When this essential set was issued on CD about a decade ago many heads were blown apart by the swirling ultra minimal psych focus these three Swedes possessed. When they went in, they went all the way in. There’s no better demonstration than on this live document from one of the country’s first public, local psychedelic festivals. Fans and latecomers finally get the deluxe vinyl issue from the Subliminal Sounds label who executed this release to perfection across the board, including a sidelong, unreleased trance/vocal improvisation that equals the previously released beloved material. Along with Parson Sound and International Harvester, Trad Gras Och Stenar formed the vanguard of late 60s progressive guitar music for the region. All with a similar but unique take on the exploratory rock/folk/free axis that Europe was grappling with in a post Hendrix world of political upheaval when rock music was considered a cultural threat. TGOS were the most forthright rock-ist of the three bands, as evidenced from their choice of covers, “All Along the Watchtower” and the devastatingly intense take on “Satisfaction”, both presented here in squalled out, slo-mo hazes of extended wah guitar abandon. But it’s the bands own material that shines the heaviest. The longer the band freaks-out, the better the results. When TGOS extend past the double digit minute mark, every moment feels exciting. In no rush, the band explores the riff to near-infinity. Take the unreleased last side, “Lat oss tanka ett par dagar” which hypnotizes deeply with rises and falls, from slight examinations to roaring, chanting, sweat-lodge insanity. All wrapped up with photos of anxious local police, flyer artwork, and notes in a gorgeous gatefold with multi-color swirled acid wax to boot. As satisfying as it gets.
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By now, this release being the third installment of Dais’ archival issues of the early work of Genesis P Orridge, we have all come to understand that the records have less to do with music than historical context. We’re not going to get “Hamburger Lady” or anything even resembling “TG” in its glorified form in the least. Instead we have harsh abstraction and poetics of chance. What exists on this LP are recordings culled from domestic, detuned piano layers while living in a filth-ridden, frozen 1700’s era Victorian hell-hole in Hull, England during 1974. Having dragged two pianos into her kitchen Gen, in true Coum fashion, translated everything to a dystopian, dada landscape of post-industrial Britain. Practical uses for playing this LP include; a soundtrack to daily banality in an absurdist sense, faking an art installation, or testing the patience of unwanted droppers by. There is no focus required, other than the reading of Genesis’ always enthralling personal accounts of her life and times, presented with each of these LPs. She describes the recordings as her “Blues” album and that’s an association that comes from atmosphere and not of bars, notes or songs, more in the Jandek sense than the Muddy Waters. You can fairly guess what it sounds like given the instrumentation but that by no means devalues its worth, with the appropriate adjustments…which require an indeterminate amount of psychic/chemical realignment. That’s up to the individual. Once attuned, Sugarmorphoses can yield rewards once you shut off your lights and turn on your dream machines (You all have several, we’re sure) and thank god you don’t live in Hull or anywhere else in England for that matter.
Ra’s discography is so vast and daunting that at this point one needs to wonder how far down the dregs go. The answer can be found on this lifeless monstrosity of a release, a triple album representing his small ensemble recordings made in Italy circa January ’78. Conceptually, the album seems like a no brainer; you have the mythic Ra leading a remarkably small ensemble with right-hand sax master John Gilmore at his side, covering standards like “My Favorite Things” and “Exactly Like You”. The problem is two-fold. First, Ra picks perhaps the least flattering digital pre-80s tone on his keyboard heard thus far, leaving everything sounding just horribly flat and wonky. When it seems like only Gilmore can save the day, he’s mixed so freakishly loud that it’s nothing short of jarring. Many of the tracks are “ballads” and certainly not invoking the mood Gilmore was shooting for. Whoever was at the mixing board shoves him so far in front it almost makes one forget about the jittery failure of Ra’s choice in dynamic for the arrangements. If one seeks Ra and Gilmore tackling standards they do so with remarkable success on the Sun Sound Pleasure LP that can be purchased for less than the cost of a 3-D movie rather than break the bank on this expensive, ugly set, (which features no notes, pictures or information). A release that only a Frenchman could enjoy, The Mystery of Being is perhaps the least necessary release in Ra’s bloated discography. Steer Clear!
This album represents the collaborative efforts of Sparhawk, here, playing the lever harp and Carbonara, who commands the upright chaturangui. The instrumentation suggests an exoticism yet sounds completely contemporary. Its success lies not only in the natural, intricate modal overlaps of the instruments but more through the players own American perspective expressed through them. The results yield a western influenced raga that organically moves at its own pace. In two side long pieces the performances by both players becomes their own dynamic without surrendering to overplaying or false mysticism. With sixty strings between them the pair never seems to hit an unnecessary note. Their dedication to restraint shows in the ease of the records duration, the album evolving by constantly unfolding on itself. Like the early Sandy Bull/Billy Higgins collaborations, Sparhawk and Carbonara explore Americana through eastern figures to provide a remarkable musical viewpoint.
