Album Review: Creep Show - Yawning Abyss

They've dubbed themselves Creep Show, and they call their second album Yawning Abyss, but I'm struggling to find a degree of tribulation in their sound. Instead, I'm witness to a discreetly lavish and claiming fertile sphere of experience- one that rests on a slowly turning horizon, a place where things could be worse, but they could be better as well, and even if the next rotation of this spinning local dumps us into a deeper, more impoverished depth of sunless desperation, it is acknowledged that there is still some virtue in soaking up the warmth and reprieve on offer today. I usually try to dip a toe in the mindset of the artist when I write about their work, but I can't say with much measure of conclusivity if I'm hitting close to the mark here. What I can tell you is that this analog synth-driven record has a pensive quality to many of its rhythmic segments, while the vocal performances, especially on "Yahtzee," can take on an intensely farcical quality, like the yodel of a dodo with a rubber sole. There are also times when the band seems to be setting the stage for something approximating an unglued theater performance, with a single character emerging as a protagonist to deliver an absurdist monologue, such as on "Bungalow," where mischievous and plastic strands of sonic, multicolored plaster-cast mold to the silhouette of a toothy crooner who psychic profile is that of a wolf posing as well-bred suburban accountant on his day off by the pool. Then there is "Matinee" which seems to follow some charmingly ugly creatures as it sweeps around the corridors of an underground auditorium, drinking in the shadows, while a fizzle of battery acid bubbles in its veins after drinking a martini prepared by an impetuous android whose badly in need of a tune-up and an attitude recalibration. Where I think the album coheres together most thematically and sonically is on the title track, "Yawning Abyss," wherein the titular chasm is revealed to be a pervasive, but inoffensive, even comforting, envoy of ennui, a setting where melodies fluctuate with a placating verve like the breeze through your hair on a mild summer day, and a pacifying prattle of synths pop and parish with delight like selzer bubbles quenching a parched palate. It may be the case that the title song is the pigment which colors my impressions of the entire record, but that's not a bad thing. Every record needs an entry point for the listener, and this one is mine. Besides, I really don't think there is anything wrong with enjoying the slow, steady, palliative qualities of the mundane when such quiet moments of reflection are on offer- even when it means that you're dancing on the crest of the literal/metaphorical apocalypse. I mean, if you're going to crash anyway, you might as well enjoy the ride, right? 

Be the bella of the ball with Bella Union. 

Album Review: Coco Bryce - Night On Earth

It's almost a shame to single out an individual release from jungle producer Coco Bryce for review.  He's quite prolific for one, but also, like most producers, his scattered catalog, taken on the whole, just represents a total vibe that you're not going to be able to tap into if you're only familiar with a single here or there, or even only an individual EP. What I jive with when it comes to Coco and what is consistently true about his output, is that he's one of those fellas who can do nearly anything with only the bare essentials of ingredients. He's the kind of DJ who can pick up a lowly and timid beat or bass line and show it the TLC it needs to become a fully-fledged banger. His mixes tend not to be overbearing or bracing either, which is refreshing for someone who makes his bread and butter from breakbeats. With all that out of the way, I have to admit that I have a special affinity for his 2019's Night on Earth EP. The production is very damp and dubby without getting all gumshoey and turgid. Instead, the basslines sound dry as a bone, like they've been baking in a brick oven and acquired a tasty, black char. These dry-roast beats are then drizzled with zesty synth timbres until they glisten like freshly cut gems. While honoring the chill detachment of the night, there is a roaming romance to the music that belies inhibition- like the wandering eye in a Jim Jarmusch joint, the listener will find themselves trespassing innocently into others' lives, witnessing the climax of some epiphany decades in the making, only to be whisked away by the caprice of the wind and transplanted into another scene of dramatic intrigue transpiring on another continent. Night on Earth has a restless essence that is somehow both persistent and subdued, embodying the subtle electricity of a tranquil city street squeezed between the bustle of the drag and a row of refurbished storehouses, each with a rave blowing up its basement or boiler room. The serenity between storms. An equator of calm linking living adventures. You're smoking a cigarette while you're waiting for a cab; it's cool but not so brisk that you need a jacket; a text comes in from someone you just met at a bar; they're already at the next hop and are warning you about the line... you really like them and think their friends are fun too. It's a good night on this lonely rock. 

