2023 Year-End Invitational

Well, we made it, folks. Another year for the records. It felt pretty sticky there for a minute, but we pulled through as a species without dying in a nuclear fire or getting bonked by an asteroid. As is my tradition, every year, the human race survives without imploding and experiencing an extinction-level event, and I write a short list of all the albums that I enjoyed but didn't get a chance to cover in any other fashion. I call it an invitational as it's a celebration of all the weird or overlooked music that gets released every year and which I hope people spend a little time with before moving on to the next hot thing. On top of that, I hope this list inspires you in some way. I'd like you to come away from it with some new article of knowledge, insight, or creative stimulus that aids you in tackling some artistic endeavor or makes it easier to try something new. You've got a whole year ahead starting today, might as well make the most of it. 

Debby Friday - Good Luck (Sub Pop) 

So why the fuck would I start a list of album recommendations with a dance album? What is an indie blogger doing writing about dance music in 2023? No one is going to read a BlogSpot article to learn about new grooves in the era of TikTok! You're right. Or are you? 2023 was weirder than I could have imagined, and 2024 is gearing up to be even stranger. As an outside voice in the media wilderness of the world-wide-web, I have to put my chips down on the off chance that someone might break their thumb in the hinge of a door or something, rendering them unable to doom scroll long enough to focus their attention on a single point of interest for an adequate duration of time for it to make a meaningful impact on their psyche, and double down on the off chance, that the single point in question is somehow, actually, my blog. If a Zoomer or one of their elders (face it, you're all slaves to scroll!) gleans a single jam that helps bring to life their New Year's and the days beyond for even three and a half minutes after reading this article, I can consider my work a success- not only on my behalf but the entire alternative music sphere in the aggregate. So here's my pitch: Good Luck by Debby Friday- a pervasively feminine, dark-horse beat-trap, brimming with out-sized aggression, and patterned with the smooth, leather stitching of industrial-underground electronica, pinched at the seams with a sunless ecstasy. It's a Janus face-Santigold, alternating in strobes of sequenced glimmer and glaring brushes of obsidian, dancing in heals on the heads of nails ripped from the bowls of an iron maiden. House music for a house fire, a party that pillages the heart, a pit of languid fury, and a cauldron of cacophony churned by the venom-tipped nail of a priestess who uses a rattlesnake as a cincher for her evening gown, a garment so deeply dark and mesmerizing that it appears to be have been cut clean from the looming face of the night sky. How does that grab you? Ok, let me simplify things for the tl;drs who wandered in: Shit's lit, play it! Good luck tonight. 

Red Dons - Generations (Taken By Surprise)

Skipping sidewinders, I truly did not expect to hear from these guys again. A little (maybe necessary, maybe, not) backstory, a whiles away and yesteryear, a younger version of this writer was flirting (earnestly and naively) with the not-so-d-beat and blackened-inspired side of crust punk, and Red Dons crept up on that boy like a camel spider up a desert marine's fatigues in the form of Death to Idealism. That little guy (meaning me) had no idea what had clawed its way across his skin; all he knew was that he couldn't shake it! Fast forward a decade, and here are the Dons once again invading my life, without warning or invitation. It's not an unwelcome intrusion, mind you- even after a decade, there isn't another band competing with their style of dusky post-punk and icey garage rock, and certainly, not one that captures the same dower tenure of forlorn melodicism, a crooning miasma that sounds like it could be echoing up from between the slots of a London sewer grate as easily as around the corner of Portland squat that doubles as a local graffiti gallery. Besides sounding more confident and sure-footed than ever, Generations sees the band returning as if no time had passed between this 7" and their 2017 release Genocide, or even the 2007 LP that first introduced me to the band. Red is the color of the Pheonix's fire. And the Dons are as eternal as the equinox. 

A Giant Dog - Bite (Merge)

Now this one really snuck up on me, and it surprised me to no end to learn of its existence during an unrelated tangent while researching a totally different band (in case you are curious, I was looking up background info on The Cowboys). A Giant Dog, at one point, was easily one of my favorite bands. A group that I discovered during a very strange transitionary period in my life, during which their bombastic anthems of depravity, depression, and desperation really clicked with me on multiple levels. Their material has always had an elevated sense of gravity, inevitability, and poetic irony, much like the Greek tragedies of antiquity, and I'm excited that they've taken the step of raising the stakes further and wrestled with their potential as a group on their latest album Bite- a concept album about finding love and escaping a cybernetic bastille with your horny hide (mostly) intact. The band adopts a somewhat more serious and polished aesthetic for the album, flirting with what feels like the cosmic Fleetwood Mac stage of their career (an honor few bands live long enough to attain), with luxurious shimmering grooves, breathtaking orchestral accompaniments, and a batter of beat-up bluesy callbacks. Rock bands, in general, have a dubious reputation when it comes to taking on the nightmares of neuromancery and a life moored in the meta-ether of cyberspace (see Styx's Killroy Was Here), but the band carries it off with campy bursts of alternating enthusiasm and righteous fury, much in the fashion of Thin Lizzy's Jailbreak, a reference point that suits their efforts temperamentally, as well as in style and effect. All of the group's signature piercing riffs, brilliant wrenching humor and angst, and darkly dreamy melodicism are here, in a mint coat of gold plating with freshly filed fangs. Once bitten, you may never want them to let you go. 

Ana Frango Elétrico - Me Chama De Gato Que Eu Sou Sua (Mr. Bongo)

Me Chama De Gato Que Eu Sou Sua from Brazillian pop personality and producer Ana Frango Elétrico has already received significant praise elsewhere, to the point where I very nearly decided against covering it. Somewhat unexpectedly, as it's not the kind of electronic, club-oriented pop that I'm used to people sharing and squeezing into my X timeline- it has a much older profile, and that's one of the things that I find so fascinating about it. Me Chama De Gato Que Eu Sou Sua is definitely a Brazillian funk record of a certain fashion, but one where the emphasis of the songs is the tactile quality of Ana's voice as a vehicle for lyrics and melody, rather than the momentum and force of the beats and grooves. It's a brave creative choice, one that helps to emphasize the introspective nature of the songs as well as the unique textures of her voice as she sings in a plurality of languages. The accentuation of Ana's voice in the sweep of these upbeat, reflectively harmonious recitatives gives the album a chanson Française quality and a proto-rock and roll aura, almost like the singer is interpreting something that is yet to take shape, but once it does, it will sweep the world in a blithe storm. There is no barricade hearty enough to withstand the swoon of enthusiasm this record exudes. 

