there won’t be no country music. there won’t be no rock ‘n’ roll.
that this isn’t some bastard cw mccall concept record is kinda disappointing. yeah there’s some cb chatter buried on the first side, highway ghost voices chuntering beneath a juicy rhythmic stew. but there’s no goddam honkytonk twang or haggard snarl.
that it does sound like craig clouse fucked up art of noise is kinda pleasing. it’s… mmmmm… messily precise. like a knife sliding saucily between ribs. first $&$ of 2016 and it’s one of those not totally all over the place kinda $&$ records. taking all that energy, and the frequent relentlessnesses of the usual and focussing it on big dirty beats.
four tracks, howking analogue lumps out of wires and electricity, honed, but all loose limbed and flailing like the mostly formed melty beasts in the thing. glides, like it shouldn’t, with an ugly polish, with a lurching gait, with a bombast mashed and askew.
outlaws and lone star beer. no messin’.
richard youngs makes so many goddam records i figured by this point he’s busted open a continuum and already recorded with his future / past self. so i guess an album by and with his pre-teen progeny shouldn’t be too surprising…
this is another unclassifiable splurge. not a million miles away from youngs the elders d-beat alluding record, barbed wire explosions in the kingdom of atlantis. or the rotten masters record with andrew paine (on caveman bass here). but much less muck and murk, and diametrically opposed in tone. there’s no spleen or wearied vomit or railing against corporatocracy / kakistocracy here. it’s all (pink) joy a mad wild noisy ride, a skint knees bouncy castle of machine-fritz punked up nonsense.
i’d make reference to a trachtenburg family slideshow players reimagined by billy bao, bugsy malone meets the fall, but really this is just another in a long line of singularities. everything’s the same, everything’s different. that’s my youngsian aphorism.
fugly bursts of fuzz. wonky drum patterns. three note bass parabolas. nursery rhyme incantations. reductionally, that is about it.
but for something that flails and stumbles as much as gallops, jars and jolts as much as glides it’s a hypnotic beast. dunno if it’s the perseveration of vox / lyrics, the stream of conscience repetition across tracks, no matter in them. a kinda childlike gibberish that if you think about too hard starts making sense.
tying shoelaces, eating food, understanding what earth means
there’s supposed to be a story in there, arcostra and the apocalypse (acopalyx), a man who fell to earth type concept album taking extreme fucking liberties with the notions of narrative or coherence. it’s all wrestlers and aliens, space solar panel systems and future architecture. a jumbled découpé of crayon scrawled comic bookerry.
but really it just batters on through (slows down a bit in the middle for when i was 86 stomps around like a lloyd kaufman lcd soundsystem), digs its own furrow and splutters to a halt.
it has a fractured dreamy glee that i dig. and anything can be pink if you believe, as a goofball philosophy, is a pretty great one.
scotland’s foremost hawkwind tribute band comes lumbering at you once more. an unstoppable nightbus drunk, high-heeled, insistent, sweating lysergia through pores you could count from five yards away.
big durty chunks of impulsive, compulsive dunderheided thump and whoooomff and skree. galumphing around yr skull like merbow’s elephant reimagined as fuzzy mammoth.
nevermind recorded in the highlands, this shit sounds like it was excavated from the highlands. dug out great elemental gobs of electricity. the apache beat as caveman stomp. drum thuds of distant trees felled. a greasy, queasy bass circling againagainagain searching for a way out/in, lonely sperm looking for an egg.
playing: a tetragrammaton. four tracks. four notes. four four beat. four standing stones. four hairy bastards. repeat, fo(u)r fucking ever.
so this should’ve been the usual uncontextualised splurge, an impenetrable abstract of noun adjective verb. to describe this impenetrable abstract of pitch rhythm dynamic. but right now everything feels impenetrable, abstract.
watching people you love unpick the knots in their lives of someone they’ve loved for forty seven years. watching people you loathe pulling at the thread of a country till there’s nothing left but a hole waiting to be filled.
dichotmised. involved / uninvolved. powerless / powerful.
funerals of people i know and places i don’t anymore. a penniless billionaire landing a helicopter on a field showered in swastikas. crumbling, like old teeth.
sometimes broken can’t be fixed. sometimes broken is fixed.
it’s getting harder to not to retreat into yrself, into smaller and smaller states, and smaller and smaller communities. so i’m taking the circuits of an ever decreasing circle and making something of them. with them.
consider this a reflexive exercise. i haven’t listened to this disc. not really listened. it’s muttered at me, sometimes loud and harsh through walls, earphones, a corner-of-my-eye distraction. an osmosis, gauzed inside and out.
it’s been a diversion and, in itself, diverted.
rhythm’s gone, busted, fractured. Continue reading
there’s a cautious sneaking in. a crackle, a fizz, all dainty, like tightly wound lynch / splet frottage. gentle tendrils snaking out; fingers in sweaty hellcellar nooks and crannies. grains and waves. twitchy. awaiting…
there’s a spasm. an untranquil sea.
a strobe blinks with pornographic metronomic precision.
bang bang fucking bang.
