6.29.2008

Electric Bunnies - Fantastic Metal Eye 7"

Who knows if the three songs that Miami’s Electric Bunnies submitted to Columbus Discount are months old toss-offs or signifiers of where the trio are headed, either way it’s puzzling, as the low-key Fantastic Metal Eye 7” keeps the ball rolling for one of the underground’s most puzzling little bands that could. They rarely tour, so I’ve yet to recognize faces, only rudimentary, almost precious animations of, you guessed it, bunnies, and on this slab, cutesy androids. The title track here is vocoded monotony/propaganda about imagined “sweet robots” or “loose robots", though they relapse into momentary Trans Am love, the throb underneath grows and grows with each measure, then at the last minute a release is found and the Oneida-esque build bursts the transistors wide open and wires start flailing about. I’d like to think the Bunnies never even heard of TA and instead worshipped the gutting electronics of Tim Taylor.

Fantastic Metal Eye is off-putting fer sure and compiling a singles comp. of everything we’ve heard thus far would be disorienting (a comp. of ten different bands?), at any turn you’re not sure where they stand. “Bubble Bath” in particular should be, so far, the band’s calling card, as it rides a one-legged psych groove that drills down like a teen-aged Wooden Shjips spiralin’ minimal disco-funk, wrapped precociously in two sheets of haze and feedback squealing. The distance between this and the hummable confections of “Chewing Gum” and “Eskimo” throws me way off course. Maybe they’re the crunk TV Ghost. Only time will tell.

That leaves me with “Beautiful Pants,” the last thing we’re given till a full-length (supposedly), and what we’re left with is an angry atonal outburst that owes a fuckton to Wire. Quick and to the pointless, still rooted in their own putrid innocence, and by god I’d much rather have a band owe the fuckton to Wire than most other bands in the post-punk cannon.

6.25.2008

Stylus Summer Jamz '08

One of my favorite things that my former employer, Stylus Magazine, used to do, was compile some of the best Summer mixes known to man. Seriously, go back through the archives and check them out. The detailed prose that comes attached is always a perfect match for the overall mood of the jamz. Some guys got deep, some guys got celebratory 'bout the season, but the songs were always sewn exquisitely (not in Girl "Talk" but like those mix-tapes made with love and glue).

I never got to put one together. But I recently proposed this to be a good idea for us to do (and a good way to alleviate the boredom found in our day jobs) again this year. This week and next, each day will reveal a new collaborative mix between a random duo of former Stylus writers.

You can find them (completely downloadable) on Screw Rock n' Roll and (my new favorite blog) The Passion of the Weiss.

Jeff Seigel and I will be posting ours this coming Monday. Stay Tuned.

6.20.2008

Random Friday Thoughts

I will soon be packing it up for a kamikaze trip to Louisville for Terrastock Seven. At first I wasn't expecting much -- add a two day record show and the anticipation of finally seeing Oneida and Simply Saucer -- you can now color me excited.

But first -- I was completely floored by the Unholy 2's Wednesday night show. You can now officially put them in the ranks of indespensible. Can I request Comfest Apocalypse? Just make sure they're hearing every word you speak Mr. L.

For lack of suitable clips, here's something unwatchalbe but, for the sake of history, critical/vital.



And the only thing I could think of after the set was this movie for some reason....



And finally I was searching for more info on the vintage Saucer (as the in-the-know Canucks refer to them) and the only old footage I could find was this recent video of a classic song --- "Bullet Proof Nothing" --- still a nostalgic trip.....

6.18.2008

Songs to Forget Now on Vinyl

Leo Maymind is a kind soul, a recent NYC urban pioneer, and tireless self-promoter. In the wilds of Manhattan it's sure to be daunting to get people to listen. Now he's got an extra hand in his arsenal -- Cleveland's Exit Stencil just re-released his Spanish Prisoner's excellent debut Songs to Forget expanded on vinyl. Not sure if there's much more I can say about this record that I didn't say last August when this album first took hold during the sultry late-summer heatwave. Click here to read. Buy a copy for the inevitable drought of 2008.

