#i can just imagine ian singing in anthony's room

[smoshidiot]

top 10 smosh moments is when anthony giggles @ ian singing the boxman theme in the last few seconds of the first boxman vid, as the BTS sounds over the credits

[junker-town]

No sports, no fun

Getty Images

Good bye, maybe.

I’m afraid I won’t ever feel again the way I did on Nov. 4, 2000, when I was not yet 13 years old and the pain was new and all-consuming. I loved sports so much it hurt, and that love bore bitter fruit when Anthony Thomas fumbled a football for no good reason, and Michigan lost to Northwestern, 54-51, in the most stunning game I can remember.

I couldn’t question the feeling, nor did I think it could be questioned; my amygdala pulled its trigger and I buried my face as deeply as I could into our cold, wave-patterned couch in the next room. My shock even erased the memory of the steps I took. I remember the twin feelings of a cold couch on my face and injustice. Or maybe not quite injustice, but something unfair. It didn’t feel targeted. For the first time maybe, I felt impersonal, unmotivated and heavy cruelty.

Thomas was a football player of mythic proportions, a torso of concrete and legs made thick just from making sure his upper half didn’t topple over. He was marvelous, and at all times mildly disappointing, a perfect picture of inefficient smashmouth football just before the sport discovered better ideas. Thomas carried the ball 37 times for 199 yards, but he was outdone by Damien Anderson, who rushed for 268 yards on 31 carries in a Randy Walker offense that was one of the first examples of spread football on a big stage.

That game would come to be known as one of the most influential in college football history because of the way an underpowered team shocked another team of Thomas-ian proportions. But lost in the final score is the way Thomas fumbled. He broke through the line for what should have been a game-winning first down, then he simply dropped the ball.

There was and is nothing to be learned from that. The whole was instructive; the details were not. Michigan would have won but Thomas dropped the ball, and then I hurt and I couldn’t make it stop.

I obsessed over that play. At the time, I obsessed over every aspect of Michigan football. I remember falling asleep thinking about Michigan’s ongoing high school recruiting class, its deficiencies and how the current commitments might shape the team. I used to take a football out to our front lawn and play out the upcoming games drive by drive, hucking the ball up in the air and running under it to make a big catch. If I was feeling generous, I’d give the opposition a rare interception. On a related note, I was a pretty lonely kid.

Before I developed a better relationship with sports, I approached them almost exclusively as something my team either won or lost. I decided I ought to take them very seriously, to the extent that everyone should think of me as a person who knew sports. I wanted to have the best answer to every question; I wanted to be a vessel of knowledge that others would rather submit to than challenge.

At the time, it seemed like a hobby. Now I know I was compensating for being a pipsqueak in every other regard. The problem, either way, was how much I had staked my confidence in being right.

In college, I took an internship at a fantasy sports website and learned how dumb I was. I found out there are people who seem to know every bit about everything — things like baseball — who could not only hold a greater mass of information in their brains than me, but could also do so without being an uptight dick about it.

What I should have learned was that caring about things intrinsically, and not for egotistical reasons, opens up our capacity to both know and love more about the world. Instead, I felt like I was drowning, like every moment more evidence was piling on top of me about what a fraud I was, faster than I could claw from under it.

I wondered if I could say I loved sports like I used to, or if I ever loved them to begin with. That period showed me a couple things: 1) That I could bull shit anything in writing, and 2) maybe I should readjust my relationship with sports.

I never stopped wanting to be a sportswriter, which I’ve wanted to be my whole life. But I also picked up a knack for editing, the process of turning your first thought into your best thought, of shaping and shielding and censoring an unvarnished self. That unvarnished self was often a truer self, perhaps. But it didn’t sing, and it never won.

I consider SB Nation my first real job, though when I started it only paid $1 more per hour than the fantasy gig. The difference was at SB Nation I saw a path to who I newly wanted to be. Which is to say, I started chasing a sense of superiority on moral grounds.

Working at SB Nation has never not been exciting, but my first and maybe last thrill was getting to say I worked with Spencer Hall. He’d become my favorite writer by crafting guttingly funny and guttingly poignant things about college football. A universe unfolded out of EDSBS.com, one that was weird and empathetic and antagonistic towards the capital-S Sportswriter lens and voice. Reading him gave me a physical sensation like my belly was made of splintered wood and a family of feral critters was tearing through, and that I ought to be happy for them.

I’ve read Spencer’s 2011 essay GOD’S AWAY ON BUSINESS dozens of times now and it never fails to scare the shit out of me.

