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christhatcher · 7 years ago

Text

11 from 2017

Holden – The Animal Spirits

What a time to be alive!

Musically speaking. Great swathes of musical history lie just behind our little Black Mirrors (is there a more perfect summation of our relationship with technology than the phrase ‘Black Mirror’?… thanks Charlie Brooker). Previously, styles were pegged to moments, and evolution and revolution, inspiration and reaction took their turns gathering acolytes and detractors. But the Black Mirrors have done for that nice neat musical timeline and brought disparate styles within touching distance and enabled previously unthinkable musical bedfellows to spoon and make the beast with two backs at their leisure. It’s a freedom from purity that makes musical stews like Animal Spirits as inevitable as those monkeys with typewriters eventually turning in some Bard. Fantastical technology, older technology, rudimentary technology and the absence of technology repeatedly collide on this album, synthesisers sound like they’re genuinely trying to imitate the random patter of chimes and bells, graceful chord patterns churn in endless loops and wind instruments and wordless incantations bubble around the mix. An Esoteric Albion Rave Mixtape. With added Krautrock and Free Jazz and Aphex Twin and Prog and what can only be described as an Earthy quality (Earth as in grit and ooomska, Earth as in one of the Four Elements). It’s an amazing thing that manages to sound like everything and nothing at once, but it does beg the question:

What time are we alive?

Genres don’t explode out of nowhere very often any more, haven’t, for almost the last two decades, given their times a distinct flavour (compare and contrast with… oh, all the usuals). Do we live in an age of eternal musical re-hash or in an age of ever more imaginative re-combinations of existing styles? It’s not a major challenge - to be poured over by the Boffins for the sake of humankind’s future - But I’m guessing that the (probably already made) ‘Sounds of The Naughties’ is destined for a full blown identity crisis when it does emerge (if it hasn’t already). On the flip side, the overall quality and quantity of new music hasn’t dropped. And in answer to the question, What time are we alive? I’d argue that we might as well concede that Space/Time doesn’t like a straight line, musical or otherwise, that we need to get to grips with the cyclical nature of Things and that we should probably accept that we’re at the point where All The Music is getting thoroughly blended up as it spirals ever closer to the Event Horizon of a Great Musical Black Hole… Who knows what will spill out on the flip side? Maybe we’ve already ejected and The Animal Spirits is an emergent howl… something with distinct traces of Human, but augmented, magick and operating in ALL the dimensions, not just our earth bound ones. What A Time To Be Alive!

Space Witch - Arcanum

Speaking of Space/Time. Did I ever tell you about the time that Hawkwind found themselves at a loose end in the Midlands with nothing but a stash of Mandrax for company? Thought not. Well, they downed the lot and were about halfway through rehearsing Doremi Fasol Latido (during Lord of Light according to Wykypedia) when two things happened. 1) The Lemmons kicked in and 2) Brian Blessed, with little else to do and generally on the faff, stopped by and, infuriated by Dave Brock’s laconic delivery, decided to give some impromptu elocution lessons. The laws of Space/Time couldn’t handle the at odds ripples set off by a heavily sedated Hawkwind rubbing up against a Brian Blessed enraged by poor enunciation. During the first third of a critically lysergic rendition of Time We Left This World Today, the fabric of Space/Time ripped open like soggy kitchen towel and flung the results ‘forward’ into the future, emerging first in 1980 - where Brian briefly took the form of Prince Vultan in a film adaption of Flash Gordon – before shuddering to halt like an ectoplasm blancmange hitting a wall, in 2017. At this point the whole temporal merry-go-round-the-bend took the name Space Witch and spat out a child called Arcanum.

The Cosmic Dead – Psyche is Dead

Did I ever tell you about the time that a consignment of Monster Magnet’s Tab EP (it’s basically an LP) got washed up in Glasgow and Customs & Excise officers became embroiled in a game of Cat & Mouse with a bunch of local stoners who half inched a few cases, ostensibly because tradition states that Tab must be played as a first dance song at a local wedding? No? well… along with that definitely happening, I should probably point out that, unlike the plot of Whiskey Galore (which this story has up until now utterly coincidentally borne a passing resemblence to) the Customs and Excisists actually did round up all the copies prior to said nuptials. But. As it transpires. Not before a few of the ushers had had a listen through and decided that it wasn’t really a brutal enough listening experience and could do with a few less notes. So they dropped all but two notes and proceeded to played a game of musical chicken, whereby the first person to progress from the first note to the second would be… phhhhhhhh… I don’t know… just called a lightweight or something. Unfortunately the three pieces of music they’d prepared did not go down well at the wedding, even though one of them was actually quite beautiful, in the way that maybe Boards of Canada* are beautiful. The assembled Aquarian Noodling Muso Soup loving guests might have been mortified, but the experience was a proper Road to Domestos moment for The Cosmic Dead. They’d seen the truth behind the Haight Asbury tinted spectacles. They had given the newly betrothed Psyche. And it had Died. Psyche Is Dead was born.

