all day, but I’m gonna go ahead and talk about
some of my favorite cuts. I think the most emotionally affecting
number is the first one, “Midnight Movies,” on
account of it tapping into the same goth loner/loser vibe
as “Science Fiction/Double Feature” from The
Rocky Horror Picture Show. Indeed, Fowley references
the RHPS in the liner notes for this cut. The next track,
“Red Phantoms Of Zombie Island”, is similar, but
has a nautical/pirates theme. And “Looking For Work”
is a businesslike dustbowl-via-Springsteen rocker about looking
for work that is pretty unassuming until:
(Doctor Dog): “I
sold my blood for 15 bucks.” (Dracula voice): “That
was much too cheap, I would have paid twice the price.”
And: (Dracula
voice): “I just got a job in a day care center,
telling ghost stories to shadows on the wall.”
From Fowley’s
notes for this song: “If it’s hard for the
average citizen to find a job, imagine what it’s like
to be a six foot seven, slightly green skinned and sort of
ugly guy like Fankenstein between gigs.”
The reason that the album’s
overall vibe is so weird is that all of these stupid things
I’ve described aren’t presented in an intentionally
funny or outrageous way; it’s more like Fowley assumes
that everything on the album makes sense and expects the listener
to understand it and take it seriously, aside from the obvious
comic relief bits. So yeah, I sort of feel like I’ve
failed to convey how insane this record really is, you really
just have to hear it. Again though, the music itself is quite
bad, so don’t get like too psyched up for it. I don’t
know if it’s rare or whatever, but I can’t imagine
any place selling it for a lot of money, too stupid.
Matt
Weston – Easthampton 2005 3” (7272 Music)
Barn
Owl – My Very First Barn Owl EP 3” (Crank Satori)
I picked
up these little guys when I saw the percussionist Matt Weston
perform a solo set on the Princeton University campus this
past fall. When I first saw him, with a starched white classical-style
shirt, some khakis (?), big lips, and sitting at his kit in
a position suggesting an invisible metal pole welded to his
back, I thought he looked like a real chump and that I was
in for some idiot highbrow nonsense. However, as soon as Weston
began to play, he ferociously hit every piece of his kit in
a cascading manner that suggested thunder(ing) and lightning
(fast) equally. A very exciting set, and Weston made good
use of all of the many cymbals and surfaces he had brought
with him, specifically by hitting them in a way that was somehow
methodical but at the same time quite fast and free.
After the set,
I realized that Weston also seemed like a real nice guy when
this fucking kid that I hate that looks like Ben Folds (that’s
the best thing about him) that was in my music class at college
went up to him and was all gushing, and essentially asked
Weston to teach him about free jazz. Matt Weston threw out
some names, and though the kid had never even heard of Ornette
Coleman, Weston took this in stride and was still very amiable
and kept talking to him about free jazz I think. I hate this
kid, look out for him dying later this year probably.
The first of these
3”s is Matt Weston solo percussion and electronics,
similar to what I saw that night, though perhaps more spare
in parts, according to my memory. It’s also live, this
time at the Flywheel in Easthampton, MA! A lot of these free
improv guys, you think they’re just some guy, and then
they turn out to be all famous (on the internet it says that
Matt Weston has also played with Kevin Drumm, Milford Graves,
Bill Dixon, and Jack Wright, and appeared on VH1, though I
assume not all at the same time). So yeah, each track is very
good; things start out kind of busy with some rolling and
thundering toms framed by what sound like chimes and cymbals,
and progress into more spatial areas, with some scraping stuff,
as the electronics make their appearance on later tracks.
I’m not gonna give you like a play by play here, but
trust me that this is a quite worthwhile release.
Barn Owl is a group
featuring Weston on the skins again, with two guys I’ve
never heard of, Andy Crespo and Chris Cooper, on bass and
guitar respectively. The guys present 9 presumably improvised
miniatures (they call them songs on the CD) in a style that
is a bit more disjointed and “squiggly”, I’ll
say, than on Weston’s solo disc, mostly because of the
increased instrumental palette and the fact that the songs
are short, many under 2 mins, and have choppy sounds. The
same skillfulness of improvising is present though, as each
instrument takes on a non-traditional but defined role for
every piece. The shortness of the tracks combined with the
smallness of the CD and the pictures of a rollerskating rabbit
and worms with little mittens on the artwork land this one
just this side of “cute”, in a good way. Like
nothing cute is really bad, as long as it’s seriously
cute and you’re not just like making fun of it by calling
it that.