None of this matters now. The man or woman in the desk is gone. They will not be returning anytime soon. Outside there are men roaming the streets. No one’s wondering who’s in charge, and that’s why the doors are locked, and the children inside quivering. When the desk is empty, it means anarchy is at your door. There are no permissions or courtesies. Shit just happens, and it happens all the time, and there’s no stopping it until everything you have is gone and bouncing out the door on the shoulders of thieves.

God, or anyone like him, is away on business.

I started aping Spencer then, and I’m still aping him now, though I feel more like myself. Mimic something long enough and you might accidentally discover some of the substance that makes the aesthetic work.

SB Nation taught me a better way to love sports. That what is true and good wasn’t in the results — on the field, or off where discourse boiled down to soggy debate — but in the ephemera. It was in baseball players taking pitches right to the beans.

SB Nation was dedicated to silliness and inclusivity. It highlighted the good people that sports elevated on rare occasions. It never fought along the chauvinistic battle lines that can feel like a mandatory part of fandom; in fact, it emphatically ignored them. And yet even after a decade-plus of existence, people still get upset when we suggest sports don’t have to be experienced in rote, tribalistic ways. Typically all you have to do is check the replies.

We never stated this mission very clearly, which has always kinda been a problem. Probably the problem. But if you paid attention, you saw it reiterated in countless ways. (Just click a letter, and note that none of these people work here anymore.) GOD’S AWAY ON BUSINESS was my value set among the many options, however. It told me that what we love most sometimes isn’t scored; that everyone has a responsibility to define and find joy for themselves, even if it may be outside the rules; and that to invest oneself in wonder and silliness also means taking on the duty to defend them.

At SB Nation I learned I didn’t have to identify by sports. I could have a relationship with them, I could be objective towards them, and I could turn them off. I learned that I have a self outside of what I like.

Working here has forced me to look back and figure out what I truly loved about sports. So far I’ve found two things: Charles Woodson, and the way sports helped a shy kid introduce himself. For me, sports’ best utility has been the way they facilitate genuine connection. Which is almost funny, because we know now the extent that sports are artificial by how easily they’ve disappeared.

But to know that sports have had some importance in one’s life is proof they can’t be trivial. They are real in the fact that we choose to empower them. The score has never mattered. Sports live because we give them life.

I don’t always feel good about that fact. Although I’ve come to terms with being mildly stupid, and I’ve gotten better at appreciating things intrinsically, I still often hate that sports are integral to me and that I’ll leave this mortal coil defined by something that never gave me agency.

There’s an image I’ll never shake. My last visit with my grandfather as he lay on the bed he’d die on. He was person I’ve perhaps wanted to emulate most in this world. A French history professor. The funniest, most considerate person I knew. He made everyone feel heard. I said this at his funeral:

He always paused before he laughed, turning over what you said and taking even the bad jokes and finding their point of redemption. Funny enough, this was a sign that he took you seriously, that he thought what you said mattered, even if you were five years old and nothing you had ever said to that point had ever been important. And because he laughed with you, you couldn’t help but laugh along side.

Just a month or two before I saw him among his final days, prostrate, suffering terribly from dementia and barely able to speak. He no longer embodied the self he had curated over 85 years. I talked to him about Michigan football because that had been the thing we talked about the most. He responded only in smiles and hmphs. I didn’t know if he retained anything I said until I started to leave the room. He said the last words I’d ever hear him say: “Go Blue.”

The image that haunts me isn’t my grandfather: Every memory of him makes me love him more, and I’m more grateful than words can say that in our last interaction we felt connected and happy.

Rather it’s my imagination, seeing myself dissolved layer by layer, body and soul disappearing. What would be left in a reduction of my experiences, love, regrets and relationships that I cultivated or destroyed? It might be sports’ afterimage, an outline of Anthony Thomas.

I feel sports’ absence. Maybe I’ve become accustomed to a constant hum of play, or maybe this pandemic has, in a terrible roundabout way, helped us see what is intrinsic.

But I do miss sports, even if that feeling is a byproduct of muscle memory. I miss fun, and sports have been the best outlet I’ve even known to find it. I’ve had a hard time not seeing this period as an attack on fun, that, more and more, the world is becoming something I don’t want to go back to: stodgy and bitter, a self-perpetuating game to see who’s winning at any moment. It feels like there’s no room left to be quiet and gentle.

I don’t know when fun will come back, and it feels fair to ask if it can. There has never been a good answer whether dumb anger is simply the natural state of things, or something we’ve reinforced on one another. There’s only the imprint that anger has left, deep with slippery walls.