*Boards of Canada might be a bit of a leap, but it’s genuinely the first thing that popped into my head when I last listened to the title track, and I can’t be arsed to try and avoid a tenuous comparison: we live in such a plural musical world now, the musical evolutionary tree is way passed the point that it can be pruned and indexed back into £50 man-style shape and order, let’s face it, who’d want to? Embrace the chaos (See The Animal Spirits).

Oh Sees - Orc

See that Orc on the cover of Orc (below), he’s the guy who made this album. They’re spikey, Orcs, both personality wise and physically, and it comes across in the music. Those boney fingers and sharp but fraying nails wring gnarly, scuffed riffs out of guitars stored in damp and dank. They also have a problem regarding attention span and the only way to keep Orcs on track, as is widely known by those in the know, is to employ two drummers to keep pace and hope that they tangle together like creepers vying for the same patch of sky. You can’t be a creature from the realms of Fantasy Fiction and not adopt some of the trappings of a Prog act, and this particular Orc appears to have decided that the two drummer approach is the most appropriate nod to that ouvre; it makes for some frenetic, seat of the cod piece, extended instrumental work outs, brought (presumably) to a close by some form of sacrifice or the booming exhortation of a wizard in the studio control room. There’s definitely a human aspect to an Orc’s voice, so the melodies are recognisable and at times sit about where you’d expect. However, all that time around fires of unknown origin, with just bare branches, mist and the detritus of deep forest for furnishings, has rendered their voices ragged and ever verging on hysteria – liable to take fright (screech) or fight (bellow) at any moment. Imagine trying to sing a lullaby with all those needling teeth. Never going to happen. Lyrically, Orcs have a tendency towards understated reportage of their everyday lives, “Let's witness the whole occasion, Piles of bodies fill the garden, Smash the hedgerow with their plummet, Stop with panic, ugly banquet. Floating in the vile moat yeah, Crack their skulls upon the cobbles, Ringing home their lemming's message, Fill the streets with awful messes.”. They don’t really do braggadocio or anything as flowery as metaphor either, and sometimes just sing to-do lists “Old is warrior drink the poison, I am warrior crush your head in”. They do love smashing heads in and this album makes an excellent accompaniment to said act.

Jarvis Cocker and Chilly Gonzales - Room 29

For this song cycle about the Chateau Marmont Hotel, Hollywood, Jarvis Cocker splits the difference between the kitchen sink magician fronting Pulp and his role as narrator of the nocturnally themed Radio 4 show Wireless Nights. An embarrassment of lyrical riches leap out as he pillow talks the exploits and tumults of famous patrons, ruminates on the way Hollywood is buoyed along by our suspension of disbelief and spills beans that can only sprout from time alone in a hotel room (if you want to read that as a euphemism, then it wouldn’t hurt). He’s part raconteur, part sage, part documentarian delivering filthy one liners the other side of a comma from heartbreaking observations. All the above is underscored by Chilly Gonzales’ minimal piano, occasional strings and the odd sound effect. It’s a perfect musical accompaniment that puts you right there, in the hotel, wandering the lobby, corridors and in and out of the rooms, drinking in the atmosphere and faded glamour, surrounded by ghosts, gossip and fading echoes of the Hollywood dream.