Marnie Stern - The Comeback Kid (Joyful Noise Recordings)

I did not expect this list to be so nostalgia-driven, but that is one of the beautiful things about writing an article like this- it's often as surprising to me what ends up being included as it probably is for you. We're both flying blind, for better or worse... Speaking of surprises, a new LP from Marnie Stern was not on my 2023 BINGO card! Although, I will take it over some of the things that were (especially the spaces that I had for zombie outbreak, nuclear winter, and the government confirming that they're in active communications with extra-terrestrials-  thankfully, only one of which had been previously filled). It has been 10 long years since her last album, The Chronicles of Marnia, and The Comeback Kid is an aptly titled successor to what was previously my favorite album of hers. Marnie is still one of the wildest and most uniquely talented guitarists and singers I can think of, and her latest album is another incredible display of her prowess, from the rainbow hopping, electric jelly-bean flavored jounce of her feather-light, platinum-alloy sharp guitar work, to the variegated warble of her vocal delivery- which always reminded me of what PJ Harvey might be so inspired to adopt if she had been commissioned to write a song for Adventure Time- everything I've loved about her style is present in all it brilliant, technicolored, star-smashing delirium. And what's more, it's coming at me like a county-wide hunk of space debris about to drill through the Yucatan coastline- you really can't make a more lasting impact than that, in my humble opinion.  

Captain Jazz - Captain Jazz (Fiadh Productions)

What I like most about the second Captain Jazz LP is how wholesome, and frankly, normal it is. Like, this could very easily be a prickly, mysterious guy record, but the jokes, memes, and references mostly land in the "aww yeah, shared cultural references are fun" zone, rather than then the "it's clear you want to impress upon me how utterly alienated you are from the world at large" zone. The music is generally a pretty enticing vehicle for some tightly wound poetics, pairing a twinkly variety of skramz with melodic hardcore elements, which are sometimes bolstered by brushes of breakcore and glowing auras of atmospheric feedback, amongst other surprises. "Microphones in 3030" is parsed by an oddly abrupt rapping verse that still manages to work with the groove, and I'm pretty sure the pop-punk "0X" is supposed to be some playful riffing on Angels & Airwaves and Tom DeLonge's pet obsessions, which is as funny as it is unexpected. There is a lot more here to unpack, but you'll get more by exploring this record on your own than reading me pick apart its every detail. Oh, and if you're curious about who is behind this album, I came across this helpful documentary about the group.

BBBBBBB – Positive Violence (Deathbomb Arc)

Part of me loves that there are albums out there that, by their very nature, defy critical assessment in the standard sense... the only problem is, how do I tell people about your experience of a record and make it appealing enough to a potential reader when what you're attempting to describe is simply chaos incarnate... only in a good way. That's my dilemma with Japanese experimental electronic/punk/noise group BBBBBBB and their LP Positive Violence. The album, which includes fresh mixes of tracks from their Shin God and Oh Sawagi EPs (released together on cassette by Deathbomb Arc), sounds like a prank played on your ears by a mischievous but well-meaning, studio-dwelling spirit, a minor kami who has a joke that he can only tell through ragged, hyper-kinetic riddles of sound that appear at first glance to be Atari Teenage Riot castoffs that someone's treated like a man-sized Stretch Armstrong, alternating them between practiced stress positions, a la Jericho-style Lion Tamers and a Ric Flair's patented Figure Four. The thing is, the more you listen to this album, the wilder and hairier it ends up sounding- like running MC Ride through a juicer multiple times only to end up with more pulp, pelt, fiber, and fury than you started with and for all your efforts. What I mean to say, is that this is not an easy record to digest, but it's worth the dyspepsia. Take an antacid and indulge in the flaying of your inhibitions. 

 

Dosser - Violent Picture / Violent Sound (Really Rad Records)

This is a very cool and tightly performed grunge-revival record that takes a good deal of care to reify the hooky, aggressive, cross-over potential of the genre at its peak. They totally nail the vibe of those early Foo Fighters releases, zigging and then zagging between brooding, maudlin, soul-searing passages and trench-clearing, 4x4 fire-ball hook salvos, with hints of something angrier than what many of their contemporaries seem capable of mustering (ie., bands pulling off a '90s flavored brand of melodic-punk). I'd be lying if I said that this flannel shredding bray and tendency to bare their hearts as wide and ragged as the holes in their jeans wasn't a style that suited them. They're true believers in their sound and what they take from their influences, and the vindication of their sentiments is confirmed by their heavy and impassioned performance and delivery. It would be fighting words to suggest otherwise, to either me, or the band (presumably, I don't know them that well). 

Frog - Grog (Self-Released)

Frog's fifth album Grog was a record that a lot of people clearly needed this year. It's tough living in an uncertain world, where isolation is ubiquitous, and truth and friendship are scarce commodities. But when this record dropped, a lot of people were excited about it and I observed people bonding over this cottage crop of alternative country curios in ways that I could not have anticipated. A simple, weird, defiant record can do that sometimes. It can break folks out of their blue streak and get them talking about something other than their miseries. It's no coincidence that Grog emerges from a place of fraternity and whimsical idiosyncrasy as the bonds of its tributaries are reflected in the uncalculating contrariness and homely elegance of its irregular but captivating gait. It's like a compass that only points upwards, or a map that you can only read in total darkness- whatever the obvious path is, they've mastered its parallel, off-road ramble. It might not break every mold, but Grog can certainly do something for the mundane funk you may find yourself in. 

devəlmāˈker - The Antonym Experience (Self-Released)

When you woke up yesterday, you probably thought to yourself, "I don't have enough self-reflective, electric folk music in my life; I should get some of that today." And then you laid in bed all day watching Family Guy clips on YouTube instead. Don't blame yourself, bro. Life can be like that. Sometimes you get what you want; sometimes you settle for piecemeal hunks of Fox's Animation Domination. Well, if you've found your way here, your prayers have been answered (I hope). I don't recommend a lot of solo guitar music, but devəlmāˈker's The Antonym Experience definitely speaks to me- a contemplative reservoir of wary feedback fecund oblations that take flight and expand from a central pillar of dogged, rattled riffage, the updraft of which allows the lyrics and vocal performances to stay at eye-level with each other amongst a backscattering of beat hollow insights. Hopefully, the introspection of this record will help inspire you to make the changes that you need to make in your life. Sometimes all you need is someone dragging their battered bones up from the asphalt to show others the way. 