6.14.2008

!!! Mistaken for Hot Hot Heat

Combine free show, with slick marketing by Toyota, a worthy cause (Free Yr Radio for OHIO.FM), an Urban Outfitters and !!! (prefer pow pow pow or ech ech ech) -- and there was sure to be chaos, right? No, in fact while waiting in line I was beginning to be suspect that this awfully tight group from SF have fallen out of grace with hipsters worldwide. Why I'm not sure. Their albums get increasingly better even as interest wanes. The latest, Myth Takes, being a career pinnacle by approximating just the right ingredients of funk, disco, kraut mysterions and tropicalian flare. And live, they kind of spill it all over the place with two hype-men conducting the boogie -- and drum circles of all sort surrounding this esoteric punk message. They've never really rallied behind a message other than "shake it," lyrics have never been their strongest point. I'd much rather imagine them as a 12-piece 70's funk extravaganza, blazing down mountains of cocaine and jamming in rubber rooms.

Here, with Target-centric home furnishings and last year's Nike models vying for space among a small crowd who I think confused them for Hot Hot Heat. Only the fringes started dancing, as this just wasn't the place or the mood or the moment. I simply closed my eyes and had to make due. As a live band they're downright incredible in any environs. Highly reccommended when you get the chance, even if their neo-hippie love-fest is becoming passe.

6.11.2008

Music Go Music Go Music

Much like Frida was to ABBA, Gala Bell is to Music Go Music, and both are their respective bands’ muse, guiding the universal strength of an elegant and extravagant pop song to dizzying heights into a combusting cosmos. Bell though is driving an organic, sugar-cane fueled grass blimp to planet Xanadu. Wave over to Jeff Lynne in that steely, neon, megalith. He’s totally hogging the sun. Music Go Music knows this, and decides to take a sideway, roller skates still intact, feeding off the beat of the glowing planet ahead. ABBA may have been from space, but it’s unsure if they ever found their destination without giggling. ELO took that mission, but it’s unsure if they ever escaped orbit. Any Orchestra head who has stayed up till dawn with Out of the Blue is aware of the party that perpetually exists on that craft. They just never put down the Revolver. Discrediting two of the 70’s greatest luxuries does nothing to accent Music Go Music’s first of three 12”s, Light of Love, this band adores both dinosaurs with equal aplomb. They’ve just decided to strip it all of novelty, well at least the music does. Mother Earth type launching that reminds you of the day you were born. “Light of Love” is the latest entry for the inspirational national anthem of a distant peace-n-orgy orb. It’s Intricate/Delicate pop made with bare hands instead of studio scalpels. “Explorers of the Heart” delves even deeper and darker, the first expedition on the barren terrain of a sedate floating rock. Am I expecting too much from the next two vinyl? Even if you can’t find that forbidden zone Music Go Music seem to find, there’s hope you’ll end up in a familiar place of comfort.

6.10.2008

Reece Steele = Miss Rap Supreme

I’m fairly sure I tried my damndest to hip you all to VH1’s Ego Trip’s Best White Rapper reality show sometime last year when I was knee-deep in the final few episodes. Subsequently I have failed to remember the name of the Bubba Sparks wannabe, grill-wearing, acne-infested winner, prolly cause I wanted John Brown to win, even if his flow was stifled by pot smoke and mild retardation. Of course those qualities do make for the most intriguing hip-hop. Fact is neither finalist was truly up to the challenge (where exactly are they now?). While the show was inventive, comedic, lathered in old-school nostalgia and Ego Trip’s know-it-all wit, the competition was weak. Perhaps white people really can’t rap.

Instead of punishing the public with a Best White Rapper II – the pool would’ve been quite shallow at that point – they decided to get serious. Not that Ego Trip’s Miss Rap Supreme (an all-girl rap off) was sucked of the spoof -- actually there was plenty of everything that made White Rapper an obsession -- it just focused more on the talents of the females rather than the personas, the stereotypes. Plus in addition to MC Search, this season had Yo-Yo (coming to a future Bo Jackson soon) who complemented Search with her feminine perspective on the business of hip-hop.