The only thing I know is we all want to belong; that at the root of every fight is ostensibly the same impetus — to be full of love and free of worry once again, to feel complete and want for nothing. We just can’t agree on terms.

But I believe there is a healthy definition of belonging. One that does not subsume you, but lets you position yourself amongst the world, and create your own space as opposed to being dictated its rules. A way of editing that doesn’t entrench self, but amplifies it.

The end of the world is demanding, but we have options. And when I close my eyes, I can still see the world I want.

[hmel78]

In conversation with John Hackett ...

Whilst John Hackett is probably best known for his work with his brother Steve Hackett (former Genesis guitarist), there is no shortage of other high profile artists with whom John has worked, and in addition he has also enjoyed a relatively successful solo career as a Flautist, guitarist, singer and composer.

John collaborated with Steve on his early albums, “Voyage of the Acolyte” and “Please Don’t Touch” , which led to further recordings and tours of the UK, USA and Europe playing flute, guitar and bass pedals in Steve’s live band ; also extensive tours of Japan and the USA as part of the Steve Hackett Acoustic Trio. Inbetween touring, back home in the UK, you will find a variety of incredible projects which John has been involved in ; as a composer of flute music for relaxation, he has recorded a number of solo and duo albums, plus several albums with Clive Williamson and the ambient group “Symbiosis” which has led to commissions for the BBC. John has performed concerts with international organist Marco Lo Muscio and performs regularly in a duo with classical guitar virtuoso Nick Fletcher with whom he has recorded two albums: “Overnight Snow” and “Hills of Andalucia”. 2005 saw a change of direction with John releasing, to critical acclaim, a rock album of his own songs called “Checking Out of London”, the lyrics for which were written by Nick Clabburn ; An experimental flute/dance album - “Red Planet Rhythm”- with Moodi Drury followed, and then another album of John’s compositions for flute and guitar - “Prelude to Summer”- which featured brother Steve, and Chris Glassfield. It was 10 years before John released his next solo album “Another Life”, in 2015 - which was essentially the rock follow up to “Checking Out ...” with Nick Clabburn once again providing the lyrics.   Thankfully we haven’t had to wait just as long for something else new! It’s September 2017 as I write, and I have just been handed the very first John Hackett Band album in which we see another avenue open up, on the musical map of John Hackett! For this album, John has gone beyond his usual boundary and written the lyrics, as well as the music - and it’s really very good! John is joined by Nick Fletcher on guitar,  drummer Duncan Parsons, and bass player Jeremy Richardson - who contribute their own compositions to the album, which presents us with a deluxe 2 CD album containing the new collaborative studio recording - “We Are Not Alone” -   and a live recording - “Another Live” -  of their 2016 Classic Rock Society gig. We were incredibly lucky to grab a rare chance to catch up with John about the latest release, and find out a little bit about how he arrived at this current stop on his musical journey ...

HR : I read an interview that you did some time ago, in which you describe your creative self as a bit like “Jekyll and Hyde” - in the sense that despite your focus on the classical side of music, you’ve always hung on to your inner rocker - is that still the case? “We Are Not Alone” sounds to me like you’ve found the balance...

Johh Hackett : I think you have gone straight to the heart of what I used to consider a problem … I started out from the age of 12 playing blues guitar, listening to all those amazing guitarists like Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, and Jimi Hendrix. Then after hearing Ian McDonald play flute with King Crimson I started flute lessons and learned the classical repertoire. I used to think that one day I would have to choose between the two worlds but actually I now see that they can feed off each other.  It is like light and shade. If you have played electric guitar you know how powerful a sound it can be. So that influences my flute playing - I don’t like it to sound weak.

On the new album there is a track called “Blue skies of Marazion” which features guitar and alto flute. It has quite an impressionistic vibe. It is then followed by “Summer Lightning” which starts as a ballad but then Nick’s electric guitar takes it to a much heavier place. It is quite a contrast, and good of you to say that I have found a balance. I have Nick to thank for pushing me to include more flute on this rock album than my previous two.

HR : I’m glad he pushed you to, because it does work! Do you have a preference when writing and performing? Are you more comfortable with classical or rock ; with vocal tracks or instrumentals?