Gazoota - Genesis (Self-Released)

The debut LP from post-psychedelic group Gazoota feels like it was made as part of some elaborate ritual out in the California desert. Charged with a dry storm of kineticism, its drawling, hypnotic intuition for melodicism rises like a great lantern in the night sky to illuminate the concentric caper of bodies in free, blushing motion. The group is able to transcend notional attachments of folk and mirror-ball sounds in a narcotic exchange of sense and order that awakens the cold embers of the psyche as if it were a snuff of cosmic-smelling salts. An oasis of enigmas on which to embark on a fantastic voyage through a primordial horizon of peace- the beginning of something remarkable, and yet altogether welcoming, like a door left ajar for a weary stranger. 

Leatherette - Small Talk (Bronson Records)

I have this powerful mental association with Bronson Records- every time their name comes up, my brain immediately begins searching for some way to tie them to Charles Bronson... and no, I don't mean the actor. Luckily, there is an album in their discography that actually lends itself to this peculiar quirk of my psychology- Leatherette's Small Talk. I loved their album Fiesta when it dropped last year, and Small Talk is every bit as aggrieved, catchy, and twisted as its predecessor. One of the things that I love the most about Leatherette is how antagonistic their vocalist Jonny's presence is- amongst the swirl and gall of back-bending, rubber-limbed grooves, and snappy, rhythmic panache, he always stands withdrawn, beckoning you towards him with a baffling concoction of promise and rebuff. Every verse he delivers is like a line in the sand that he's pensively stretched his palm across- if you accept his invitation, will you be rewarded with a handshake or a shattered septum? Sometimes the honor of a madman has to be tested before you can be certain where his intentions lie. Sparing with the devil is often preferable to discussing the weather in heaven with the angels. 

Penguin Cafe - Rain Before Seven​.​.​. (Erased Tapes)

Rain Before Seven​.​.​. is the fifth album from the Arthur Jeffes-led orchestral ensemble Penguin Cafe- a group he convened to interpret scores written by his late father, Simon Jeffes. The album's title is a play on an old phrase meant to invoke a sense of optimism in the audience in anticipation of glimpsing some streak of light as it emerges from the far end of the proverbial tunnel. It's very emotionally engaging material, and while fully instrumental, the scores nurture a highly narrative interpretation, invoking scenes of tranquil domesticity, industriousness, and the whimsy of burgeoning romance, passively manifested and yet sympathetically absorbed. An extension of the consolation towards one's fellows through the periscope of empathic response, the album is a reckoning with the vast interconnectedness of all things, real, imagined, and soon to be wrought by the fulfillment of dreams.

Laure Briard - Ne Pas Trop Rester Bleue (Midnight Special Records)

It never occurred to me that there was much overlap between California and France before hearing Laure Briard's Ne Pas Trop Rester Bleue. I mean, there is wine, and the fact that both are cultural meccas within the West, but in terms of vibe, aesthetic and spirit... it definitely never occurred to me that the two cultural loadstones could collide before I encountered sunny yéyé serenades like "Magical Cowboy" and flirty canter of "The smell of your Hair." The album is explicitly inspired by the deserts of the Western United States and has an invariant sunny side that is amazingly untouched by the harsh climate of its austere muse. Instead, it rises above the tasset grounding of the senses like a vapor cloud or mirage, untouchable by death but still seemingly embodying it. This is most certainly the case for the title track, where the jaunt of the verses is panged by a pallor of distress in the chorus, ambivalent to the mortal destiny that stalks its every step and betraying its awareness of the inevitable with only a minimal dew of perspiration and wink towards the shadows which bloom in the periphery. It's hard to stay blue when listening to this album, even while in the pluck of a fate that rises up to meet you like the bed and belly of a pit of quicksand.

Rob Mazurek - Exploding Star Orchestra - Lightning Dreamers (International Anthem)

Heraclitus said that no one steps in the same river twice, but can you step in two rivers at once? I don't know that Rob Mazurek's latest set of pieces for the Exploding Star Orchestra either answers this question or fully addresses the aforementioned aphorism, but it is partly inspired by the divergent axis of two great rivers in Brazil- contrastingly named, the White and the Black. His experience traversing these bodies of water impelled him to reflect on the current of time and the flow of humanity, shared pasts, and disparate futures, converging and reassembling in the folds of eternity, clinging to a spinning pin-head floating through the vapor. Even the tracks on Lightning Dreamers that don't direct the listener's attention to a stream of reflection on the simultaneous gestures of humanity and history nonetheless are possessed of a chimeric fluidity that pulses with a shameless potentiality, like water and mercury, like sand and volcanic ash, like flesh and earth, we're all dreamers and shapeshifters, becoming what we were to fashion the attire that we'll be introduced to our future selves in. Lightning Dreamers is a catcher's mitt sewn to collect a cannonball aimed at the moon. 

Sprite - Sprite (Self- Released)

Chicago's Sprite conjures a credible melancholic storm of thunderous, reverb-rankled jangle rock on their debut, self-titled EP. It's impressive how propulsive and, at the same time, soupy these tunes are, like you're doing donuts on an airboat in the middle of a marsh during a monsoon- drowning in a centripetal crush of passion, gaining inertia, and putrid, palustrine discharge. It's heady and hard to keep your lungs clear while wading through, but it's worth the fight as its lows produce a breathless kind of high, and its highs will leave you hanging in the air like a cloud shelf whose temper could chew the tip off a skyscraper. 

Parent Teacher - Impending Doom (Wilbur & Moore Records)

Impending Doom, despite the urgency of its manicure, is a hushed, outsider pop record that should ease your transition into the new year. Parent Teacher has his mischievous side, evidenced by the frequent dry-mouthed turns of phrase that weave through his lyrics sheets like a pot-stirring python, but sonically the album coasts around the rim of your senses as Apollo's chariot rides overhead- you can bask in its glow and photosynthesize its rays to nourish your innards without the fear of being trampled or displaced by its passing. However, if you want to dive into the dialogue that Parent Teacher has drafted, you'll find it rich in subtlety and perspective. Turns out the only immediate demise you should be concerned with is the death of your boredom. 

 

Leucrocuta - Chastity Platinum: Dead Scream (Grimalkin Records)

Kindling the spirit of the ancient foe of the Ethiopian herdsman and his dogs, Toronto artist Leucrocuta embarks on a quest through the fractured faultlines of identity and the cracked state of our suspiciously disoriented reality on their latest record. It's not hard at all to imagine Chastity Platinum: Dead Scream as the outgrowth of a relatively benign Mononoke, a spiritual presence once dedicated to spreading disorder but which has quietly slipped into a kind of semi-retirement to contemplate its disruptive impulses and deeper existential questions of humanity's susceptibility to their malign influence. A chill, subtly anarchic record that melds a no-wave approach to funk with an ambiance of low-key Loki darkwave, idling through slippery beats and corkscrew basslines to reach a base paradigm of acerbic spiritual, serenity, if not bristled ataraxia. A beat in the dark to tune the aching pulse of your aching desire. 