hard, like it’s a pose. veiled behind a hundred year old beard of bees. dressed baader-meinhof, dressed big bossman. take off those goddam glasses, show us the eyes behind the mirrors, those red amphetamine sunsets blazing. take of that skin let me plunge fingertips into mush and mulch. i can’t see you in all this bastard chiaroscuro…
an exercise in contrast. activity / inactivity : light / dark : noise / quiet : dysphoria / euphoria : restrain / release : masculine / feminine
lea cummings’ kylie minoise (dis)guise always felt like a snickering needle, a puncturing puerile gabba-ish/gibberish cartooning of noises worst excess. this feels like a control exercise. the border guard posturing a hall of mirrors goof on all that vatican shadow military seriousness that’s gripped dominic fernow’s bastard techno thrusts.
bang bang fucking bang. Continue reading
there are quiet places also in the mind, he said meditatively. but we build bandstands and factories on them. deliberately – to put a stop to the quietness. …all the thoughts, all the preoccupations in my head – round and round, continually … what’s it for? what’s it all for? to put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse it, to pretend at any cost that it isn’t there.
so said old aldous huxley.
marconi’s shipwreck is i guess about this creation of noise (and all the connotations and derivations of that particular noun), this distraction from, this subsumation of, quiet, of reflection, of connection. a disorienting seventy-odd minutes of aural fog that simultaneously represents and despises this confusion, that attempts to dissect the overloaded clamour of modern life, the unthinkingness of much of the relentless hum and chatter that swamps ears and eyes and mind.
marconi’s radiowaves: aetheric waves. i dig the poetry of that. part science / part space / part spiritual. same vibes here. waves that don’t die, but count down; an inexorable half-life, on the longest timeline. eventually all that’s left is a whispered core, a ghost-truth.
it’s a logical visual / audio synchrony. both a reflection of one other.
tune your television to any channel it doesn’t receive and about one percent of the dancing static you see is accounted for by this ancient remnant of the big bang.
said old bill bryson.
the film itself is a mirror held up to a mirror. an ouroboros of digital information; ever expanding, dying, consuming itself. recursive feedback loops (to pinch a phrase).Continue reading
vocals are buried. angles skewed. rhythm a-clatters. the post-albini blooze… glasgow used to do a lotta this. then it didn’t. now, once in a while. gets right to the point. twenty and a bit minutes later, it’s gone, all sweaty and breathless. what is this, sst? kinda more am rep or touch n go. buncha fellas from copy haho, deathpodal, pvh transcend their day jobs and gob out this little beauty, slick like sperm on gold tooth… these nine songs, they’re haikus; they’re tanka; they’re haiga. it’s a process of elimination. never using two words when one will do. to say in ten sentences what other men say in whole books. brevity, as dorothy parker said, is the soul of lingerie. parker that leftwing poet; that drunk wiseacre; that caustic blacklisted suicide. what can’t be said in three minutes ain’t worth saying. yeah? fuck. that. what can’t be said in less than a minute ain’t worth saying. short and goddam sweet. like shots of strega. small and beautifully formed. like porno midgets. listen. they jam econo. too clever to be stupid. too ugly to be pop. like the melvins sugar-coating helps the dissonance go down. lurches along like fuzzy logorrhoea, stumble-stops into a hammered waltz on dead is a trick, afore reeling around and pitching a skinny fist towards yr lughole once again.
i seem to gravitate towards certain kinds of records (or certain kinds of records gravitate towards me…) at particular points. not so much label or genre, but more a convergence of ideas, where these intuitive concentric circles of what i transmit and what i consume overlap. there’s a fair bit of ephemeral intersecting (and intersecting ephemera) with this and a whole bunch of recent listens, particularly the ix tab album. not sonically – they’re very different sounds – but thematically: like they’re ripe with ghosts and land and memory.
i’ve described them as stories or folk tales, not in the sense of words or narrative, but as concepts passed on, renewing, reviving, warming the blood of old things. illustrations maybe. a montage of people and places, painted with strings. pointillist constructions from layered notes. a synesthesia of sorts: colours, images, faded pages from books, music, conversations, faces.
not as simple as creating, but also representing the abstract, the personal; a becoming of sorts. music as channelling. an osmosis that takes place for musician as much as listener. same things i dig about richard skelton. improvisations that bring up things from the subconscious. songs encoded, an encrypted mythology of who’s where’s why’s and what’s, as i almost described bregnut. somewhere between pareidolia and psychogeography. same applies here.
it’s all semi-unknowable but you can get a sense of it all. bleached-out polaroids transmitted, malleable, moulded. the past/present/future in one moment. Continue reading
notes: skeletal, bare-boned techno. machine noise. human noise. hospital noise. a metaphoric inexorableness to the tracks, that falls apart, that sputters to a stop. feels like it’s contained, feels like mitosis. a heart murmurs… the perc mix is relentless. c.p.r at one hundred bpm. carpenter’s halloween as ambient/gabba. yamashiro’s akira soundtrack as 8-bit gamelan. horror aesthetics. a personal apocalypse. dubby claustrophobia. narrowing tunnels into a kindof zen opening. light/motes filtering through. an acceptance. we are all rhythms; inescapable, bloody, jaunty. so it goes…