From the begin I was pulling for Ms. Cherry – I was smitten by everything about her – the hardcore lisp, the perfect teeth, the red streak in her hair, her bonkers fashion, her hand movements (I could pinpoint key moments that made me fall for her). It was her style on the mic that completed the package. I’m usually not for def poetry slam, and much of her cadence lent to that spoken word Southern boasting (especially without a beat), but when she was faced with a challenge that included backing track, her flow was infectious, curled up in delta slang and euphemisms that might be lost on most English speakers, but in the lexicon of syllabic attractors she spoke a language all her own. Pehaps I’m romanticizing a bit too much, but she was definitely the most original.

She came in third (certainly there will be a marathon for y’all to catch up), leaving Byata (the obligatory white mainstream-appeal rapper) and the mighty Reece Steele (the old-school hard-knock lifer, whose mother previously had a failed rap career). By the time the two had spit their sixteen bars freestyle, it was obvious who the champion was, and by the second round, the original composition competition, I became hooked on Reece. She capitalized on her Bronx crust, and impenetrable rhyme scheme that evoked Biggie at his most aware. The girl may not have the veneer of a successful pop artist, but her skills as an emcee will assure her some writing cred once she enters the business. And there exists the problem with these reality shows. Does the business take these winners seriously once they jump up from pit of reality television? Let’s hope for Reece’s sake they do, and for my sake, that they like what they hear from number three as well.

6.08.2008

I'm an Agit-Reader, You Should Be Too

Today is the start of a new era. The Agit-Reader has been launched, official. Stephen Slaybaugh, my bro Doug, and I will be providing agit-readers with daily content from around the world of musiques. Here on this here blog, I will start to focus locally. Your favorite columns will remain, Bo Jackson, This Week in TNV, Beach Talk, Pop Park -- but WOW will now be more of a journal of sorts, an outpost from the AR you can refer to for details, minutia, and anecdotes. I do intend to beef up the traveling this summer, as there are plenty of festivals and oddball eateries to report on, so look for that. Still, I'd like to put forth as much effort as possible into getting the kids on Agit-Reader kick. Think of it as your new Book It. And keep this site dialed up as supplementary reading.

6.05.2008

Today is CRASS DAY

Not sure if Crass Day is something concoted by the boys and girls at Columbus Discount Recordings or a legitimate holiday the world round. All I know is Crass is an important band to study, to remember, and these days a good band to latch on to. Go be anarchy for a day, steal/destroy something of value, read a zine, tattoo yourself in peace signs. Guess this is what they mean by romantic nihilism.

6.04.2008

Stranded in Spain

Well at least the hairy huffy peanut in the middle of this pic was the only one who got "stuck inside 'Celona with the Kinski blues again." Beach was there, as was a glass of roja or three -- so is life on the road k'g. Take a mental snapshot of all the memories (no camera?) or at least a flask and gameboy.

Here's the skinny. Kids just landed back in North America and 24 hours later are back on the pavement, starting tonight in Bloomington, IN, home to Hoosiers and two incredible record labels (por que?). Then it's off to a month of the unknown couch.

You may have missed their Daytrotter session, where Jared made Malian rainbows pour from his eyes. They's tend to do well in the "real" heartland. Omaha, Billings, actual viking country -- on radio shows, trapped in a tiny studio.

And during their whirlwind tour of the kingdom, the kids at Drowned in Sound seemed to be nipping at their heels on every corner.Broken windows, lost luggage, backwards roads, frreeedruqs, lost passports, and Spain, couldn't keep the Anglos from going apeshit over volume. Even giving Matt Horseshit some well-deserved spotlight. Can't wait to get a hold of the UK "New Wave Hippies" 7".