Album Review: Stud Count - Stud Count

Last year, and the year before that, we saw the rise and peak of interest in melodic hardcore that reincorporates the textures, tones, and attitude of '90 alternative rock. This trend is not quite as strong as it was, but I believe that Stud Count's self-titled is still one of the better embodiments of said cultural thrust and likely one of the more long-lived. After all, their latest album dropped halfway through last year, and I'm about to heap a load of adoration on it like it's a fresh spring flower, miraculously preserved among the frost and slew of December. For starters, Stud Count have a supreme sense of propulsion. It's fantastic just how swiftly this band moves and I felt like I had a crease running through me from their wagon train before I even thought to blink. Also, while their self-titled is obviously riding on the knife's edge of some pretty dire emotions, they never let the heaviness of their subject matter weigh them down. When trolling through the tumult of their own subjectivity with the aid of brooding '90s nostalgia, there is a real tendency for bands to get as mopey and withdrawn as a goth kid who dumped a half-liter of Baja Blast down the front of their Jncos at the mall food court and are now waiting for a ride from their Mom to pick them up while looking like they'd completely rinsed their pants- when a band gets too bogged down in their feels, it can be just as awkward and embarrassing as all that. However, any sense of hesitation or excess moister on Stud Count's self-titled is wicked away like ash and smoke from a clove cigarette out the cracked window of a hand me down sedan. I'm going to belabor this point only a little further for emphasis's sake; it is awe-inspiring how brisk Stud Count's execution is! There aren't many punk bands that have this strong or consistent of a rhythm section- Turnstile, of course, comes to mind, and that is my closest comparison, but there is a ruthlessness to Stud Count's groove and grind that is more akin to Discharge and bands of a cruster stratum and breed of rogue than the funkier flow frothing out of Maryland. The adrenaline-peeling quality of Stud Count's rhythms plays off the more melodic components of their sound in a way that redoubles the force of the latter, offering the coppery slither and lustrous lace of Norelle Green's vocals a positively delectable hard, venom coating. It's a combination that offers a seismic gain when the group curls into a Tsunami Bomb-esque sour zephyr punch and garnishes their offering with a sharpened razory bite, providing the bubble grit of their intermittent Veruca Salt seasoning a satisfyingly acidic piquancy. As long as I'm dropping '90s references here, the waterlogged reverb and bleeding angst exuded by "Give Me Time" sounds like a rendition of Green Day's "Brain Stew" if it was run through a high-velocity blender, and "Through My Window" feels like crashing through a succession of plate glass windows while being dogged by a werewolf infected version of Letters to Cleo, the blood dripping from your cheeks and limbs from the broken shards further provoking the blood lust of your feral sundress adorned, pursuer. Then there are the chain whip disciplined, pit cripplers like "Maniacal Laughter" "Delicacy" which prove up the facts of their hardboiled nature without sacrificing any of their inherent mischievousness or flexibility. And finally, there is the closer "Avenue" which winds down on a suitably desperate tone, one that feels damp with piteous perspiration, and whose melancholic quiver lingers in its aching solace, wrapped in cutting reverb, like memories clinging to the pitted tissue of an old scar. You can count the number of duds on Stud Count's self-titled on the extended digits of a closed fist, caped in a soft-leather glove- in that there are none, and the impact, once felt, will be as smooth as it is intentional and brimming with force. 

Smartpunk, for the discerning punk collector type. 

Album Review: Lollygagger - Total Party Kill

I don't know what I was expecting when I picked up Total Party Kill by Lollygagger... That's a lie. I knew these guys were going to be a couple of screwballs... I just didn't realize they'd be so tough-sounding. Don't get me wrong, Lollygagger have a sense of humor, but they are a couple of mean-sounding sons of bitches. Now, I'll go long stretches where I'll only listen to serious, professionally produced punk music- and Total Party Kill definitely reminds me of these records in terms of it's general aesthetic and attitude. But then I'll come across a band, and it will remind me that punk as a genre can just be all about the shits and giggles too- and Lollygagger are also that band. They kind of sound like a cartoon version of Red Fang crossed with what often sounds like Eric Saner of Mastodon embodying a bombastic nerd's revenge persona a la The Spits- sludgy riffs and deep-back water grooves, tag-teaming with aggressively elastic vocal performances that often cross the center line into full-blown manic meltdowns. Opener "Liar's Club" in particular resembles a cosmic slingshot that flings you across the universe while the malevolent interior monologue of an alien being is beamed into your consciousness from a nearby dying planet. "The Earldormen" feels like an ancient wrestling match with unassuaged, deeply rooted and undigestable emotions that manifests into a shadow self for whom you confront in a battle of apocalyptic wills to the tune of some thoroughly medieval guitar riffs. Then there is the granite-grained, psychedelic bass bombardment of "Stone," a number with the fatal rush of being kicked off the deck of a highrise by Perry Farrell and being forced to use your own lower intestine as a bungee chord in order to break your fall. Total Party Kill is a fun record, but make no mistake, it is fucking vicious! If someone puts this bastard on at an actual party, there are no guaranteed survivors. 

With What's For Breakfast? Records you can have breakfast any time!

Album Review: Aaron Dooley - The International Disassociation Of:

Funny enough, The International Disassociation Of: is actually characterized by its external cohesion. The latest Denver-based composer Aaron Dooley is an entirely improved excursion, wherein the maestro and player lays down tranquil bass lines which his compatriates follow like the flight patterns of birds flocking to an oasis. Possibly inspired by life in the West among great, heaving rocky ramparts and oceans of scrub under vast plains of blue mist, the album has a somewhat arid feel to it. A parched, almost rasping quality- a quality that gives it a certain ambition- driving to divine a source of sustenance. It is not desperate in its wandering search but rather determined. Aaron and his cohort know the destination they seek is out there; they're just not sure where it is quite yet. It's like most classic adventures; there is never any doubt that our heroes will reach Shambhala- the intrigue is how they arrive and the paths they take to get there. Through winding grooves, astonishing aural arrangement layered in surprising accession, and an overwhelming sense of perseverance, Aaron and his crew glide through devil-eyed choke points like the wind through the slots of a fence and find renewed freedom in every obstacle they hurdle. Nothing they encounter is more formidable or mighty than their unity of design, an impulse towards independence, shared in stride. E pluribus unum a la unanimous execution of intent- the dissolving of one consciousness into many and many into one. Sometimes to find your way, you have to get a little lost first. Lost in each other- in time - in space. 