Here Lies Man – s/t

I’m pretty sure that it was Face-of-90s-Golf, Nick Faldo, who first uttered the immortal line ‘It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing’ (He really had a face for Golf-in-the-90s… God himself must’ve been imagining him prowling the Fairways like a 9 Iron toting lion, when he crafted that face out of his own ManFatTM) and the debut album by Here Lies Man is a strong candidate for the defence of that little aphorism. In this case, the swing is brought by African Clave beats trampling all over some Sabbath style riffage. This kind of explicit fusion can sometimes sound very cut n paste, sometimes at the expense of the magic of the original sources as they’re bent out of shape and squeezed into a mould they were never meant to fit into. HLM avoid that pitfall by allowing the Afrobeats to reign. Structurally, there’s very little by way of verse-chorus arrangement here. Instead the rhythms push the songs between percussive breaks and tone heavy, syncopated, Low Fi riffs with the vocals largely chanted, repeated phrases (honestly, if you read the tracklisting then you’ve got about 80% of the lyrics; “letting go of the human race, sailing to, into outer space” is the closest they get to Leonard Cohen). As a result, the 8 tracks all have a thematic unity but one that offers enough room for variation to keep the album from descending out of the groove and into a furrow. It’s the use of keys and electronics that bring out beads of sweat though. They’re the last thing you notice, often washes of synth, tingling harmonic flourishes and bubbling organ stabs, but they glue the tracks together and provide borderline subliminal hooks and moments of revelation on repeated listens.

British Sea Power - Let The Dancers Inherit The Party

I couldn’t begin to claim to have listened to even a remotely measurable proportion of the music released over the last twelve months, so this is most likely bollocks, but concision did seem to be a recurring theme of many of the new releases I got round to listening to last year (The relative brevity of Endless Boogie’s Vibe Killer almost resulted in the band changing their name to School-Run Boogie, Kamasi Washington went from 2015’s triple album The Epic to half hour mini album Truth, Destroyer released an album simply titled Ken wherein 7 of 12 tracks came in at under 4 minutes… I could go on, but am a man of my time and my brutally diminished attention span won’t stand for it). I’m going to venture that perhaps a collective, subconscious realisation dawned in 2017 that we really don’t have time to fuck about with exploratory musings via the medium of theremin solos. Attention to detail, actually listening (let alone repeated listening) have not been hallmarks of this age. Maybe some actual tunes needed banging out, just to be sure that a flicker of humanity pulsed its way out into the universe, before one of the myriad nutters we’ve given distracted, denial ridden bunk ups to, finally locates the big red button that his staff have been desperately trying to distract him from. BSP certainly gave a lot of bang for buck on Let The Dancers Inherit The Party. Hooks were veritably ladeled in, exploratory urges were reigned in and yet none of the idiosyncratic and eccentric ticks and whistles that make BSP so special got lost. See Keep on Trying (Sechs Freunde), which, apart from opening with the fantastic couplet “If you must act like a beast of the field, oh what does it yield?”, has Yan Wilkinson yelping the ‘Sechs Freunde!!’ part of the title in a manner worthy of double exclamation marks and moist with euphemistic glee (he basically makes Sechs sound like sex… cad). See also International Space Station; a paeon to the titular escapee from our there-but-for-a-hair-trigger planet. Also. Fans of classic British Understatement… Tired of saying “This. Is. Typical” through gritted teeth? Try Saint Jerome’s opening gambit ‘Oh it’s strange the way that things work out, running out of matches and the fire keeps going out’, it’s wordier, but provides up to 64% of disappointing scenarios with a soupcon of tragic poetry/poetic tragedy. Delicious.

White Hills – Stop Mute Defeat

Another band positively not fucking about these days are White Hills. The ecstatic guitar pyrotechnics and eye on the horizon kosmiche workouts of the past may have been largely purged for the time being, and yet, in spirit, the album from their back catalogue that this most reminds me of is the one where they gave fullest vent to the afore mentioned inner/outer space explorations; their Dystopian Sci Fi epic H-p1. Thematically, H-p1 confronted greed and our societal dissonance, on Stop Mute Defeat Ego Sensation and Dave W sound a call to arms for those left standing as we reach what must surely (hopefully?!) be a nadir. Musically it comes over like H-p1 triple distilled and reduced down to base elements. That album was a largely instrumental workout. In 2017, a skeletal, industrial vibe pervades and although the tracks are shorter and punchier the vocals to music ratio probably isn’t that different, infrequent vocals punctuate the tracks like slogans racing across LED billboards. If H-p1 was their Abstract Expressionist masterpiece then Stop Mute Defeat is the Brutalist monument. Sounds depressing? Not really, the title track is something of a techno banger.

