#1

Panda Bear - Person Pitch

Glorious existential bliss. Person Pitch could be looped for days and I would never tire of Noah’s endless harmonizing, endless waves of melody, and endless summer inside the machine. A new wave hippie that has persevered.

#2

M.I.A. - Kala

This one's kinda like Psychedelic Horseshit, in that there's not much more that I can say. I've tried many times to describe what I feel whilst listening to Kala but nothing comes close. A colleague of mine called it "omni-pop" and that's really that closest conclusion I can come to. If we reduce everything that's good in the world right now -- (the slow resurrection of Fela, the re-issue of all that's good in Brazilian musics, the uprising of Bmore, Blaqstarr, Mad Decent, Diplo, Switch, Rye-Rye, Mr. Devro, and all these wonderful things I've been linking to all year) -- it might get close. This album never fails to raise my spirits.

#3

LCD Soundsystem - Sound of Silver

There are reasons I don't want to include the LCD in my top ten -- they seem lazy (replicating their debut almost to a fault), they're not even remotely hip (in terms of aesthetic), and they've fallen on almost every list I've read so far. So why do I still feel indebted? Is it James Murphy's second-life, comeback, triumph (R.I.P. Six Finger Satellite, one of my most beloved bands of the 90's)....?

No. Not at all. And Mr. Murphy would not want to dwell on that past. Or even the last LCD effort, or even last year. He's a perfectionist first and foremost. And though he's a prolific label-man secondly (through his now-oft-neglected DFA Records) he still funnels every bit of his quitodian life into his music, and for that Sound of Silver is a flawless hurdle. Seeing this live was enough. Hearing it over and over after said concert was complete...was a revelation. He's concentrated all the hipster forms of electronica, dance, and standard rock, into one overwhelming force. Try and not dance, shake your head, or mouth his easy to comprehend/understand lyrics. In LCD land every night is a party at the center of Manhattan, if you want it or not.

#4

Justice - †

Hard to find a party starter that is a solid as Justice (but we'll get to that). The only reason this doesn't eclipse Mr. James Murphy's LCD is experience. While the debut by the Ed Banger Illuminati is exhilarating and above all else a fun trip, it lacks in songwriting. As a ephemeral piece of 2007 though, nothing will top it. SRSLY, take Daft Punk's Discovery and times it by a thousand.

#5

Times New Viking - Presents the Paisley Reich

I pledge allegiance. Join the Shitpop Revolution now...or be left behind. This is simply cocking the trigger in an ongoing saga. Maybe even just loading the pistol? Get to know them better here.

#6

Radiohead - In Rainbows

I know what you're saying...This album needs no more press...but it's been quite a while since Radiohead has thrilled me (see the Bends tour, with David Gray opening at the Cleveland Agora). Sure, I was smitten with OK Computer and perplexed with the experimental duo of full-lengths that followed, but could only manage a yawn beyond that. In Rainbows came late one night, for free (but that's beside the point), and without warning. I'm pretty sure that the band knew they had a monster on their hands or else it all wouldn't have happened this way, it ebbs and flows with the finest releases of this year. Radiohead is fully aware of the corners of rock that they must re-establish and save. Could it be the closest thing to Pink Floyd our generation has experienced? OK. With the advent of computers, I'll accept that.

Henceforth...The lush atmosphere and lilting melodies In Rainbows pours over the listener is enough for a decade or more.

#7

Skeletons and the King of All Cities - Lucas

Lucas is a record that made much more sense months ago. I'm trying to imagine a fully realized version of all those Olivia Tremor Control excursions, only with an ear towards the Soft Machine, African High-Life, Tropicalia, and Danny Elfman -- instead of 60's nostalgia. Envision an orchestra balancing on a unicycle. Perhaps I need to take a few months off to research Sun Ra?

#8

Liars - Liars

Fitting that a band that was becoming too art-rock for their own good (i.e. letting Berlin get the best of them), would surprise the world by removing the art from the equation. Still this record is dark and engaging as the band's most puzzling work, but twice as catchy, twice as heavy. The most intriguing thing about this, a self-titled work, is that they chose to pull out all the Wire and This Heat references this far into their evolution -- a sign that this is a band that is in complete control (both creatively and professionally) of their future/fuhrer.