Keep up the momentum with Centripetal Force.

Album Review: Sukatani - Gelap Gempita

Every once in a while I like to cover a band like Sukatani. By this, I mean a band that is playing in that darkly gothic style of 3/4s post-punk and 1/4 hardcore that La Vida Es Un Mus Discos seems to exist exclusively to perpetuate- and doing it right! Usually, when I come across a band in this style, they're from Spain or South America, but Sukatani has me tracking about 10,000 miles in the opposite direction to visit them in Indonesia where I find their latest album Gelap Gempita coiled like a cobra in the catalog of local record slingers Dugtrax. Sukatani are definitely less intense than a group like Rata Negra, but have about the same level of interest in, and ability to, construct firm melodic structures. The guitar work here is fluid but jittery and unsettled, lending itself to grooves that have a lot of body and swelter to them and tend to evaporate a cold heat. The way the reverb recoils off the guitars is positively spooky, like the vapors of a shrinking block of dry-ice adrift in a tub of milk and vodka. These eerie effects bond felicitously with space-age electronics feedback in refracted cascades that ripples in brilliant interstellar arrays of blinding, fractured luminescence, like the distant observation of a photon torpedo colliding with the surface of a moon that has been particularly terraformed into an enormous discoball. The trade-off between the co-ed vocals is probably the most intoxicating part of the entire mix though, and serves as the preverbal cherry on this chilly, black velvet-tinted treat. If the lyrics weren't all in Indonesian, I think I'd be forgiven for thinking the album was a long-buried collaboration between Gary Numan and 45 Grave! Make no mistake, Gelap Gempita is cut from the kind of intrepid darkness that can really light up your life.

More stuff to dig on from Dugtrax. 

Album Review: Quantic - Dancing While Falling

It always feels a little strange discovering an artist last in their career. They've lived a long and varied life before the output of their blood, sweat, and tears dropped into your life, and the event can challenge your self-conceived notion of the depth of your own musical journey. For instance, I've only recently been introduced to British producer and NYC resident Will Holland, aka Quantic, via his LP Dancing While Falling two or three days ago. You'd think that our paths would have crossed at some point before my encounter with his latest album seeing as he's been releasing music for over 20 years, and I used to both DJ and host a radio show that played a bunch of funk and dance music, but somehow we evaded each other until now. Knowing that he has such a long history as a producer certainly makes approaching an album like Dancing While Falling a little intimidating... I don't know anything about him other than what I've read, but according to sources, he's well versed in funk, soul and jazz (although, according to Wikipedia, this last genre affiliation still requires citation- apparently, some people are even less well acquainted with his work than myself) with a particular focus on how these traditions are informed by Latin and Afro Caribbean rhythms. What I've heard of his work, which of course, is primarily, Dancing While Falling, reminds me of the jammier sections of some of the early Gorillaz albums, which along with their obvious overtures to rock and hip-hop, were able to integrate fairly diverse traditions of rhythmic eletconic music into a cohesive whole. More than mere stylistic indicators, it is Holland's parallel ability to seamlessly synthesize the elements of various traditions to accent their past while hinting at their future which makes Dancing While Falling such a trip. It's a disco record that sounds like it comes from the streets- not in the sense of a lawless place- but a place that represents freedom and fulfillment. A Fiddler's Green in the present and now, comprised of hot asphalt and flowing rhythms, and populated by carefree, smiling faces- a meddle of sensation temping you to move in ways you never expected but find yourself compelled to by an internal drive and an unmasking deep-seated desire. It's a symphony of funk and human fealty that is unrestrained in its ascension toward a higher coalescence of connection and a unity of action, mantra, and groove. I can't speak for all of his catalogs, but Dancing While Falling has captured me with its charisma and pulled me in with a force, not unlike gravity, and I'm very pleased to have had the good fortune to tumble headfirst into it. 

Play It Again Sam, and again, and again, and again...

Album Review: Memorrhage - Memorrhage

It's exceedingly difficult to review albums like Memorrhage's self-titled. Not because it's not good. Not because it wouldn't be fun to describe the music for someone (like, for example, a washing machine filled with vomit, tumbling down a fire escape, and landing on the roof of a convertible full of propane canisters parked next to an open flame... disgusting and explosive!). It's just the opposite. It's sooooooooo good, and I could write about it for hours, but anything I could say about it, you could basically be trimmed down to some variation on, "On god, shit slaps!" Because, holy fuck, it just does! The album is essentially Garry Brents's tribute to the nu-metal and extreme action films he enjoyed in his misspent, miscreant youth... and it's very relatable. Apparently, nu-metal was one of the first genres of metal that the one-man musical pantheon (responsive for such perniciously inspired acts as Cara Neir and Homeskin, two amongst... I couldn't tell you how many other projects, but it's a lot!), and it's a style that still speaks to him to this day. It's an expression of something thoroughly simpatico to my lived experience. The first album I listened to in its entirety was Korn's Follow the Leader, and the first album I purchased with my own money was Cypress Hill's Skull and Bones. I have super vivid, incredibly fond memories of how twisted and aggressive that stuff came across to me as a kid, and in some ways, I feel like I've been chasing the highs that music gave me ever since- which is why the crisp ferocity and faithful rendition of the nu metal's distinguishable penchant for belligerence is so satisfying here. It might not be exactly as I remember this stuff as a testosterone-charged, zit-plagued teen, but it gets the feeling right in some pretty important ways. Sort of like how the Brutal Doom mod updates the violence of the original Doom to make it as visceral and subversive as you remember the game being when you used to play it late at night, in the pitch dark on the family PC after everyone else had gone to bed, Memorrhage is as much a kick in the chest and as infectiously groovy as when you first caught Static-X screaming over the airwaves of your little backwater town's only rock station. It succeeds in making the present experience of these sounds as intense as the emotions that you attach to your memories of their source and inspiration from 20 years ago- which is a really fucking accomplishment. The one thing that I think makes Memorrhage a little jarring is that the rough and metallic quality of the chords tend to veer more towards early metalcore a la Converge, but there are still plenty of record scratches, inky, post-grunge reverb ripples, and big, grim, throwdowns to make it a contender when stacked up against anyone else attempting a similar revival, or even stuff by established genre players back in the day. I feel like I'm belaboring the point if I say any more, so I will just leave you with this: Give Memorrhage a chance, and I promise it will turn your expectations inside out. 

