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...