Keep it crisp and clean with Fresh 86 from Red Eye Records, or make it massive with Coco's own label Myor. 

Album Review: Hemlock - May

I'm feeling pretty inspired after checking out Hemlock's most recent (non-live) collection of songs, May. Not because it's particularly unique within her discography, or because I think it crystalizes or elevates some pervasive themes of her artistry. It doesn't. May is part of a series, one where Hemlock challenges herself to write and record a song every day for a month. It's the 5th such sonic-scrapbook that she's curated since she started recording under the name Hemlock in 2018. It's also not definitive, as I don't believe any single work by the artist is. She is one of those prolific writers who is almost compulsively productive, and therefore, their discography is less of a clean trajectory and more of a fog you have to wade through- like you're chest-deep in marsh water, dredging for some misbegotten stash of treasure a mobster dumped in the quag back in the '30s. Thankfully, Hemlock is as masterful as she is generous with her output; and unlike the mire of my previous metaphor, you'll be stumbling over an ample cache of gems before you know it. The rewards are plentiful and immediately in reach. What I probably appreciate the most about Hemlock, her May collection, and her work in general, is that there is a sense of fruitful progress in their work- she puts all of themselves into it, and while new works don't replace the old, the continuity between songs and projects does successfully capture an accumulated quotidian wisdom- an acknowledgment that the performer and the listener are renewed and enlighted with what they take from each day, but are still the same person that they were when the sun rose as after it set- a cohesion that is maintained not only through physical processes, but the experience of reflection as well. Most of us don't make the effort to record our thoughts and feelings or our state of awareness throughout the day, and as a result, we lose track of the person we were as we become the person we will be. It's a natural operation of amnesia that a work like May disrupts in course, nabbing and preserving moments of sound and thought and slivers of liminality to be examined later in different lighting and with a studious gaze. Not every moment needs to be preserved for the ages, but leaving one's life to be wholly swallowed by time is a curse of a different category altogether. It's good to be reminded of what your cat sounds like when she wants attention in the afternoon, how the birds chirp as they forage outside your window, or how gravely your SO's voice gets just before they fall asleep, or even just the way your guitar sounded after you tuned it on a particular afternoon. All of these things that make up your day, that define and shape its textures, are worth having small swatches and reminders of, and so an exercise like May is something that everyone should attempt for themselves at least once. But in the case of May in particular, the mementos and small monuments that anchor it in the soil of the extraordinary mundane are also wrapped and encompassed by some beautifully realized, wavy folk troubadourship, that greets the senses like drops of golden dew drizzling off a honey dipper. Without meaning to sound like I'm making any bold proclamations, listening to May has inspired me to try something adventurous with this blog. I don't know what yet, but it will be something that I do every day to affirm the purpose of my writing, and which I believe will enrich others by engaging with. When I start, you'll know. Until then, and beyond, I'll encourage you to dream of a creative affirmation of your own to commit to, as Hemlock's May has done for me.  

Album Review: Rabbit Junk - Apocalypse for Beginners

I used to listen to a lot more industrial music than I do now. The town that I grew up in had a bar that would host a "goth night" on Sundays, and it was something of a mecca for more for about 8 months. Now, getting blitzed on Pabst while listening to the same dozen or so VNV Nation and Aesthetic Perfection tracks every weekend was hardly a glorious existence, but the memories of that time are still a mental refuge for me in times of stress or uneasiness. After I moved away, I casually kept up with industrial music until I decided that I was old enough to develop the habit of listening to serious and mature music that would ease my passage into adulthood- stuff like the Decemberists and anything else the writers over at Pitchfork were recommending 10 years ago... and now, a decade and a lifetime later, here I am listening to and loving Rabbit Junk's Apocalypse for Beginners. For all the effort I made to develop "respectable" tastes in music, I'm now an old ass man, back to gyrating and banging my head to dark, sweaty industrial metal again- except now that most of my blitzing hours are confined to my living room and/or home office. Makes you wonder why I ever strayed... Now Rabbit Junk isn't a strictly industrial metal outfit, nor a traditional metal band- the project, masterminded by the singular (singularity?) JP Anderson, is an ever more complex and evolving, technical and emotional roller coaster, one that he tunes up and torques to an even higher level of devilish perfection with each release. It is an endeavor that defies categorization beyond the gestalt of his insoluble will. The truth, though, is that even though the project is clearly something that JP is driven to do for himself, and seemingly only himself, it's hard not to feel like he's giving his all to bring the audience into his world and up to his eye level. Every track on Apocalypse for Beginners is incredibly anthemic and impeccably produced, with massive sweeping, righteously endowed choruses, buffered and buoyed by fearsome electronic percussion, whose rhythms are lashed to the cadence of a hot beating heart as a war horse is yoked to a charging chariot. Industrial disco devil dives crash and cascade around the adrenaline-spiked vocal delivery on opener "Heavy," while "Love is Hell" with its soaring vocal delivery, confessional overtones, and steel-marbled guitar work captures a combustible theatricality that causes the song to resemble in its tortured spirit, a kind of nu-metal overhaul of the Phantom of the Opera, surf riffs splashe off thrasher grooves on high-flying firestorm "Bodies," while the bouncy rush and rip ong "Rabbit Out of Hiding" resembles a surprisingly elegant, Brundlefly-esque amalgamation of Blondie and Sisters of Mercy. If you're in the mood to kick-start the end of days, you'd be hard-pressed for a better instruction manual or soundtrack. 