Album Review: Gold Dime - No More Blue Skies

Sometimes it feels like you're screaming your lungs out and no one can hear. You sit in total silence. Abjectly still like an empty vase full of dust and spiders. But there is a sound that is scrapping your insides. It is peeling the paint off the walls like a jet turbine that has just been flipped on inside your chest. It's almost too loud to hear. And if you were to ever let it escape the ventilation of your muzzle, it would surely deafen the neighbors and create a public nuance on the scale of a superfund site. I'm talking as if everyone feels this way. I'm not sure that they do. All I know is that this is the whirlwind that lives inside me most days, and that it's albums like No More Blue Skies that remind me that I'm likely not alone. The third LP from precisionist and vocalist Andrya Ambro under the name Gold Dime, sees the NYC avant-sonourbanist teaming up with bassist Ian Douglas-Moore, guitarist Brendan Winick, and Gideon's lambastist Jeff Tobias to rig together a kind of sonic noir for the damp spark of the soul. No More Blue Skies is cinematic in a sort of impenitent manner- the things that it gives voice to are barely understood and rarely cognized, but through sound, they are given vivid visual delineation, where in sensations become embodied forms, feelings are given limbs, and confessions swirl like crimson blended in a whip of shadow-cast monochrome. I see a naked sprint across the Jornada Del Muerto. A golden eye pensively watching from beneath the ruffled hem of a pulled curtain. A pour of human soup foundering down the maw of concentric triangular hieroglyphs to pool in the belly of a temple's keep. Like all good noir, the album reaps its rewards by reaching into the depths of unknown terror, a nightmare known as humanity, a floundering state of existence, baptized in the garbage spouts of modernity and self-deceit. Cast a deadly spell and see the clouds fill with the absorbing cackle of hungry black fowl who will clean the soft cowardly flesh from the jaundiced bones that lie below. A revelation will come upon you that all-purpose is perverse in the light of all promises fulfilled, no matter how troublesome or capricious. The glint and glimmer of gold that one sees at the end of one's journey, is in truth, the plating on a dagger waiting to turn your spleen into a cock-tail hors d'oeuvre. The mystery it permits one to unravel is as slippery and winding as your own guts, and just as likely to end in a hot heap of shit. It's not an album that rewards your investment as much as it makes you its prisoner as a function of your own morbid curiosity- the same way a cat will bat at a loaded pistol, tempting it to unleash its fury, out of dumb wonder and an unconscious death-wish. No More Blue Skies is the sound of a voice that cannot scream, seen through eyes that wish they could look away.  

Ironically, this one's available from No-Gold. 

Album Review: Basher - Doubles

What kind of a group is called "Basher"? To me, it sounds like a hardcore band, probably of the youth crew and/or straight-edge variety, whose music is suitable for diving into the pit like you're entering a '90s WWE cage match. Or, maybe they're more like a Canadian speed metal band, dudes who you could mistake for professional surfers if they weren't entirely clad in spikes and leather, and whose songs all sound like B-Sides from Painkiller. We'll, neither of these are correct, and now you know why I am terrible when it comes to job interviews- I'm shit when it comes to pulling things out of my ass. The truth is that Basher is a NOLA-based jazz ensemble, named after their principal player, Byron Asher. It was perceived as a kind of exuberant, free jazz party music- and that's is what they genuinely deliver on their latest LP, Doubles. Free jazz has a not entirely unearned reputation for being unapproachable by the uninitiated. However, if I had to pick a non-Albert Ayler record to help someone get initiated into the possibilities for the genre, it would have to be Doubles (or maybe its singular equivalent). Many of these tracks have a kind of momentous updraft to them that is reminiscent of big band swing of an impossibly distant era, but with the intimacy and articulation of a solo recital. The group has the fantastic ability to play to a room while capturing the attention of individual constituents and pitching each in turn into a state of rapture. Byron's saxophone melodies have a potent physicality to them that makes them feel present like a dance partner; when the music turns, you turn with it; when it dives, you leap; when it tosses you over its shoulder, you land on your feet like a cat dropped from a balcony onto a big, soft wedge of cheese. Dueling drum kits collide in their percussive prowess as grappling wrestlers spar to lend each other the benefit of honing their strengths by tempering them against the skilled resistance of another, and cosmic synth trails bind the bones of the mix like the oral history of the constellations. It's the soundtrack to a wild jubilation, one that won't leave you with a heady hangover or a quantum of regret. I have no qualms about my recommendation of Doubles to you for some easy, yet exciting experience in contemporary jazz. Heck, I'll as far as to say that I double down on it! 

 

Collapse into more grooves with Sinking City.

Album Review: Hooten Hallers - Back In Business Again

Columbia, Missouri's Hooten Hallers released their 15th anniversary album on September 9th of last year. Now, we all know that the shelf life of music is pathetic in this day and age. Most albums are forgotten within a week after their release. But, despite the inertia of listener's fleeting attention spans, I think this one is worth returning to as it's got posterity on its side. Like a good whisky, they are a band that only improves with age. Hooten Hallers have a classic, even timeless, boogie-down country blues style that captures an eternal spirit of simple living, striving, and scrapping, three key ingredients of the American ethos- a stubborn comingling of compulsions that is as enduring as it is asinine. Back In Business Again is no exception to this proven lineage. In fact, it's a mighty extension of it! So how does a band come out of the cellar time and time again still sounding fresh and with a potable offering in hand? Below is my assessment of what makes a good comeback record like theirs...

1. First things first

Before a band can truly start the process of making a record, they need to make sure that they have all the proper ingredients and equipment. Here’s a list of what the Hooten Hallers assembled to perfect their most recent batch of new 'merican standards:

Ingredients

10 pounds (4.5kg) of choice blues riffs
4 (1.8kg) pounds of sweet country shine
5 gallons (19 liters) of whisky

10 figures of sultry jazz melodies

10,000 lemons

1 hot cup of ambition

1 gill of delusion de grandeur (for flavor)

Equipment

Guitars (Bass and other)

Drum kit

Sax

Amplifiers

Mics

A laptop used exclusively to receive spam and vague, unappealing job postings 

Grain grinder

Hydrometer 
Fermenter

A reliable heat source

IPad that a sibling signed in on last Thanksgiving and which you can access their HMO+ account from
Fully loaded S&W Classic 6 1/2" Blue

Spare chicken wire

A picture of a beloved family dog that is the right size to fit in a standard leather wallet