Anyways, here's probably the most entertaining interview I've read by the band

I'm in a sea of work myself, subject to reviewing Uncle Bobby's Gone to Town, parched lips and research papers. Not to fret, though things might get a little bare around here, there's something huge on the horizon. Watch this space, this is merely a stopgap. A stopgap.

6.01.2008

Da Lenchmob Need Ressurection


It’s hard to imagine that Da Lenchmob’s Guerillas in tha Mist would get a tolerant response in a post-9/11 universe. It called for an unforgiving black revolution, a para-military approach to getting what their community deserves from unjust white America, it was hard on the ears for a lil’ Caucasian in the burbs who was becoming indoctrinated with Spike Lee movies and the autobiography of Malcolm X. Post-L.A. riots, this type of fiery rhetoric was completely justified though, their songs took Ice Cube’s Amerikkka’s Most Wanted a step further, saying things the Cube might have thought was crossing the line (even back then).

Shorty, T-Bone, Maulkie, and Jay-Dee were led into the jungle by Cube himself, who was credited as executive producer and makes a handful of cameos re-iterating a handful of his famous one-liners (“Went to the house and dusted off the A-K” or “I went home sawed the barrel off my shotgun”). Wonder if these guys were ever card-carrying NRA members? Or if they still have an arsenal at will, just in case the revolution starts back up again. If you’re a fan of the Cube solo stuff, the Bomb Squad’s dissonant sample attacks, or the proto-g-funk slither, then you’re in for a treat with this dark, cathartic, mix of noise and West Coast socio-politicking. While it’s not equipped with the seamless flow or storytelling concepts that made Amerikka’s Most Wanted and Death Certificate instant classics in the hip-hop genre (there are a number of duds within), the title track, “Buck tha Devil,” and “Freedom Got an A-K” all are worthy of mix-tape inclusions. Just be prepared to open the discussion on whether their points were valid then and valid now. Yes and Yes (though most won’t admit to the latter answer).

Much like the effect Paris’ Sleeping with the Enemy, which featured a fictional assassination of Bush Sr., would have in today’s world, Da Lenchmob’s thoroughly engaging and edgy narratives would probably raise a few more eyebrows now than it did back then.

5.27.2008

The Pizzas - Bad Ass Youth

Of all the singles that have passed through my front door this first six months of the year (and there’s a lot of quality releases piled in the basement bar right now), I going to have to suck it up and declare the Pizzas Bad Ass Youth 7” as the incendiary go-to record so far. If you were to tell me this when I took a shot on them, particularly because of the Daggerman Records imprint, I would have laughed out loud, cause with a name like the Pizzas I’m not entirely sold on the notion that this is anything but frivolous slop-punk. Set to 45, you’d only be half-right. I mean, c’mon, look at the cover; it’s got enough tongue-in-cheek signifiers to warrant the claim I’m staring down a novelty band. These guys do play in a bevy of other outfits, making the Pizzas a part-time thang. But I beg this band to please put more time in, imagine how far you’d fly if put all the efforts into one blood-basket. After all, this is purely frivolous but-tight-punk – the guitars busted wide open, the velocity at dangerous levels, the feedback its own instrument. The catch here is catchiness, youth exhalations and pop exhaustion found plentiful in “Hideous Fashion” a b-side anthem that ratchets up the melody when the song reaches its saturation point. Abandon all serious discussion and ah revive the pogo will you? An album of this hyperkinetic brash pop might be too much to ask for.

5.26.2008

Whatfor - "I Want a Girl"

And it's girls, or that particular girl "whose only dream is to live and breath" for Michael Sienkowski, that the kooky kid behind Whatfor's maudlin dream-pop is in constant search of. Sooner Late than Never is a cyanide daisy-chain swooning and soaring full of piano led chamber music. They've got quite a scene going on in Madison, WI -- maybe you've read about it here before, but Whatfor is simply the best vintage in their wine cellar. Something tells me this crew's membership has more than one sommelier, as the velvety craft they put into their albums (see Pale Young Gentlemen) hint at aged sophistication.