Album Review: Lee Paradise - & Co

We all get by with a little help from our friends, or so the saying goes. I'm not disputing the premise; I'm simply restating it for clarity's sake. You're always connected to someone, depending on them, trusting them (ever so implicitly)... You can act like you're on an island, but really, you're only just a peninsula with a mote- maybe a very wide mote- but you can never completely defy your attachment to the mainland that is the remainder of humanity. That heart of stone is counted amongst the rhythm of countless others in the orchestra pit of a civil concert, and its part in the unison of creation is certain and unquestionable. So why not admit as much and make some sweet music with your fellow homosapiens? It's worked for Lee Paradice, at least. For his second LP, the composer-turned-sherpa, Daniel Lee has embarked on an upending collaborative project, allowing "guest" musicians to determine the course of his record in a total spirit of collaboration, with Dan positively keeping pace and producing the outcome to the best of his abilities. & Co is incredibly interesting in this regard, in that it is a record that works diligently at a conceptual level to deliver something that is both unenforceable and retentive. Daniel's collection of Yamaha and bass grooves set the guide rails, but otherwise, the funk train has no predetermined destination, almost like it's skipped the tracks and landed on a frozen lake and is now keeping from capsizing by tracing brilliantly articulate patterns on a knife's edge as it glides on the unpredictable surface. & Co has the vibe of a jazz record, only instead of a heady avant-brew of a free associate of rhythm and measure, the result is more akin to kaleidoscoping new wave and funk record of mint, beating-breast of the '80s vintage- a refreshingly adaptable and accessible encounter that you certainly don't require more than a passing appreciation of the Eurythmics or Zapp to safely and comfortably immerse yourself in. A testament to what can be done between friends when one hocks their compass overboard and lets themselves be guided by the elucidating thump of the sound of their hearts reverberating in the open air.   

Pick up! It's Telephone Explosion!

Album Review: London Brew - London Brew

I've come to the conclusion that many jazz albums are simply vehicles for artists to have an excuse to hang out with their friends. You'd think this would make most of them insufferable, given the results that this motivation often produces in the form of podcasts and streaming content, but you'd be wrong. At least in the case of the ensemble I'm focused on here, London Brew. In this instance, the pretense of seeing people that one likes and admires and doing something creative with them pans out for the benefit of all those involved, as well as the observers (ie, us, the ponderous rabble). The thirteen-member creative coven essentially does what it says on the label- concoct a heady draft of rhythm and pulsating sound, intoxicating in its impeccable fluidity and blurry integrity, vibrating within the membrane of a discernably nebulous anatomy that can barely contain the power of their potential- a mingling of complimentary chaoses that burns so hot it threatens to raise ocean levels the world over. The continuity of the group's output is a consequence of their shared metropolar habitation and ready repport, propelled by the excentric diversity of their talents and backgrounds. As you might have guessed from the name of the group, a primary concern of this congregation is to reinterpret and express an interest in dialogue with Mile Davis's 1969 masterpiece through the personality and prowess of their colleagues. The reverberant flavor of the resulting concoction is the fusion of these aptitudes and affinities in such a manner that smooths London out like a glop of marzipan- the sounds that define it, the culture it houses, the people who call it home- spread into an entirely plastic and malleable plane of potential that spans as far as sound will travel- a primordial soup of precognition, a boundless tillage of raw seeping clay of the sort which humankind was born from in which to plant the seeds of the next stage of enlightenment, a destination that you can only arrive at once you've contented yourself with standing still and feeling the moment. At the very least, London Brew's debut will make you wonder what you and your group of friends might be able to accomplish if you assembled your talents and aligned your passions- maybe just take a pause if you see yourself headed in the direction of launching another podcast into the ether... there are already so many. 