Snake-skin boots with freshly polished spurs 

A live opossum

A pair of denim overall with a missing button 

2. Choice of subject matter, ie "What's in da mash?" 

Choosing what to write about is crucial for relating to one's audience. If you can't write about something they can draw a parallel to within their own lives, you might as well fold your message up into a little square, stick it under your pillow, and hope you get a nickel for it in the morning. Back In Business Again succeeds because it speaks to the values that live in each of our hearts- time-honored traditions we all hold dear, like fighting, fucking, and fried chicken. But that's just a starting point! What a really great record should do is uplift people's spirits and make them feel like their lives are just about to turn a corner. The winning streak described on the title track is perfect in this regard. That track will make everyone feel like their next scratch-off ticket is going to set them up to be rolling in dough like a Pentecostal baker. It's also good to have a track that causes the listener's passions to flare and gets their blood piping hot! It can come in the form of either indignity, or pride, or somewhere in between. In any case, this gambit is covered by the depictions of the down bad and dirty of this land of ours on the singular slushy-stomp of "The Cobbler's Children." And then you need the love songs. No country record can roll off the presses without a number that sounds like it was written on the author's knees, begging like a dog to have their feelings reciprocated tucked into its grooves. A soppy exigency, constitutionally required of any and all country records, and one in which the staggering sway of "Show Me" and the ripped-up rag-time of "Heal it" fit the bill. It's also important to consider a balance of sweet and spicy as well, which is why it's essential for a record to contain tracks like the boogie-by-the-bushel-full of "Now That I Know" and the surly, scratch and scuffle fever of "Cat Scrap." With all materials accounted for and dumped into the mix, it's now time to move on to step three. 

3. Crushing doubts

When you've been gone for a while, it's natural that people might wonder if you still have what it takes to put out a half-decent record. This is where the grain grinder comes in... crush all doubts into a coarse gris– not enough to break, mind you, but enough to get the job done. Those fuckers need to be shown whose boss! Leave no survivors! 

4. Heating the listener

When there is a record coming out, it's important to prime people's expectations. This can be done via the internet- telling people about the record, how the recording process is going, and when they can hear the finished product are all good information. Information is like an open flame. You expose people to it enough and they will literally boil with anticipation. A couple of updates to the web here and there and scheduled out in advance should get the job done. You'll want to get folk's attention up to a steady temperature of engagement, around 65C to 68C, which is best for enzymatic conversion, by which I mean, reminding people the record is coming out and that they should be excited about it. I'm guessing Hooten Hallers did all this. I know about their record because I got an email about it. Emails are delivered via the internet. Therefore, I am vindicated. 

5. Mashing the mix

When you've got the right ingredients, and equipment, have pulverized all doubts and heated up people's expectations, the next important step is to get a professional involved. For Back in Business Again the team... well, they leaned on their bassist Dominic Davis who has also done work with Jack White. He added the right amount of flourish to these tracks, converting any residual starchiness to delectable sugary notes, and in the process, strained out any impurities. They really have this mixing, mastering, producing thing down. The record really tastes... erh... sounds great! 

7. Mash-out and sparge

This is self-explanatory.

 
8. Checking the gravity

With records, it's vital to make sure that everything is flowing in the right direction. Good vibes in, bad vibes out. If a band ever has an issue with this step, they might want to invest in a hydrometer. 

9. Yeast, everyone needs it

Yeast helps dough rise. Bands need to make dough to survive. Therefore they need to make sure that they have enough yeast. Yeast, in this section, is a metaphor for talent and the ability to deploy it. At the very least (yeast?), Hooten Hallers have this covered. Otherwise, I wouldn't be writing about them. 

10. Fermentation

You can't rush it. If it takes a year, or two, or three, or five, that's how long it's going to be. Good shit takes time.

11. Clarifying the wash

Clarifying is the process of removing any spent grains that might threaten to scorch the mix during distillation. As with #7, this step is self-explanatory. 

12. The spirit run

Disambiguated from Chicken Run, staring Mel Gibson. This is a complicated process of making sure that a record is able to raise folk's spirits and call them to do things they never thought they could and accomplish the impossible for themselves and their progeny... Ok, maybe it's not that different from Chicken Run after all.  

13. Making Cuts

At some point in every record-making process, a band's got to decide what ideas make the cut and which land on the editing room's floor. I'm convinced that only the best, most cogent ideas remained when Back In Business Again was shipped for pressing. These are professionals, who would never do something so full hearty as to attempt to transform a whisky recipe they stumbled upon into an album review. They've got more brains than that. I recommend others follow their example over mine. 

14. Aging and oaking

Everyone has their own preferences when it comes to the aging and oaking of a record, but to me, Hooten Hallers' choices in this regard are beyond reproach. Back In Business Again is a paragon of artistry that defines itself through an unparalleled dedication to the timelessness of hometown Americana and the simple act of letting shit take as long as it needs. Aged for at least 4 years in select ranges of American backcountry and in the dens of the mythical Mizzou Tiger, its spirit has evolved into a masterpiece combining the textures of denim overalls, twisted checked-wire mesh, and bar stools that have absorbed decades of spilled draft beer, the smoke from multiple three-pack a day habits, and countless satisfied BBQ farts. The result is a rich, gravely elixir with a perfectly balanced interplay of bad attitude and good intentions. Back In Business Again exemplifies the pinnacle of American pragmatism in many ways, delivering a sensory experience that showcases the gut-deep wisdom of getting something done when it needs to get done, but not rushing it out the door until you know it can be done right.

.. and that's it! That's everything that I think gives a record like Back in Business Again staying power. You can sample it below for yourselves and let me know if you agree. I also encourage you to take what you've read here and make your own record to compare results. If I'm still writing this blog in 15+ years, drop me a line and let me know how it went- no need to cut me in on the residuals. 