But they all look young, it's the beards that throw me off, and the hours they put into the mis-en-scene of their album art and band photos suggest the tip of naivety. Not by any stretch does that mean some of the pics included in the package aren't downright beautiful, they just don't mesh well with the fanciful escapades found here. Sienkowski exhibits a remorseful misogyny (notice the juxtaposition) throughout (and especially in this song), without exactly hunting his prey. Instead he's crooning into the blood purple Wisconsin darkness (much like a hetero Rufus Wainwright on the prowl) with a competent band behind him well versed in Kinks, Beatles, and surviving soul-draining winters. He seems satisfied with the echoes. This debut is rife with the raucous but rooted in more sublime territory. In a time when I'm longing for the E6 model of color-rich psych to counter the black and white lo-fi and gutter punk, this will suffice nicely. Please keep me on the mind when the next egg hatches.

5.20.2008

What's French for NonPlussed?


If you're a reader, you know I'm not a stranger to the percolating pop sounds of the future -- I've recently been hipped again to Jane Child's "Don't Wanna Fall In Love" (what a great song, remember the nose-to-ear-ring?), and incessantly infatuated by Cut Copy's flawless In Ghost Colours (fucking brilliant btw), but have laid my cards with the genre-hopping world of M.I.A. and Santogold as the path towards religious devotion. It was raining in Paris my first time there, so I'm not to hitched on the whole Ed Banger revolution (save that Justice album) or anything Gallic that morphs the entire Daft Punk template. Uffie can relax. She's not of French decent and I'm positive someone's gonna' make her official debut magentic (a promise?).

Yelle, who the hellknows what that translates into (french majors?), is the Western European entry into the cannon of eclectic dance (no longer ironic dance, nor intelligent dance, or electro-clash). What I'm hearing is a girl at constant odds with the producer. The music could stand on its own -- a deft re-interpretation of hyper-active synth pop, be it New Edition or the aforementioned Jane Child, NU SHOOZ, The Jets. Plenty of retro atari-core, breakdance, street funk (Crystal Castles, Chromeo). Methinks nothing is ironic in this studio, putting everything in the mix, be it the nostalgic vocoded bounce of Zapp or the bubblegum simplicity of Shanice, the 808 stylings of hip-hop's golden age. The results much closer to Xuxa than Arular. And in the present day, such fantastical escapism is warranted (as evidence, her cheeky videos), to the point that it seems vital in any pop artist's resume. That she continues to sing in French is a definite bonus, a turn-on, surrealisms. Not sure if Coachella audiences felt the immediate neon puncture of her music though. Pop Up, her debut is a record that adheres to nonsense more than anything else, the strands of rememberance, where fake horns and skittered beats, and unintelligible non-sequiturs ruled the airwaves. Too bad America is xenophobic (or at least Franco-phobic, due to the current administration). Yelle's never going to fly here.

I recommend "Je Veux Te Voir".

5.18.2008

Jay does Adam Ant

Though I'll admit to being detached/ or trying to become attached to the collector scum culture (wuz I coll' sc. before it became a term, prolly not, oh well), I was never aware of the backlash Mr. Reatard has received for going acoustic. Equivalent to Dylan going electric at Royal Albert Hall? Not to parallel the two, but you'd seem to think it in our tiny little universe. Fact is, Jay Reatard, through his series of minor-pressed seven-inchers, is re-establishing himself -- going from Memphis punk ditch digger to international pop sensation (check the whirlwind European tour for proof, as only in Europe do you become established (sic)).

"Painted Shut" is acoustic guitar based, theory now being most of Blood Visions was conceived in this mold (check the Night of Broken Glass EP). I can't say the lyrics are profound, though he does get a pass for rhyming "started" with "retarded" since it's his namesake, but the melodies are rich, flamboyant, the work of someone with an ear for the radio (and wouldn't we all like to hear this on the radio?). It's a song that's definitely over before it's done (a brief minute-forty-nine) and that's the charm, lodging a jangly hook in the head and heading off for a beer. Unfortunately lesser than the two songs on the first chunk.