JH : There is no question that having spent most of my life whizzing up and down scales and doing all the daily technical exercises you have to do if you want to play the difficult classical repertoire, I have in the past been more comfortable with the flute. But there is nothing as exciting as being on stage with a rock band. I have never forgotten the buzz I got from my first ever rock gig with my brother’s band in Oslo in 1978. I took a conscious decision some years back to devote much more time to rock, improving my keyboard playing and learning to sing - I say learning to sing as it has been a painful process (both for me and my poor family who have had to put up with all the shrieking and wailing, not just when I am looking at my bank statements …). In all honesty I enjoy all of it, though at 62 it seems ridiculously late in life to be finding your feet. But having spent a good 90 per cent of my working life playing flute, it is frankly liberating and great fun to be starting a second career as a singer/songwriter with my own band.

HR : Well age is just a number, and I think if you’re creative you strive eternally to cover new ground ... which of course for you just now, is The John Hackett band. You’re essentially a quartet and all 4 of you write your own material; correct me if I’m wrong but none of the songs appear to have been written together for the recording - so who decided what was going to be included? Were any of the pieces written specifically for the album?

JH : The strength of the album is that, with only a couple of exceptions, we had performed all the pieces live before recording them. The way it worked is that we would bring suggestions to the rehearsal room and the band would try them out.  As everyone in the band has considerable experience writing and recording this inevitably meant bringing fairly complete compositions. It was soon obvious if a new piece could slot into our current live set or if best kept for a solo project.  With “Never Gonna Make A Dime” for example I had written this as a fairly slow song. I didn’t think it was particularly good. I played it to the guys in a simple piano and vocal arrangement and within a few minutes, like in some cheesy movie, they were rocking it up. It soon became a no-brainer for inclusion in our shows and the album.

“Castles” was a song I had written some time ago and similarly didn’t think it was anything special. I imagined it as a blues number with the kind of energy of that John Mayall’s “Bluesbreakers” album with the young fiery Eric Clapton reading the Beano on the front cover. I had recorded a demo with me playing the guitar solo on a Les Paul I had borrowed from my brother Steve. But when we tried it as a band with Nick playing a blistering guitar solo it was exactly as I had wanted it to sound. So unfortunately there is a sad end to the story –I didn’t get to play the solo, and Steve asked for his Les Paul back!

Similarly Duncan’s piece “Queenie and Elmo’s Perfect Day” was a flute melody I had always liked and wanted to record.  So when we got the band together it fitted in perfectly, especially as it gave the band free reign for improvisation.

“Take Control”, the opening track, I wrote specifically for the band and the album. I wanted something that would go through a number of changes . It is really in two parts the lyric being the link so there is plenty of scope for time signature changes, guitar solos and changes of texture ...

HR : It does have that, in fact the whole album is quite eclectic, which is what I love about it. It crosses genres and has a good balance of vocal and instrumental tracks. 2 out of 3 of the instrumental numbers were written by guitarist Nick Fletcher ; the 3rd in collaboration with yourself - how did you two meet and subsequently begin performing and writing together? He’s quite phenomenal ...

JH : I first heard Nick playing solo classical guitar without the aid of a microphone or Marshall stack in the fantastic acoustics of Sheffield Cathedral . I thought his playing was absolutely wonderful and wondered that day, as you do, if we might ever work together. Like myself, Nick started out in rock, then studied classical guitar so maybe I heard a kindred spirit. We did some concerts together as a guitar and flute duo, but it wasn’t until the release of my previous album “Another Life” that I found out what a fabulous electric player he is. I had decided to play some of the songs solo at the album launch with just me singing and playing  piano but as it got closer to the time I wasn’t so sure if I could make it work.  Anthony Phillips had played on one track of the album called “Satellite”.  I knew he was going to be there that night so I felt a little nervous ... Nick was round at my house, I played him a few songs, he picked up a Stratocaster and suddenly it was so much easier. Duncan joined us on percussion, so we performed as a trio for the launch. And then it was simply, “Well, where’s the bass player? We could form a band!” Duncan immediately suggested his old school friend Jeremy.  So that’s how we all got together - quite by accident really.

HR : The song “Jericho”, which was written by Jeremy Richardson, changes the vibe of the album a little - given that you sing lead vocal on the other 4 tracks, why didn’t you sing this one too?

JH : Yes “Jericho” was written by Jeremy and sung by him, with Duncan, as part of our live set.  It really suits his voice so there was never any question who would sing the lead vocal on the album. On stage Jeremy and I take a fairly equal share of the vocals which comes over particularly on the second CD (it is a double album package) “Another Live” recorded live at the Classic Rock Society in Maltby in 2016. He is a terrific singer with a harder edge to his voice when he needs it, which contrasts well with my sound.

