Non-Stardom Soul Bellow. [PGrM64]
6 March, 2014
Paul Carr – Acoustic mangler, abstract novelist, spoken word artist, and champion of the English pub tradition. I’ve lauded the curious History of Aviation cassette before, but here’s a full LP’s worth of woozy string curiosities and narratives, The Soul Bellows. Paul’s lyrics revolve around very ordinary, urban things – trains, cigars, that little bottle of wine – little details on the sidewalks on a cloudless day or in the murky interiors of pubs that the kids hurtle past in their greedy race to international fame. But in the frame of these stark and loopy guitar skeletons, Paul brings this tiny things into sharp focus. What’s mundane out there magnifies into subjects far more intriguing, at least for those willing enough to stop and look.
Anyone who’s paused, taken a deep breath, and sunken into Alvin Lucier or Steve Reich should tuck into the lovely redundancy of “Whatever the Weather”, a simple acoustic strain that rattles with percussive cascades. The other epic of the LP, “The Times of Mr. Farrell”, chug-a-lugs in a wonky, limping way while spinning its non-sequitur tale. A raspy voice in “Table Wine” jars our thoughts about what should be a cheery drink. My favorite, “It’s Shyte”, could be considered the most “upbeat”, but only in a spidery, jittery kind of way. Which, of course, is a huge plus. But, then, there’s my other favorite, “Minute Rhythm 1”, in which a slew of recorders and guitars go bananas.
Here. Listen below and see what ya think. Can’t be everyone’s cup of tea, of course – but if you’re one of those looking for the new avant-vangarde, ya oughta turn here.
Anyone who’s paused, taken a deep breath, and sunken into Alvin Lucier or Steve Reich should tuck into the lovely redundancy of “Whatever the Weather”, a simple acoustic strain that rattles with percussive cascades. The other epic of the LP, “The Times of Mr. Farrell”, chug-a-lugs in a wonky, limping way while spinning its non-sequitur tale. A raspy voice in “Table Wine” jars our thoughts about what should be a cheery drink. My favorite, “It’s Shyte”, could be considered the most “upbeat”, but only in a spidery, jittery kind of way. Which, of course, is a huge plus. But, then, there’s my other favorite, “Minute Rhythm 1”, in which a slew of recorders and guitars go bananas.
Here. Listen below and see what ya think. Can’t be everyone’s cup of tea, of course – but if you’re one of those looking for the new avant-vangarde, ya oughta turn here.
Mowbird – Three hip-hip-hurrays for Wales! Four reckless wretches from Wrexham, Wales joined forces on the empty corner of the playground to bring you this sloppy slab of joy called Islander. It’s a rickety carousel of bouncy indiepop rock delight, not too unlike our champs T.O.Y.S – but, where that threesome’s strength lies in bass-shaded uncertainties, Mowbird jitters with sweet eccentric stabs and swerves.
No one can deny the swirling effervescence of the single “Happy Active Horse Organ”, that bops and snarls into such a whirligig of a chorus that the listener is reduced to a kid in the county fair, begging his/her parents to ride ONE MORE TIME PLEEEEEEASE. “Holy Moly” wheels about in a similar fashion, but without seatbelts – watch out for turbulence! The flip of the single, “Brompton”, is the loop-de-loop roller coaster, screaming by at 180 mph and yielding such a rush that, come the abrupt ending, you’ll be mighty disoriented. The whole of this album, really, is one shimmering amusement park – although my personal fave, the low-bass rumble of “André the Giant”, soars with a more measured pace – though this, too, leads inevitably to euphoria.
Convinced yet? No? Here – just go listen to Islander yourself. Feel the rush. Meet yr new playmates.
No one can deny the swirling effervescence of the single “Happy Active Horse Organ”, that bops and snarls into such a whirligig of a chorus that the listener is reduced to a kid in the county fair, begging his/her parents to ride ONE MORE TIME PLEEEEEEASE. “Holy Moly” wheels about in a similar fashion, but without seatbelts – watch out for turbulence! The flip of the single, “Brompton”, is the loop-de-loop roller coaster, screaming by at 180 mph and yielding such a rush that, come the abrupt ending, you’ll be mighty disoriented. The whole of this album, really, is one shimmering amusement park – although my personal fave, the low-bass rumble of “André the Giant”, soars with a more measured pace – though this, too, leads inevitably to euphoria.
Convinced yet? No? Here – just go listen to Islander yourself. Feel the rush. Meet yr new playmates.