It's the b-side here, "An Ugly Death," that is the marquee, starting with a keys/solo intro that could either be from Master of Puppets or Kings of the Wild Frontier, as the line between proto-modern-metal and post-glam-pre-new-wave is blurred beyond recognition. Reatard's been doing his homework, hitting the high notes like never before, ringing in a chorus that succeeds all the Josef K, Orange Juice, and XTC comparisons that will likely cock-block this (perfect) second statement. Like him or not, he's cementing a spot in our playlist for years to come.

5.14.2008

Oper'azione Nafta's Free Clinic

Though they might not want to admit it, there are “Mody Dick” sized breakbeats underneath the improv sweat and tears and permanent scars splayed out by Oper’azione Nafta. A decade’s worth of discordant antipasto dinosaur riffs. That’s the thing about the Silt Rx, take one this morning and you’ll truly feel it ten years down the road. I’ll be the first to admit in high school I tried it a few times, but Harry Pussy was total fucking garbage and I never caught a buzz. A handful of records kept me faithful (those Fieldhands, that Rep and Pollard guys) though it took a big chunk of my life to grasp the master plan (still don’t think I got it).

About two minutes into this one the horns start to wail (like a hard black thing), trying desperately to squabble over the guitar and drum (a’la XXNOBBQXX) dental dam that continuously vex into oblivion (or at least a version of plagal stasis that links them to Dead C and those inclined to spiral and curdle simultaneously). That’s when I feel a swift kick to my gut (which certainly needs checked) only to turn around to a brick wall, the bruises equal to the diabetes blotch, the mental anguish enough to torment the next half of my existence as long as the record keeps playing en mi casa. This one is a mammoth grower, monolithic "maximalism" to shape middle-age.

“E’” sonically shifts with the gales, a six-legged wind-chime. That rascally brass drunkenly dives into the frame again, but it’s ceremoniously welcome. Indeed context has no context. Venture to the second side and a whole different setting is set. In my mind it’s a garage, where the primed trio set-up shop (surrounded by hills, ocean, sports cars, vino, the dodgy post?) and recorded in a night. The braggadocio brothers make a noise-record in 24 hours, free music completely inspired by the Boredoms (sounds if they’re satirizing the Boredoms). Perhaps the best thing about free music is to not try and explain, simply let it settle, ‘cept this boil never exactly settles. Here is me, in a drunken waltz, flipping it over again. Better let them explain – heady stuff:

“My dear, in this music, in our music flutter the metaphor of combustion. When we listen ourselves playing or (passively) listening our records it’s clear that oper’azione nafta is/has been/will be everything we have listened until today, but compressed and burned. The referential line can draw from the earliest (and not) rock sonorities (and not).The key-influences are sure: hard rock( where we come from philologically) +grunge+ noise rock+ funky+ unfusion + unwave + radicalmetatheatre + unARTrock + electracoustic + unjazz+ freeform..& other whit a strong propencity to MAXIMALISM in the compositiv/impro phase and so in the global sound of the trio. This cheeky tendencity to the caos make us live some anomalous sensations; in the live dimension,in fact, this caos take the listeners (poor and potential ungrateful of our tendencies) to a kind of repudiation, but we,strong believers in us as the only way of expressive rejection, react showing a provocative attitude..and in this circumscribed public open mentality WE ABUSE, SPERMING IN THEIR EARS AND TRY TO HELP THEM TO THE NOT-EASY IMPACT WITH SLIDE PROJECTIONS distracting them by the playing trio. It..s strange for them, but our land public is seriously considered from us (instead of them), in fact express ourselves in a so care-less way in dialect make revalue us their auditive lacks, so we love them because they..re present and take part of the rite. We are sure that oper..azione nafta likes to the good will people and open the doors and the ties created by the sectorial genres that TODAY oppress the musical masses/tides blocking their wings.”

Lots o’ vids of the kookiness here, even an homage to their benefactor(s).