HR : The second track on the album interested me too ; “Never Gonna Make A Dime” tells of your family’s move to Canada - you must only have been a baby at the time, but do you remember it at all? What prompted you to pen the song?

JH : The song is based on our short stay in Canada in 1957. I was only 2 years old so unfortunately I cannot remember it but Steve was 7 and has good memories of our time there. Our dad had gone on ahead to Vancouver to find work while mum, her sister Betty, Steve and I followed by ship. Our mother missed London so much that after just 4 months we came back to London. I have always admired them for taking the risk of going in the first place and then having the courage to return.

HR : Sure, it’s big life stuff! The track features Steve on Harmonica - which isn’t the first instrument that most people would associate with him  ... JH : Ah well , Steve used to disappear for long periods on board ship only to return with loads of cash. My mother asked him what on earth was going on - apparently he had been playing his harmonica to the crew and they had dug into their pockets for him. This must have given him an early taste for the music business. HR : Clearly! Haha. You’re both multi-instrumentalists - were your parents musical at all?  Who / what inspired you become musicians?

JH : It was our dad Peter Hackett who sparked our interest in music. We came back from Canada while dad stayed on for a while to work. He arrived back with an enormous black box which looked more like a coffin but actually contained a guitar. He had played bugle as a boy, then clarinet, and harmonica - though his main interest was painting. Mum didn’t play anything but always showed a great love of music. She is 87 now and still comes to our rock concerts. Steve and I have been blessed to have parents who have always supported us in our music careers.

HR : And your careers have seen you spend quite a great deal of time together over the years. It seems to be the way with brothers in bands together, that it inevitably results in some sort of falling out, and attracts an ensuing media circus! I thankfully don’t see much evidence of that with yourself and Steve - onstage, or offstage - is there a secret to getting on?

JH : Steve in his role as the older brother has always been kind enough to include me. I used to sit in on rehearsals with his first recording band ‘Quiet World’ ; I was there when he did his audition for Peter Gabriel and Tony Banks at our little flat in London - I even got to play a bit of flute for them that day.   I don’t think there has ever been any rivalry between us. I took the decision in my teens to concentrate on the flute, which has taken me in a different direction from him. So although we do work together from time to time, we are mostly involved in our own projects - But when we do get together inevitably we talk music, with all the enthusiasm as when we shared a bedroom as teenagers!

HR : You’re taking the JHB on the road with a handful of shows coming up - do you enjoy playing the more intimate venues?

JH : We currently have dates every few weeks for up until this time next year.  Certainly regarding venues it is always much nicer to play places where you can talk to the audience after.  Their enthusiasm is what it is all about.

HR : What’s your most memorable show to date?

The most memorable gig is perhaps the one for the Classic Rock Society captured on our live CD. It was only about the fourth gig we had done as a band and it felt great that we were being taken seriously by the Society who have always championed new progressive music. More importantly it was the last John Hackett Band gig our friend Steph Kennedy was able to come to - she travelled all over the country with the help of husband Dave and brother-in-law Glen in her final year. A humble reminder in this sometimes brutal world of how music can bring us together.

HR : Absolutely ... And if you could bring together anyone, living or deceased,  to perform with you on stage - a dream line-up - who would it be?

JH : If we were talking football I would probably start with Pavarotti in goal.

Of course, I would have to say my current band - But I wouldn’t mind having J.S. Bach on keyboards as long as he didn’t get any powder from his wig on my synths!

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted Mid-Year, Part 2

Anthony Pasquarosa’s imaginary Western soundtrack got a lot of love, too.

We continue our mid-year switcheroo with the second half of our favorites (in alphabetical order by artist name) covering DREAMDECAY through Slowdive.  If you missed part 1, check it out here.  

DREAMDECAY — YÚ (Iron Lung) 

YÚ LP (LUNGS-085) by DREAMDECAY

Who recommended it?  Tobias Carroll

Did we review it?  No  

Ian Mathers’ take:

When this record first comes brawling and blaring out of the gate with the title track, it immediately brought to mind a couple of certified Dusted Approved Acts; namely, it sounds a bit like a hybrid of the rougher ends of Liars’ and Protomartyr’s discography. What ultimately makes YÚ such a strong (and distinctive) record on its own merits, though, is the band’s ability and willingness to work in different registers while still maintaining the same deadpan, noisy pulse, whether that’s the squalling “BASS JAM” or the eerie tones of “WITNESS/ALLOW.” The result is that the really relentless moments (like most of “JOY”) hit even harder, and in a tight 34-minute package the listener gets a precisely balanced and always compelling album that never loses its sense of either menace or triumph, as on the unexpectedly epic post-punk odyssey of “IAN.”