Album Review: Oldsoul - Education on Earth

What does it mean to call someone an old soul? I'm asking honestly. People used to refer to me in this way on a regular basis when I was young and now that I'm old, people are constantly remarking on how youthful I appear. I'll take the latter compliment, but it's a superficial observation, and it makes its predecessor all the more frustrating in comparison (and not only because it's not nearly as flattering). I have the impression that the phrase is something you say to someone when you don't know what else to say to them. Not unironically, noting that feelings towards others sometimes overrun our capacity to articulate them is as good of an entry point as I could ask for when it comes to a discussion of the Massachusetts alternative and indie rock band, Oldsoul. A collective with vocalist Jess Hall and guitarist Tom Stevens at its center, the group is adept at giving those awkward, ambiguous, and often irreconcilable feelings that plague the soul a sonic body and a palpable quality. Their most recent record, Education on Earth, begins with the waxy, burnt-at-both-end drip and fume of "Anyways," where meals for two become folding metaphors for expectations that sorrow and offend one's delicate sense of assurance in themselves. This is followed by the off-kilter swivel and inverted slide of "Leave Them Standing," a perfect delineation of doxophobia that entwines a declaration of integrity with a discernable dodge into diffidence. It's very satisfying to dwell on the poetics and mental ministrations offered by the album, especially when it comes to the knock-out, drag-down lovelorn languishment of "Lavender Cane" and new-wavy-wind up and easy confession of cascading companionship "High on Yourself." However, the band can really wail when they want to, and it's those moments when they allow themselves to let loose, Jess with the searing sincerity and vigor of her vocals, and Tom's inspired streaks of grunge and rust-belt powerpop interpolations, that really sell the hell out of the record, particularly when it comes to the band's more unorthodox structural and aesthetic choices, such as the gold-tinted reverb that plates the luxuriously claustrophobic "No Reassurance," or the sparky, flint-strike grooves that ignite the anthemic turns of "Nerves." Chewing on these riffs is a pure joy in most cases, and you very rarely hear the same part repeated more than once on the album, making each encounter that much more fleeting and precious. Earth, full of humans, with complex and strained emotions, is a challenging environment to learn your way around. Thankfully we have artists like Oldsoul who are able and willing to bear the light of their spirits to try and illuminate a walkable path for others. 

Album Review: Alien Tango - Kinda Happy, Kinda Sad

The title of Alien Tango's Kinda Happy, Kinda Sad makes it seem like the album is on the fence as to its intent and impact. This is misdirection. It's kind of the crust you might find around a diamond. All you have to do to get around this deflection is crack it open to be rewarded with the treasures it contains. The album was made with a very clear sense as to its own emotional aspirations and the breadth of its aesthetic bounty. You really don't even have to look past the first track "uwu" to glean this, either. It's enthusiastic about its very existence, almost to the point of being a little embarrassed by the flood of passion it contains, emotions which manifest as bubbling globular synths that pop and spatter the track in pink-florescent tones while a rounded, effervescent vocal cadence churns the melody-like cake batter- if anything "uwu" is an understatement, "OwO" is closer to the tone of unstrained excitement for music making that the track exhibits. While the superabundance of electronic vocal layers and stylistic turns on this initial offering may seem like it's setting you up for some super-sugar-saturated hyper-pop, the following track levels things off a bit and sets the stage for the remainder of the album. Retaining the electro-kineticism of its predecessor, "Lemme Go" nonetheless shifts priorities to a more traditional form of indie melodicism with a distinctly baroque approach to psychedelic artisanship and an abstract scrutiny of the god-forsaken and granted nature of love and longing. The entire album has a, "What if Holger Czukay got his hands on some early Ariel Pink home recordings" kind of feel- country lines are simply yard markers in a race towards an accelerated pop-cantata denouement with the dynamical fury of a Bob Eggleton landscape set ablaze. Alien Tango is really pushing his vocals and cultivated psychedelic pop sensibilities to the point where they sound like they're the final transmissions of a the horny crew of crashing UFO. You can absolutely sense the orgone aura radiating off of the euphorically deviant and divergent carousel "Song for FIFA" and the interstellar interlude "Hubble," while tracks like "Día Gris" and "1000 Years" demonstrate a purposefully more terrestrial balance while remaining knee-deep in a surrealist stream of observations, with a rugged lo-fi strum setting a gritted pace by which to juxtapose the laid-back lilt of the vocal's drifting monochromatic tide in the former, while swiggly visions of Beatles-esque utopias taking shape within the sonic geography of the latter. Kinda Happy, Kinda Sad is about as wary of its own inspiration and internal sense of direction as the planets are phobic of their own orbit, as in, neither could achieve forward momentum without their respective embrace of their respective motivations and cosmic compulsions. In short, the album has its own sense of gratuitous, confounding gravity, a whirr of force that will drag you to its bosom while making you feel like you've been catapulted to the skyline with a bungee cord jerry-rigged around your ankles. 

Album Review: Be Kind Cadaver - Postpartum

It's unbelievable how some of the numbers off of Postpartum strike me as soaring straight out of a wacky '70s dystopian space-opera. Like, if you can imagine a version of Star Crash, but directed by Brian De Palma, where the incomparable auteur twists the battle beyond the stars into a metaphor about the record industry, but actually, it's about society as a whole, a la Phantom of the Paradise, and the villainous Count Zarth Arn is a metaphor for the spectacle of the commodity fetish of something- that level of wacky dark satire- that's the vibe I get off of Be Kind Cadaver's EP. High camp with a dire message and an impeccable sensibility for adapting the anxieties of modernity into a visage of a tarnished and aesthetically (ab)used future. "A Gentle Stroll Through Modern Britain" opens with strained and tiny cabaret melodies, initially echoing a cursed revisitation to Ziggy Stardust and Spiders from Mars where the promises of youth and redemption have spoiled into a rotten feast of ultra-violence, a harrowing summons of despair heard through the strained hiss of a warped cassette whirling in the deck of a 1958 Plymouth Fury as it cuts through the fog of the night, then narely a warning, and as abruptly as perpendicular traffic careening around a blind corner, the track transitions into a bloody boiling plee to a reversion to sanity, spinning and howling at the peak of abandon with a vaporized Marc Bolan at the helm. The foreboding nightclub act continues as the album rolls into the title track, gripping grooves entreat your frightful obedience as cadaverous sounds are knit and knotted through a mesh of industrial clatter and sparking chord progressions, cutting a ghastly procession through a post-human rave of the digital dead, adorn in raven's down and with a kiss of death upon its lips, lined in black-iron oxide-based-lipstick. "The Centre Won't Hold" rattles the bones of suburbia with frighteningly frank depictions of consumerism recounted in the cadence of a mad deacon's maunder, in harmony with an eruptive trickle and an ominous electronic babble, that spills out over the mix like the overflow from a baptismal font, purifying as it burns with castigating spiritual acid, slowly eating away at the clay feet of the idols we raise to ourselves. The final track, "Pressure to Exist" is appropriately cleansing, easing you in with the verisimilitude of a car radio whose dial is being carelessly flipped before graciously transitioning into an organ lead fête of French-house-styled gothic-disco that eulogizes the persistence of life's contiguousness. I get the sense from the grandly pessimistic, techno-despotic tone of Be Kind Cadaver's post-punk oeuvre that they don't envision a bright future for the human race, but through the portal of Postpartum they reveal in their misery, deadmen can learn to dance when they grow tired of merely shuffling towards judgment day. 

 You could have it worse than you could have it with Difficult Art And Music.