Tetuzi
Akiyama – Pre-Existence (Locust)
I figure maybe Larry Doleman might review this one too as
he seems to be all over the Locust releases, but I’d
like to throw in my 2 cents as to what a corker of a solo
guitar album this is. I thing the only other thing by T.A.
that I have heard is the Don’t Forget To Boogie
LP of solo boogie rock guitar and that rules too, so I guess
he’s batting 1000, whatever that means, in my field
of vision. That record is totally different from this one
tho. Pre-Existence is all solo acoustic guitar and
maybe 60 percent of the sounds on it sound like Tetuzi falling
asleep “at the wheel” and his slide falling down
over the strings and making a scraping sound. It is all extremely
artfully performed though, and with exquisite attention to
spacing and small scale sonic events. There are some more
melodic fingerpicking bits, but these sound a member of the
Takoma roster trying to play while under the influence of
some “downer” (I won’t try to bluff my way
through a drug joke here). An entry into Locust’s “Wooden
Guitar” series, and more than enough to make up for
the only other record I’ve heard in the series, the
horrendous Sir Richard Bishop solo guitar album, which was
on the radio once and my friend thought it was the soundtrack
to Brokeback Mountain.
reviews by
CHARLES LIEURANCE
Boris
-- Pink (Phalanx)
With
all the ruinous volume of Lightning Bolt or Acid Mothers Temple
at their disposal, Boris "relaxes" into nerve-piercing
volume & makes THE great psych-noise album of the decade.
Finally, all the lip-biting melodicism of Pink Floyd melted
down the speakers by the unspeakable torrents of distortion,
feedback & Japadness. I picture kids, their first year
of college, renting unaffordable condo apartments, having
their eyeballs daubed with liquid acid & then jumping
from their balconies in the middle of winter into drained
clubhouse pools. Not sure why.
Walter
Wegmuller -- Tarot (Die Kosmischen Kuriere)
Some kind of Krautrock supergroup, I guess, comprised of members
of Wallenstein & Ash Ra Tempel, but it's really a formidable
art object. It's fun to hold & browse through. If you
are aces-high psychotic, there are at least a hundred reasons
to murder a starlet or president in the packaging alone &
that's before you actually take the CDs out & play them.
God forbid you've scored the vinyl. And it looks dangerous.
It looks like it could possibly solve all the problems in
your life through brazen obscurity, its occult tone, the teutonic
elegance of the packaging, and the music inside, which builds
from slightly funky porn passages, to completely wigged-out
guitar savagery, then retreats back into very, very uncomfortable
folk passages that sound like someone broke into the Keebler
Elf home on August 8, 1969, eviscerated the bunch of them
& left bloody passages from Tolkein on the walls of the
hollow tree. Unmistakably pleasurable to own, but I see you
out in the backyard tomorrow morning, unloading your army-issue
.45 automatic into it, I'll understand completely.
Howe
Gelb -- 'Sno Angel Like You (Thrill Jockey)
Finally, after noodling around with his adobe-dry, acid-flake
abstracts like a monkey repainting Georgia O'Keefe by the
light of a shifty moon, Howe Gelb once again gets down to
business. Ex of the brilliant Giant Sand, and the sadly out-of-touch
sounding Band of Blacky Ranchette, Gelb rides the gospel train
to beulah here. The Hammond B3, the gospel choir (called 'Sno
Angels, so the title isn't all his fault), the songs that
don't peter out into plunks on the wrecked outdoor piano,
or phone calls from his kid...Yep, I think we've got us a
real pop album. This is the magical desert hoodoo he's had
in him all along & it's bracing as mourning over a Sonoran
gravestone at midday & watching a shadow embrace the grave
& yerself. And you're scared to turn around, 'cuz you
think it might be a brigand, so you stand stock still until
the sun goes down & the shadow fades. Then you turn around,
and goddamn if it weren't a statue of Jesus all along. Get
this, please. Where else you gonna hear gospel mariachi music?
Rusty
Warren -- Knockers Up! (Jubilee)
If you wanna hear, I mean, really hear what cocktail glasses
sounded like clinking together in 1961 -- and trust me, it's
a different aural colour, a whole different sonic palette
of cocktail glass clinking than we have in this impoverished
age -- then this is the album for you. This album so accurately
captured the sounds of cocktail glasses & fat bald men
guffawing, that it spawned yet another anthropological foray
called More Knockers Up (Houghton-Mifflin Educational Products,
1965). Hopped-up, slurry anthems to big boobs don't hurt the
product any, but back then you had to add a little spice to
get people to listen to scientific field recordings.
The
Chromatics -- Plaster Hounds (Gold Standard)
The sound of five bowery junkies climbing around on your car
hood in the dead of winter, trying to squeegee your windshield
while, a block or two away, someone is blasting the worst
live bootleg ever of The Clash plodding through "Armagideon
Time." Lead Chromatic, Adam Miller, is all that's left
here from the original Chrome Rats vs. Basement Ruts line-up
& adding Get Hustle's percussionist, Ron Avila, to the
reformed miasma has given The Chromatics a dubby sprawl that
raises them, in my estimation, from queasily fascinating to
luridly indispensable, like Suicide, Return of Pipecock Jackxon-era
Lee Perry, or early Au Pairs. Ghastly disco phoned in from
the other side. Check out "Monarch" for sleepless
nights, or their cover of Silver Apples' "Program."