   Kleistwahr — Music for Zeitgeist Fighters (Nashazphone)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Pv8pAKXXkA

Who recommended it: Joseph Burnett

Did we review it? Nope  

Eric McDowell’s take:

While it’s tempting — and entirely possible — to read Gary Mundy’s latest Kleistwahr project, Music for Zeitgeist Fighters, in light of its title as a soundtrack for the times, there’s also something otherworldly about these two side-long soundscapes. With its beautifully blinding tones and blistering textures, “Music for Dead Dreams” captures just the potent blend of pain and pleasure, gloom and hope that Dante witnessed on his journey through Purgatorio. Somewhere deep under the redemptive electronic roar a human voice lies buried, as tortured as it is awed. Bursting with cosmic paradox, the music seems on the one hand to speed ahead with the sensation of surfaces stripped away by immersive friction; on the other, it gives the listener that panned-back feeling of unutterable smallness, of being dwarfed by the infinite.  

“Music for Fucked Films” sends us back down to earth, if not quite to reality. Where side one’s propulsive energy comes in part from its unwavering trajectory, side two is a more uncertain (and more distressing) affair. While like its counterpart the piece begins by building slowly, with a dull mass of vocals cut with electric guitar, abrupt shifts and directionless fragments — pooling organ, tinkling piano, oscillating sirens — breed tension and doubt. But we’re talking about “Fucked Films,” not Hollywood. Nor is Hollywood what we need right now. 

Tift Merritt — Stitch of the World (Yep Roc) 

Who recommended it: Justin Cober-Lake

Did we review it?  No  

Ben Donnelly’s take:

Fifteen years in doesn't tend to be an auspicious time in songwriting careers. It often falls in the sour spot between the charms of breaking through and coming around again to provide veteran respect. With this batch of songs, Merritt, who emerged in the turn of the century No Depression country peak, does a lot more than plug away. For one thing, her singing voice on Stitch of the World has more of a warble than before, breathy yet more controlled, and it seems like she's expanded into register that's slightly higher than before. Her singing takes on a Dolly-like focus, clear and emotionally controlled. Something similar develops with her writer's voice as well. The ballads "Heartache Is an Uphill Climb" and “Something Came Over Me" feel like they've been around forever, with refrains that get to the heart of the matter and verses that leave enough imaginative space that one can sense them being covered in the future. The honky-tonk rockers are just as natural. "Proclamation Bones" shuffles along with whining slide guitar and chunky telecaster rhythms, capturing the rough melancholy of Exile-era Stones. And opener "Dusty Old Man" is the rare country song where the drumming is the lead. Stitch of the World captures a lifer presenting her best work yet, making the endurance look effortless. 

Anthony Pasquarosa — Abbandonato Da Dio Nazione (VDSQ) 

Who recommended it: Bill Meyer

Did we review it? Yes, Bill, who slipped it into the last Dust, called out “acoustic guitar figures that sound like they flew away from his 12 strings and up the walls of a canyon before they banked back and into your ears.”   

Justin Cober-Lake’s take:

Guitarist Anthony Pasquarosa goes for a period piece with Abbandonato Da Dio Nazione. His godforsaken country lies partly in history and partly in myth, coming as much from Spaghetti Westerns as from the actual late19th century western lore (as if we can tell those apart anyway). Pasquarosa primarily focused on his solo guitar work here, so the disc is far more in line with his primitive work than his punk influences, but is primarily driven by world-shaping. If the early recognition of his experiment (aided by gunshots and hoofbeats) yields a smile, the growing structures and intricate picking lead to deeper reflection. The questing “What Makes a Man” moves out of showdown territory, but it's the lakeside picnic before the black hats come back with reinforcements. As a film genre exercise, the album holds up on its own; I'd watch this movie today. But it's exceptional in its musical qualities, both in structure and performance, and something far more than the novelty that its concept might suggest. Maybe most important, it's just plain fun.

 Pharmakon — Contact (Sacred Bones)

Who recommended it: Olivia Bradley-Skill

Did we review it?  Yes, Joseph Burnett called Ms. Chardiet “one of the most exciting noise artists currently pouring molten lead into the world’s blackened ears” in his review.  