Make mine Concord Jazz.

Album Review: Snapped Ankles - Forest Of Your Problems

Generally, the wilderness, as represented by the forest, is deemed a mysterious and often intimidating place, teeming with potential. Well, when there is no more forest, then what? Humans are extraordinarily good at terraforming the planet and making it habitable for themselves by building things like highways, malls, and condos with central air, but this comes at a cost- as more spaces are tamed, fewer prospects remain, and the more clear the human races limitations and failings become. One of the regrettable consequences of human civilization as such is that it tends to generate a lot of trash (and no, I'm not just speaking in terms of culture)- filling the groves that farrowed so much whimsy in the past with heaps of discarded things. Whatever creatures still cling to a meager existence in our shadow, they are forced to make do with our scraps- whether they be flora, fauna, or... something altogether different. London's Snapped Ankles might just be the best example I can offer for this third unusual category. The alternative punk group have a taste for the deranged and theatrical, in both their music and sense of fashion; donning very naturalistic-looking ghillie suits that incorporate moss and twigs with obvious instrumental materials, while performing with instruments that blur the line between driftwood and electronic waste. Adorn with these strange accessories, Snapped Ankles come to resemble woodland spirits who have been forced by circumstance to acclimate to encroaching urbanization. It's a look that certainly compliments their sound, especially on their latest fourth LP, Forest of Your Problems. On this album, the group adapts a groovy vantage point on post-punk to ignite a stomp-worthy ruckus of unprecedented and ultramodern primitivism, somewhere between a reincarnated Residents and a refurbished Sparks. Commanding basslines bully and steer repetitious ritual rhythmic dynamics in an absurdist reformation of modern affirmations and derelict, latterly-digitized oaths. The cries of displaced dryads are pulled through the circuitry of overheated synthesizers like ore through a furnace so that they might serve to tighten the links of locked grooves, and salt each recurrent phrase with notes of heartache and sticky homesickness. Frantic assemblages of plastic melting, mashing beats cut and combine adrenaline with a compulsive sense of delirium that drags you to the hairy plain of its bosom like a woodsman's axe etching its wielder's fatalistic intent into the trunk of the tree. The only problem you'll find yourself having in this burly thicket of grooves and gnarly electronics will be convincing yourself to turn it off long enough that you can stop dancing and rejoin society. 

Float were you please with Leaf Label.

Album Review: Weaves - Wide Open

 
Weaves's Wide Open was released well over a half-decade ago, and listening to it now, it feels like a time capsule of some trends that seemed enduring at the time but appear merely ephemeral upon reflection. The elastic melodies and strong rhythmic cohesion were mainstains within the indie genre at the time- as were the agitating angular chord progressions. The blogger-driven era of 2007-2017 was a particularly nauseating period in music journalism when just about any group could be labeled as a "disco-Gang of Four," and unfortunately, it would stick (much to the confusion of artists and audiences alike). Weaves could certainly get stuck with the label as well, although, if memory serves, they did end up dodging that particular trope. Something else that feels reminiscent of the late '10s era of indie rock is the tendency of singers to draw out the pronunciation of certain phrases only to jerk them back with a shriek as they switch keys or tempo- you can call this the "Karen O" curl, and it's certainly a style of singing that vocalist Jasmyn Burke is adept at. While a lot about Wide Open feels dated, it's also a record that positions itself against trends and stands as a conclusive statement by an evolving artist. It feels like the band was trying to capture a certain disposition within the American zeitgeist that might still be inchoate to this day- a kind of opposition within oppositions, a fear that only the proud know, and a mirror that you can only reflect back your image when you are facing away from it. There is an authentic, anthemic quality to these tracks that is inseparably rooted in the experience of common people, with lyrics that express a zeal for connection and truth in a world that can only offer alienation, isolation, and bureaucratic rebuff- a conclusion that is helped along by numerous inclusions of lap steal, big bluesy guitars, and other staple folky accouterments but also the way that the harmonies swell and then bust into a flood of exuberant emotions in a human cloudburst. It's reminiscent of the kind of animation and energy that a gospel choir may employ to fill the faithful in attendance with the hope of a sanctifying spirit, but in the context of a rock band like Weaves, this kind of catharsis takes the shape of burly balladry and robust, grit-sown rhapsodies in the vein of Bob Seger or Tom Petty- hooks and harmonies that heal the heart and salvage the soul. It might be the case that Wide Open is too conclusive of a statement of the band's identity and their feelings about the world, and that's why we haven't seen another record from them since. This is alright because their prescience still strikes as piercing and true, even in a world that is drastically different from the one in which the record emerged. 