Pontiak - Dialectic of Ignorance

If you’ve ever found yourself thinking ‘I want to listen to something that sounds monomaniacally baked’, then Pontiak’s latest is probably the go to. You could be thinking ‘baked’ as in the bifter soused sense of the word or baked as in dry, it doesn’t matter, it covers both those bases… offering up tunes akin to visions brought on by a combination of dehydration and lens flare at sunset after a day chasing heat haze with your head in an oven and only Mary Berry for company. The sounds and performances are chitin hard, like a particularly determined scarab marching against the sun, through the sand, while listening to Pink Floyd’s ‘Welcome to the Machine’ on repeat. Returning to the baked metaphor, it’s certainly not an overcooked album, there’s space everywhere and I doff my cap to this sense of restraint, the drums often consist of little more than the simplest patterns over which guitar, bass and synth lines take turns at wringing the life out of subtly unpredictable riffs.

Electric Wizard - Wizard Bloody Wizard

Of all the Lovecraft-ian feats that Electric Wizard have managed to pull off over the course of their long and subtly varied existence, perhaps the most satisfying, for me, has been their ability to sound like an inhuman approximation of Doom; The band themselves (Eldritch/Antipodean) imposters masquerading as humans in the vein of characters from The Shadow Over Innsmouth or The Strange Case of Charles Dexter Ward (if you want to go lower brow, imagine the Alien Cockroach in Men In Black who crams himself into the skin of that farmer, fronting a band). It’s an impression I get most strongly when listening to ‘Black Masses’ and ‘Let Us Prey’, but it could be applied to much of their output; their mixes in particular don’t conform to doom metal’s bludgeoning but crisp, stentorian but actually kind of conservative standards. The Wizeeeeerd consistently left instruments unsettlingly out of focus, FX broiling in a mire of fug so dense that your brain and outstretched devil horn salute gave up trying to settle into a comfortable 1-2 and just submitted to the Cosmic Horror. With Wizard Bloody Wizard though, they’ve stripped away the elemental hideousness that have up till now left them unseeable, like the Horror bestriding Dunwich, left mics and amps together unchaperoned to let nature take its course and gone to town with the bass runs and some bouncing, rolling tempos… and it suits them… really suits them. They sound energised and souped up. At times (Necromania) they come across like Uncle Acid’s actual Uncle - he’s thicker set, looks at you with sunken, you weren’t there man eyes and definitely ran with a Bike gang who may or may not have (definitely did) perform satanic rites – and the results are actually (whisper it) catchy. But then I’ve thought that there was a great pop writer lurking in Jus Osborn ever since I spent more months than I care to remember humming Vinum Sabbathi to the point of Randolph Carter like distraction. Overall, this is the most human that E Wiz have ever sounded – there’s overt blues underpinning See You In Hell, a veritable romp in the form of the Witchfinder-General-covering-Hendrix’s-Manic-Depression stylings of When The Siren’s Scream and there’s an actual laugh at the end of The Reaper. Admittedly, the track’s called The Reaper and it’s a laugh that’s more Christopher Lee than Jimmy Carr, but it’s definitely a bona fide Human laugh.

Uncle Acid and The Deadbeats – Vol. 1

First things first. This album is more or less proto everything. It’s the borderline unreleased debut by a proto Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats, actually dating from 2010 but only officially released in 2017. Secondly, It’s a proto-metal feast, a mud wrestling Blue Oyster Cult before the Pearlman got put before Swine, Masters of Reality style chuggers morphing into King of The Rumbling Spires rumpuses, a whiff of the Kinks at their speaker slashing-est, Crazy Horse getting stuck in a toy box with Alice Cooper, eyeing each other suspiciously but deciding to make a go of it for the sake of John’s Children. Thirdly, it sounds like a prototype of an audio recording to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out that the drums were recorded using a pencil mike plugged straight into a cassette recorder. However, you couldn’t expect/wouldn’t really want it any other way. Uncle Acid is founded on tape worn thin and the impossibly red blood of no budget Amicus productions. Perhaps the moment that best sums up Uncle Acid’s determination to prevent considerations of taste, decency or proficient sound engineering from pissing on the bonfire of escapism is the fact that during Witches Garden they use a gong (3:24 in the link to be precise). A fucking GONG. The instrument drummers plump for when success has become inversely proportional to self awareness, usually around the same time they start thinking that going swimming with a limo is a reasonable way to fill days off. This album first emerged as a run of 30 CD-Rs. And they/he put a gong on it. And the gong sounds like it was recorded about 4 miles away. But it’s a fucking GONG. Inspired.

#british sea power #uncle acid and the deadbeats #electric wizard #pontiak #the animal spirits #james holden #here lies man #space witch #the cosmic dead #jarvis cocker #chilly gonzales #room 29 #White Hills #oh sees #orc #psyche #arcanum #stop mute defeat

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