Mason Jones’ take:

At six songs and just 32 minutes, Contact is wisely kept at a manageable length, as Margaret Chardiet's latest missive is too intense for it to go any longer. The cover photo, showing hands grasping at a sweaty face and head as if they can't get enough, is the perfect representation of the album title and leads directly to "Nakedness of Need,” the first track. Slow, heavy tones and ominous thuds evolve into distorted, buzzing fields of anxiety as shrieks and ululations can't help but bring to mind early Diamanda Galas. Quieter, uneasy listening dwells in other songs, particularly the aptly-titled "Somatic,” a queasy interplay of tones that won't put you to sleep but may give you waking nightmares. Chanted vocals and pulsing electronics throughout the album make it feel like a blend of Master/Slave Relationship and SPK, among other early experimental forebears, but this is no retread of any sort. The fuzzy, pulsating sonics are like a modernized SPK, but it's Chardiet's tense vocals that are the core of Pharmakon's emotional power. That said, putting this album on requires a commitment, as that emotional output is aimed at the listener and you'll need to be ready to absorb it. While Pharmakon's previous album Bestial Burden had its share of powerful moments, Contact goes for the jugular more forcefully. At this rate listening to the next album will simply cause spontaneous combustion of the listener. Looking forward to it.

Stephen Riley & Peter Zak — Deuce (Steeplechase) 

Who recommended it? Derek Taylor

Did we review it? Yes, Derek did, observing that “(T)heir partnership is every bit as deserving of close consideration alongside the classic tandem associations in jazz.”  

Bill Meyer’s take:

Given that its title openly celebrates duality, it’s worth considering where this record fits on the spectrum bounded at one end by Matthew Shipp’s dictum that jazz is a verb and the other by the proclamation that jazz is dead. Saxophonist Stephen Riley and pianist Peter Zak aren’t pushing the boundaries that Shipp has, but there’s certainly nothing dead about their relaxed but entirely engaged explorations of material rooted in the aesthetics of the middle of the 20th century. Lightly blue-shaded but steeped more in love than melancholy, this music isn’t changing anyone’s life but it’s easy to enjoy. 

Shadow Band — Wilderness of Love (Mexican Summer) 

Wilderness Of Love by Shadow Band

Who recommended it? Ben Donnelly

Did we review it?  No  

Ian Mathers’ take:

From the gentle opening to “Green Riverside” on, it seems pretty clear what Shadow Band are up to, a type of folk-adjacent music that’s equal parts lysergic and medieval. Sure enough, much of Wilderness of Love succeeds on precisely those terms, with the likes of “Shadowland” and “Morning Star” presenting fine examples of the kind of work that’s akin to everyone from Espers to the Blue Rodeo/Sadies/Eric’s Trip side project The Unintended. Much of this record is successful in conjuring up a potent mood, which is maybe the most important concern. And between all the interesting instrumentation and stylistic choices scattered around the edges, that’s enough to make Wilderness of Love stand out, whether that’s giving a bit of Velvet Underground bite to the otherwise trad seeming “Mad John,” constructing “In the Shade” seemingly mostly out of room tone and drums that seem mic’d to capture mostly echo, or just doubling down on the sleek menace of the atypically long “Darksiders’ Blues.” 

Slowdive — Slowdive (Dead Oceans) 

Who recommended it? Ian Mathers

Did we review it? Ian's take went up earlier today, saying that "maybe more than ever before the band is concerned with manufacturing the purest, highest grade rush they can". 

Tobias Carroll’s take:

There’s a part about two-thirds of the way into Slowdive’s “Catch the Breeze,” on their debut Just For a Day, where a booming guitar part enters the mix over the flow of washed-out melodies and the voices of Rachel Goswell and Neil Halstead. I heard it for the first time in the early 1990s, and Slowdive could have coasted on the accumulated goodwill that the utter bliss of that moment sparked in me, had they wanted to. Thankfully, they didn’t. Instead, the band’s kept up a remarkably solid record of making good music that’s explored interesting sonic dimensions. This eight-song album marks their first full-length since getting back together a couple of years ago. Not unlike fellow high-profile reunited bands like My Bloody Valentine and Sleater-Kinney, they’ve made an album that seems like a proper progression from their sound. It doesn’t hurt that you can also hear echoes of their work after they initially called it a day: “Falling Ashes” has plenty of echoes of Goswell and Halstead’s post-Slowdive work in Mojave 3, and there are traces of Halstead’s recent stint in Black Hearted Brother here as well. It’s a welcome return from this band, a subtle and compelling album that doesn’t settle for easy nostalgia. 