Album Review: Attawalpa - Presence

In the first instance, an album titled Presence would seem to indicate some stupefying or haunting encounter- an experience somewhere between running into your favorite author at a coffee shop and waking up in the middle of the night to discover your long-deceased uncle floating overhead and smiling down upon you. Both could be considered disconcerting in their own right (especially if your favorite author has also allegedly left this mortal coil). Presence from Luis Felber's Attawalpa represents something of a third-option thought- a calming departure from the ordinary and a point of fluctuation in the strained fabric of modern life. On this album, Luis plays the role of the white rabbit, leisurely leading you astray- unhurriedly persuading you away from the babble and bustle that typically overtakes you and into a new train of discrepancy with the potential for alignment with a higher intendment of one's purpose. He achieves the ends of this diversion through an embrace of simplicity and a streamlined sanctity of purpose- sleek but sturdy guitar work buttresses varicolored harmonies that flourish in an anchored state of antigravity. His voice is like a cloud, the rhythm is like the wind, and the motion of the music is like a ship embarking on a voyage towards a castle in the clouds. Presence is as lofty as it is ambitious. 

Interview: WereGnome Records

Through the mists and mystery of time, and from a tomb burrowed into the mantel of a lost and ancient land, comes Nicky the Gnome, chief mage of curation over at WereGnome Records, to share the treasures of his keep with you, dear listener. Dropping the exaggerated prose, for this episode, Nicky and I get into the ins and outs of running a cassette label focused on promoting black metal, chiptune, dungeon synth, and, in general, weird underground music with a lot of personality. If that sounds like your bag, then you are in luck! WereGnome Records is a unique and oddly approachable label in a space that is not known for its welcoming vibe. They break the mold so you can reap the benefits. (Warning! Listening to this episode may convert you to regularly wearing Crocs around the house.)

Get all your Gnome gear and check out WereGnome's extensive catalog on Bandcamp. 

Music featured in order: 

"That Wretched & Beautiful Cursed Object" by Hermit Knight

"Rupees in the Sky with Demons" by Retrogoblin 

"Carpathian Blood Waves" by Necrosferatulum

"Jar of Teeth " by Flower Ranger

"Don't Fear the Sleeper" by Purzum

Album Review: Summer 2000/Spring 2005 - Ellie Kemper

Summer 2000 is the solo+ endeavor of c h point, aka Jacob B West. It's not necessarily a project that you see talked up too often, despite it having a lot to offer. S2k certainly made his presence known when 5th wave emo was popping off in '20/'21 with the John Krasinski LP, which was then followed up in May '23 by the Ellie Kemper LP under a new pseudonym Spring 2005. Even with a new name and a new glowy, empty-headed figure of facile American pop culture on the cover, c h point's distinctiveness and passion for his work remain incredibly consistent. The record is a beautiful and intensive experience that interrogates the duality, incongruity, and irreducibility of that phenomenological force known as the human spirit through ten delicately produced petitions to a serene sense of clarity on the ambiguousness of certitude. There is a folky core to many of these tracks that is effervescently altered by infusions of tight hooky riffs and bleak bombardments of vespertine ambiance- an understatement in reverie that still manages to overclock the human-hard drive's ability to process emotions- coupling these sensations with pristinely polished retro-plated arrangements and transcendent plateaus that stage multifaceted proggy permutations. It's like Heccra went to hell and returned with a more stable sense of self and an even larger chip on his shoulder... or a chiptune as the case may be. Summer 2000 cuts through the cold, hard winter of the soul like a chemical etching solution, reforming patterns in its wake to refashion all the frustration this world has to offer in order to suit its bespoke designs.