Saturday May 15th, 2010- Prurient’s Dominick Fernow is traveling through a tunnel in Europe at night. He is exhausted, miserable, anxious, and bored. This is usually when he conceptualizes his best work. Having spent most of the last two years playing synth in the iconic pop group Cold Cave, Fernow has had plenty of time to reflect on his own material. Bermuda Drain states its intention to soundtrack this sensation, the moments of dead time in travel, surrounded by lights and the narcoleptic calm of speed, traveling with no connection to the outside world. In order to realize his vision Fernow abandoned every tool and instrument he’s ever used, down to the cables and chords, in a technological purging. The result is immediately apparent. Displaying overt musicality, Bermuda Drain may seem surprising to those expecting to be confronted with walls of noise and feedback.
How does an artist like C. Spencer Yeh follow up a double LP of four side-long live abstract collages? With a two-song pop banger 7” on De Stijl, obviously. The A-side sounds like it could be a LCD Soundsystem outtake, replete with post-punk bass, disco beat, and all treble guitar. Even more straightforward than Yeh’s “Songs” one sided LP on What The? label a few years back, the results here recall Jim O’Rourke’s more song oriented efforts, yet Yeh’s outcome is cooler and not nearly as stiff. The b-side is a plaintive piano and guitar driven ballad that’s as pretty as anything else so far this year. Another strange pill in the medicine cabinet that is CSY’s ever-engulfing discography, this single sits pretty on any shelf, if you need an upper or a downer. Handsomely packaged as well. Don’t sleep.
A few years back I was speaking with an acquaintance of mine from Seattle who was also a friend and neighbor of the Sun City Girls in the late 90s. I asked him what the deal was. Did they really have magic powers? He told me that while he couldn’t go into details, he had seen the Sun City Girls do things that were inexplicable. Many have had their memory irrevocably altered. The reality of these accusations depends on ones admission to the belief of these rituals. They have power only if you think they do. The powers of the Sun City Girls’ music however are undeniably evident on their final and just released album, Funeral Mariachi.
There are few mysteries in the contemporary noise world. One of the genuine surprises is the emergence of Virgin Spring. Rumored to be part of KP, who have several releases on Hospital Productions, Virgin Spring is a powerful entity in its own right. Released on the Gods of Tundra label, Excelsior is a striking debut, one that slowly unfurls. Over the course of the single sided album, the sounds move from sparse tonality to a more clanging maximalism of junk noise. Starting with slowly pitch-shifted tones, Virgin Spring starts the record off with a hushed menace, the static of the record complimenting the clarity of the sounds. A crackle of noise begins and the hushed winds become transcendent. There is a wash of what seem like field recordings overlaid with a slow metallic roll. These elements juxtapose with the physicality of the movements. Wooden planks shift, metals are struck and the sounds are arranged in ever-evolving loops. Things become more glaringly sharp as the scraping metals and percussive blows grow in resounding waves. The junk collapse ends sharply, with a succinct edit. Showing command of space, Virgin Spring then pushes things into aggressive territory, signals blaze, the noise swells and grows thunderous. A sullen alarm tone washes over the tumult and things fall apart. The opening tones are resurrected for a static infused exit, a truly dark cloud hanging over the finale like a lingering dread. Much like the atmospheric grace of the Bergman classic that inspired the name, Virgin Spring touches on a psychological fearfulness that threatens the logic of everyday living. The best noise records are the ones that can transport the listener to a place of abstraction, using violence, atmosphere and control. Excelsior is a record that delivers the thrill of great noise on all accounts. A rare feat in this age…Don’t miss it.
It would be an understatement to say that guitar soli has had an important resurgence in the last ten years or so. Maybe in the increasingly maddening digital era the voice of six (or twelve) acoustic strings rings with a naturalist sensibility, a voice of clarity amidst the chaos. Thankfully Glenn Jones quietly gives us a traditional album of guitar soli that delivers in a way so few modern players can. Over the course of nine tracks Jones plays immaculately executed solo guitar, without forsaking composition or style. All the elements merge to create a dynamically steady album that transitions from Banjo to six and twelve string acoustic guitar seamlessly. What comes through most is the emotive aspects of his playing, such as on the meditative “Snowdrops (for Robert Walser)” with its gentle slides or the sheer romanticism of “For Wendy, In Her Girlish Days”, which stands as a gorgeous ballad, capable of instigating nostalgia by the first chorus. Technicality and record collecting can only take one so far. Glenn Jones has stepped beyond those limits and made the best guitar soli album this year by exhibiting a rewardingly self assured comfort. It seems natural, effortless but clearly the result of decades of craft. It may not be the flavor of the month but its rewards will surely endure when all today’s bluster has been forgotten.