[thesinglesjukebox]

JOHN PRINE - SUMMER'S END

[7.43]

And summer either ended long ago or is in full flight depending on where you are, so consider this Amnesty Week's End. We'll be back after Christmas with some more songs before taking a break at New Year!

Juan F. Carruyo: A song to ugly-cry to. [8]

Ian Mathers: Look, as far as songwriters go I've thought John Prine was a genius since I was a kid playing Great Days on repeat and I was crying before I watched the video for this one, because the ways he sings "come on home" just wrecks me in a way I'm not sure I'm capable of articulating. [10]

Alfred Soto: These songs are tough -- would a tyro hear anything worth exploring or is "Summer's End" for fans to project their affection? Both. Boasting much of his loping grace, The Tree of Forgiveness is a worthwhile tombstone for a career should John Prine start seein' those shadows creep across the ceiling in real time. The light Mellotron touches on "Summer's End" let the light into the room. [7]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Hard to imagine Prine winning over any new fans with this; "Summer End" is a late-career single from a longtime musician, and most of its appeal comes from hearing an artist do more or less what he's always done except with more wear in his voice and some of the ostensible profundity that comes with age. It wavers between pleasant and tepid. [3]

Jonathan Bradley: Prine's gently weathered voice settles into a twilight that won't be followed by a sunrise. "The moon and stars hang out in bars just talking," he speaks, drawing magical realism to the honky tonk, and letting the soft edges of the scene blur into eternity. Other images, like drying clothes on a line and shadows on a ceiling, are striking for their clarity and their decontextualized vividity, as sharp as memory. The arrangement is so warm and hushed it could have fit on Lambchop's Is a Woman record, and while it's comforting, it also softens the starkness of the lone guitar figure at the center of the arrangement. The rote and cyclical quality of some of the lesser lyrics -- St. Valentine's Day, Easter, New Years' -- dulls and fills out the space between the more distinct moments. When a performer reaches a certain age, it's hard not to read death into darkness, but "Summer's End" leans into that; it is a song not bound entirely to this plane of existence. [7]

Edward Okulicz: I guess it's a synbol of Prine's influence that "Summer's End" itself could have fit snugly on to many alt-country, or even country, artist's records, and not just the ones who provided assists on Prine's 2018 record. Prine's vocals are frail, but the song's delicate and has a strong melody, so the effect is humble and gentle more than anything. There are some striking word pictures here, but the song rests on the comparatively well-trodden -- the emotive words "come on home" over a simple guitar. Whether it a literal beckoning or the soothing of a dying pillow, it's a simple, but real comfort. I really enjoy Brandi Carlile's spot-on backing vocals too. [7]

Anthony Easton: Prine has already had a pretty close brush with death, one that fried his vocals enough that he had to learn a fairly different singing style. That style is smaller, a little more broken, complicating narratives that are already very sad and often very funny. Every album he releases seems like it may be the last, and the spaces between albums seem longer, and so the question arises -- is this the last one? The interesting thing is that though the metaphor is fairly clear, the death here, the mourning -- is not a solitary act. Coming home might be what a beloved Father says, but for Prine it is also what the community hears. The cosmic becomes domestic -- the sun and moon in the bar together drinking -- but also that coming home is being embraced in a low church communion of saints kind of way. For a song about death, it is a song about how a community folds in on itself. Mom has been really sick this year, and Dad has been very unkind in Mom's sickness, and their complications, the question of what their relationship is, has been a decades long puzzle. I have cut Dad off, but he loves Mom, and other people have also helped Mom -- friends parents, members of her church, my sister, and her wife. Family and friends are taking this stressful and sad place, and crafting a kind of homecoming for her -- a home coming that I am not sure that other people would recognize a year or more ago. I also decided that the place I was living is home, and that despite the months-long prep I made to move back west, it was not going to happen. I am sentimental, and country music is sentimental, and home is a hornet's nest, and all of this is bullshit, and Prine can usually hold his sentimentality, and there are sections of this that are as tart as Prine at his best (both in production, and in writing), but the bits that destroy me, especially in this year where I tried to figure out what home was, was when he sings: "Just come on home/Come on home/No you don't have to be alone/Just come on home." The simplest, tiniest, language, the saddest and happiest sentiment, words as simple a child can hear, and ones imbued with a Grace, and words that make me cry -- maybe because of biography, maybe because of Prine's age, maybe because it takes decades of figuring out how to sing before one can sing well about such big things in such small ways... but I keep feeling like I am flailing in describing how this thing just fucking destroys me. [10]

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