5.10.2008

Meth Teeth Remind Me of Youth

Again with the pipeline between Portland and Columbus -- the lot lizards that immigrated must have carried the virus with them, or we just mirror each other in some parallel universe, or bands just keep constantly trying to best the next best record. It’s a West Coastal-Midwestern volley I can get used to.

There’s just something refreshingly regressive about Meth Teeth, stripping everything to its skeletal core only to find there’s still a couple more layers of macerated plastic, tin cans, and fraying rope holding it all together. I’m reminded of ink-stained paper routes, carcasses of factories we’d troll around in, gravel alleyways, drainage tunnels, and forts beneath the overpass that revealed secrets every time we’d dig for junk or break some glass. The silence of the small town always forced tiny songs to creep through my lips, buoyed by primitive beats that could only be forged with sticks and stones.

There’s nothing ornamental or even particularly hip about Meth Teeth’s haunted pop, nothing propping them up but a puff of smoke and some bright tangled notes. “Unemployment Forever” and “To My Good Friend” are the hookiest barbs of the bunch, like the Black Lips infatuated with Buddy Holly and the Everly Brothers – but falling further down a deep dark well filled with dusty echo. I’d also dare to say that the Meth Teeth are more grown than that unit, less prone to falling over each other and concerned with some post-punk tactics, antique instrumentation, and above all melody. This is a reminiscing little 7” that sort of breezes by in a lazily spun mix of craggy garage rock and bittersweet acoustics.

An album’s on the way (probably a better way to judge this band would be over the course of a full-length) as is a tour which rolls into the beach just in time for the mid-summer classic.

5.09.2008

Catbird Double Feature

PWRFL Power is simply Kazutaka Nomura. He’s a Japanese born, Seattle transplant, who’s a classically trained guitarist and instinctively precious humorist. To pigeonhole this eccentric waif as just another singer/songwriter with a quirky streak would be an injustice. Listening over the intricate playing on his Catbird Records EP one could even suggest that Nomura is a rare talent, balking at chords and picking his way through Django’s gypsy jazz and Fahey’s labyrinthine folk excursions. Match that with a naïveté usually reserved for the Montessori playground, or the junior-high slam-book, perhaps the funny pages read aloud by Luddite yuppies – a paradox of an innocent mind vs. a set of adroit fingers. Sometimes the clash is excruciating -- a muppet movie in horn-rimmed glasses pining with Ben Gibbard – sometimes the lyrics are embarrassingly cringe-worthy, but despite the lack of serious in “Brush Your Teeth” or “Play Some Drums,” his melodies weave and burst from the sparse arrangement. When they click, as on the modern love happenstance of “Alma Song,” you get the feeling Nomura likes to chuckle even when being 100% sincere, his guitar drifting through life collecting the sparkly ephemera from thin air much like his recent memory collects cuddly bits of dialogue and mental pics of people on the bus.

Air Waves is probably the victor of the two releases, if only for the relaxed simplicity of it all, singing to lightning and gems, nature and all that. Led by Nicole Schneit – the EP is a brief moonlit walk through melancholic bramble rock, effortlessly beating with a rapturous heart. Allowing the boy to sing on “Keys,” the disc’s scruffy finale puts them in line with early Sparklehorse. Throughout though they tip-toe around shoegaze and femme-folk like Mazzy Star, but my imagination conjures up memories of Bettie Seveert – a band fragile and sensitive, always searching for the flower even if thorns and brush are in the way. I guess it's desert pop, space pop; no matter where it pops the only thing that matters is the pop. This one’s got plenty of it, in little time.

You can purchase both here for a nominal fee. Always a bargain, and always packaged with care.

5.06.2008

>>>Rock. The. Fuck. Out. Bandwagon<<<

The overflow is wearing me out. There’s a quantity of good shit flooding my conscious it’s hard to keep up -- even when the ultimate anti-punk gesture is gnawing at my toenails. The beach is heavy, the “kids” are away, and the summer proves even more daunting.