Gretchen Lyme – Do you hear it? Deep, deep inside of you. Buried under the static noise of the millions of white boys wanking off with guitars, under the thousands more constructing pre-assembled parts into a glossy, industry-standard household, there lies the quiet. The meditation. For many, this is the bridge to the soul. This is where we meet Fuck Buttons, Boards of Canada, Muslimgauze, and now Gretchen Lyme of Scotland.
Mogadon, her small EP, spreads slowly across the starlight night sky. “Gassed Giant” unfurls and unbends as flowers do – slowly, and when we’re not looking. The universal drone encompasses all, and streams from high windows to the empty pews below. The void and the light both yawn in this track, sometimes at the same time. In the span of eight minutes, we’ve soared over desert, through morning-lit churches, through the lowest valleys and the darkest jungle. “Metamfiezomaiophobia” has that sort of sharp, yet surreal lucidity – that intoxicating chemical texture - that I thought only Dissolved tracks could possess. The cadences and rhythm of the sample that follows entrances me, too, even when I can only catch the calm repetition of that one motif “fear”, “fear”, “fear”. Before long, the mere words, like Lucier’s “I am in a room”, mean nothing, and stir the bubbling pot of feedback that boils over in the end.
These journeys – and the 4-minute return trip, the soothing guitar-led “Fisher” – comprise one of the most stunning ambient albums I’ve ever encountered via Bandcamp (or any other really DIY artists). Only Broken Shoulder has touched this level of inner solace before. Many kudos to Gretch – here’s hoping she churns out another glorious trip through time and space soon.
EDIT: She has. New LP Lull is wonderful. Consume.
Mogadon, her small EP, spreads slowly across the starlight night sky. “Gassed Giant” unfurls and unbends as flowers do – slowly, and when we’re not looking. The universal drone encompasses all, and streams from high windows to the empty pews below. The void and the light both yawn in this track, sometimes at the same time. In the span of eight minutes, we’ve soared over desert, through morning-lit churches, through the lowest valleys and the darkest jungle. “Metamfiezomaiophobia” has that sort of sharp, yet surreal lucidity – that intoxicating chemical texture - that I thought only Dissolved tracks could possess. The cadences and rhythm of the sample that follows entrances me, too, even when I can only catch the calm repetition of that one motif “fear”, “fear”, “fear”. Before long, the mere words, like Lucier’s “I am in a room”, mean nothing, and stir the bubbling pot of feedback that boils over in the end.
These journeys – and the 4-minute return trip, the soothing guitar-led “Fisher” – comprise one of the most stunning ambient albums I’ve ever encountered via Bandcamp (or any other really DIY artists). Only Broken Shoulder has touched this level of inner solace before. Many kudos to Gretch – here’s hoping she churns out another glorious trip through time and space soon.
EDIT: She has. New LP Lull is wonderful. Consume.
Girl Band – All right, all right. To be fair, I wrote this before I saw the Guardian article. But no matter, because you've heard 'em on my show a month ago, so you know I beat 'em to the punch already. (The Waiting Room was the first to 'em, of course.) Anywho, three facts you should know about Girl Band:
1. They’re not girls. Sadly.
2. They’re Irish.
3. OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT DESTRUCTIVE SICK DEMENTED NOISSSSE
If you haven’t heard us DJ folk slobbering all over this twisted puppy, then enlighten yourself NOW. I mean RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Prepare to be obliterated. “Lawman” is as infectious as the common cold. Raw and throbbing and bleeding from pore to pore. And just when you thought they were loud enough – WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! Sledgehammer and power drill directly to yr skull! Instant KO!
Given that righteous six-minute slaughter, one tends to overlook the swift killstroke of “Heckle the frames”, but blow me, is it LETHAL. This here single is one complete package of insanity, no doubt. Get it.
1. They’re not girls. Sadly.
2. They’re Irish.
3. OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT DESTRUCTIVE SICK DEMENTED NOISSSSE
If you haven’t heard us DJ folk slobbering all over this twisted puppy, then enlighten yourself NOW. I mean RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Prepare to be obliterated. “Lawman” is as infectious as the common cold. Raw and throbbing and bleeding from pore to pore. And just when you thought they were loud enough – WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! Sledgehammer and power drill directly to yr skull! Instant KO!
Given that righteous six-minute slaughter, one tends to overlook the swift killstroke of “Heckle the frames”, but blow me, is it LETHAL. This here single is one complete package of insanity, no doubt. Get it.