Ariel
Pink's Haunted Graffiti -- House Arrest (Paw Tracks)
"I
tell the record company to just get me in a real recording
studio," he says. "I'll go into mad-scientist mode,
and it will be great. But that hasn't happened. They don't
want to give me money, because I might release a shit album,
which could definitely happen. I've got my good days and bad
days, for sure. But the best rock & roll is all stuff
you're not supposed to do. Rock & roll is the history
of rules being broken and people taking chances."
-- Ariel Pink in LA Weekly. Gary Numan, OMD, '60s Scott Walker
& Beach Boys stitched together so the resulting golem
barely contains the viscera & post-op seepage. Despite
the exultant messiness, Pink is a fine vocalist/mimic &
his ADD conceptualism is usually spot-on. This is obviously
the music of a genius pothead (and I'm not basing this assumption
solely on the song "Gettin' High in the Morning"),
and there's not a pop hook of the last 40 years he hasn't
stored up in his cells along with all the THC. There are some
moments of jaw-dropping pop ecstasy on here & they're
actually sharpened by the vat of tape hiss & analog muck
they must slog from in order to breathe. Some kind of classic.
Jesus, I just heard him graft Frankie Valli onto China Crisis...
Bush
Tetras -- Boom in the Night (ROIR)
Kids, this is where Yeah Yeah Yeahs come from (give or take
an Au Pair or two). Surprise. Only Pat Place, Cynthia Sley
& Laura Kennedy ALL have prettier mouths than Karen O.
Dank, choppy New York City creep-funk.
Jacobites
-- Robespierre's Velvet Basement (Glass / Secretly Canadian)
Building this new elegant beast from the junkie slide of Johnny
Thunders, The Rolling Stones & less abstract pieces by
The Soft Boys, Nikki Sudden (RIP), Epic Soundtracks (RIP)
& Dave Kusworth seemed a little like foppish dilettantes
when this album surfaced in 1985. I'll admit all the scarf-wearing,
decadent poet nonsense didn't do much for me in the heady
times of Twin/Tone & Homestead rock, but this sounds like
a fucking spa to me now, a two-week hiatus in Bangkok's Heng
Lak Hung, a step through portals of rock'n'roll innocence
I thought closed to me forever. "Fortune of Fame"
sends a volley of pinpricks down my spine every damn time
I hear that harmonica riff.
American
Death Ray -- Welcome to the Strange & Erotic World of
the American Death Ray (Sympathy for the Record Industry)
Pleasurably jamming that cocktease link between VU & Nutbush
R & B down our throats once more after the demise of sacred
rosetta, '68 Comeback, Nicholas Ray (aka Nicky Diablo) churns
& shugs & monkeys & shimmies down through the
storm drains & up through the manholes, up the fire stairs
& down the flop hotel trash chutes til you're dizzy with
rock so hip it just has to stay underground.
The
Shoes -- Black Vinyl Shoes (Black Vinyl)
When I was searching out precedents for Game Theory, my favorite
group of the early to mid-1980s, of course I first came across
Big Star, just as everyone else was at the time, but then
I discovered the work of this band. The Shoes were br'ers
Murphy, Jeff & John, and their friend from the neighborhood,
Gary Klebe, and they recorded this on a 4-track in their basement
in Zion, Illinois. No matter what the critics tell you, just
avoid the other Shoes products, they are puffed with dated,
obvious power pop that won't add meat to your spirit. And
nobody needs a lean spirit. Power pop is where rock critics
go to die. Also, avoid this on CD as a budget double with
their sophomore release, Present Tense. Honestly, it has fucking
VINYL in the name. This has to be heard on vinyl. Okay, so
now that we've run through the warnings, Black Vinyl Shoes
is the perfect edgy, raw pop album. It's better than both
#1 Record & Radio City by Big Star.
The great songs on those albums are better than any song on
Black Vinyl Shoes, but there's not a bad cut on BVS, and you
can't say that about either of the Big Star records. Argue
if you want, but I see your fingers twitching towards the
fast-forward when "The India Song" rears its ugly
head on #1 Record. The Shoes have the midwestern good sense
not to insult you with a sitar or a non-sequitur. It's all
lo-fi longing & tract house malaise, buried under tape
hiss & outrageously mixed guitar solos, just like Folk
Implosion, or Sparklehorse. And every song quickens your heartbeat
with a spine-prickling chorus you can't believe crawled out
of a basement in Zion, Illinois.
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