Andrew Graham and Jen Boyce, a hardcore Young Marble Giants in waiting, hang in the balance between derisory and mirth. In my mind the verdict’s still out on RTFO Bandwagon, the case was made more confusing when I finally heard the New Jack single on Dull Knife out of Houston. The fact that someone outside of the clique might pay for our somewhat rookie bullshit/Balkan campus jam is astounding. But I was pretty high on the RTFO’s first album Flagships, so high I melted over the songs till I saw them live for the first time, then, as Bruce Drennen might quip, “all bets were off.” I’m thinking they spent too much time inside writing songs together with Boone’s Farm than out at the club seeing how other “group sounds” do it, does it. Too many cardinal sins clogging up the stage -- like ball caps, shorts, ‘n tambourines.

With the “New Jack,” they've finally seen the half-life, fluorescent, light-bulb. Their trophy bong sat through hours of dorm-room Sabbath riffs on dummy repeat, and then the resin was extracted out with a rickety, acoustic ruckus. Graham’s the jug band of the hall, tired of some hippie outpost he’s linked to and rebelling into some “hard frolic.” Try not to wince at the dual, cutesy, vocals -- this recording is pure grit and grime, chiseling into the melody with the drill of “immediacy”. Not evil, but close, stoned to the point of answering all their existential riddles with the lyric “I Need a Head Like God.” How’s that for a solution?

Of course now there’s Richie Horseshit flaying along on incidental beats, long-hair Tom Wynn barely on bass (that’s metal hair, not mellow hair), and the aforementioned tambo-stylings of Tony Henley not particularly making a stink like the live show. Not that’s there’s anything wrong with fleshing out the band, it’s just not necessity. Graham and Boyce could rally the troops on a bleak street corner, busking with a kick drum and patchouli-drenched accoutrements at their feet, and still capture the same ramshackle energies as evidenced by their performance with Jerusalem and the Starbaskets a month or so ago. Strip them of a security blanket and the naked, nervous, chasteness enlightens any tune put forth.

This is more than apparent on “I Hate the City,” the doom-folk downer that inhabits the b-side. Here hits of sunshine try to peek through a glaze of organic abjectness only to be shot down by maudlin mood music. As long as the duo tinker and wobble in this closet of intimacy, with as much booty as their arms can handle, their future makes me itchy.

4.28.2008

Pink Reason - We'd Call for Help...

…but we ain’t got a dime. Kevin DeBroux always seems to be living on “Borrowed Time,” it just so happens to be the anthem howled repeatedly in the minute-thirty used to toss off this essential jukebox filler. By now I’m convinced the 7” is the format best suited for Pink Reason, no discredit to the sprawling wallow and desperation of the Cleaning the Mirror LP (like Don Quixote down a deep black tarpit, another entity, another realm entirely), but “Borrowed Time” is the DeBroux of recent days (though it could’ve been recorded in a number of different eras - at 14 in the rec room?), the gutter scum done good, the past an irretrievable blur, the odes to the recently departed Egor Letov and G.G. identified but borne of his own hardcore universe. It’s a choppy, simple, and quick abrasion sonically (three chords and plenty of static) -- verbally it’s one-dimensional graffiti sprayed sloppily on the wall, with no doubt as to the message.

Though he “woke up this morning on a dirty floor, with nothing to eat and nowhere to go,” he doesn’t sound any less worried/wounded about tomorrow. If anything there’s a confidence in his role as teen runaway, intellectual drop-out, harbinger of a fresh-faced, weirdo, soul-draining punk rox. The typical theme of street urchin is inherent (i.e. Suburbia, Pixote, Oliver Twist), just laying out the facts from the road, a mainline bulletin, before moving on to the next inspired squat. The b-side “Scared Shitless” draaaaaags it out into the open, every bit as evocative and baring as the Mirror LP, if less isolated, more harrowing, more blood being shed. Something brief and visceral as this is a perfect foil to the spilling of guts his debut was mucked up in – cathartic abandon, as sharp and determined as the day he decided to become the piper and the proletariat.