#9

Gui Boratto - Chromophobia

I'm not a techophobe -- never have been. But I'd say this is the first year where I've embraced the electronic genre with open arms. Blame it on my time with Stylus or blame it on the micro-masterpieces of minimalism from The Field, Pantha Du Prince, Deepchord, Burial, and locally by Deathly Fighter, but I've become accustomed to finding truth within circuits and loops.

The title of this one suggests that this Brazilian composer has a fear of color -- within the cold and calculated structures that may be true -- but Boratto reveals human errors, a human hand that allows cracks through which vibrancy flows. Of all the brilliant releases this year, Chromophobia sounds the most organic, a prism through which all forms of melody are welcome even when traditionally shunned.

#10

Psychedelic Horseshit - Magic Flowers Droned

I'm not sure if there's really anymore I can spew about this record that wasn't addressed here. All I can say is that the Horseshit boys, should they cum in your area (now with extra-pinkness), are probably onto a whole 'nother batch of songs. These here continue to puzzle and amaze and make me shake my head in total fucking agreement. Not a better pop record made this year besides Ms. Brittany Spear's tantric-future-funk masterpiece, Blackout. Recognize.

The Year in Records Two Ought Ought Seven

Since there's not much left on the new releases front and I'm huddled inside master-minding a perfect year-end list for the public to peruse (my brother claims he will not make a list, but he's already "list"ed off his favorite 7"s of the year). I don't find the harm in such lists, in fact I love reading my favorite critics picks, and predicting how many magazines will laud over what (to me) is a fairly mediocre The National record.

So the programming here will change for the next few weeks. I will be pulling the fine-toothed comb through quite a hairy year of music. Not only will I keep you on edge, slowly leaking out the year's best records from 10-1 (imho), but I'll find some other worthy categories to indulge you with-- including 2007's "unheard" and "neglected" albums. As always, I encourage your comments as they pour. Please Pour. Regular rants and Made-Rite sandwiches will continue into the new year.

Live from K's

Perhaps the last bastion of Andy Griffith-esque life in Troy, Ohio -- K's Hamburgers, right there on Main St. hasn't changed much since it began in 1935. At least it hasn't changed a bit since the last time I had dinner there. I've been hankering for nostalgia every time I head home, and this seemed like it would conjure up the most. Was I making too big a deal out of their little crispy hamburgers, "wet" fried and smashed on a smallish bun? As of this visit, the answer is no. The interior remains the same, the malts still there, the grizzled 70-something wait-staff still cackle 'your order's ready' in no discernible direction, the tiny men's bathroom still reminds me of some back-alley in a more industrial baby-boomtown, the price so low you can eat like a king (at least king of the Trojan Square) for under $5. Now that the festival's have shut down, my latest obsession falls with the fabled eateries of Western Ohio. Stay tuned, as I'm destined to go that way as much as possible, if only for the comfort of the Elliott family fireplace.

Those the Shjips I Was Looking For

When I first heard "Dance California" and read the description laid upon San Francisco's Wooden Shjips, I thought it was a collective of like-minded late-teenagers finally finding the truth in kraut, forgoing anything post in order to jam cosmic. Six months later I'm inebriated mere hours past noon, the Austin sun is beating down on the pavement, and I'm in a cave-like bungalow known as Beerland with only a handful of know-it-alls bobbing heads to a bearded forty-thirty-something bohemian with the raddest guitar seen in my life. It was Wooden Shjips -- in all their old-age, long-haired, infinite wisdom -- handing out free vinyl after the smoked had cleared. Well I played that 7" into the ground, and made many believers in its wake, but that full length? Let's just say it doesn't hold same sonic blister as does the live show.

Their limited Sol '07 almost did the trick, since it was an actual live recording, but it wasn't until their Sub Pop debut, Loose Lips, that I became devout towards their magnetic output. For some reason this is indicative of the performance more that anything before it. The keyboards and bass are far out front, the vocals not to intimidating (simply going with the flow), and the guitars carving on forever (the bread and butter of the band). Carving on forever, and ever, and ever. You'd think the song was 15 minutes.



Seriously, go buy this.

Keeping Up with the Gibbons Brothers

For Siltbreeze Alasehir's The Philosophy of Living Fire is release number nine. It's fitting considering that the trio is pretty much Bardo Pond sans vocals and oblique instrumentation, things that might get in the way of the Gibbons Brothers living room meditations/excursions. I'm afraid if Mr. Woodbe (or Lax) has one soft spot in his body, it's kneeling at the temple of the Pond, a Philly institution that has become more religion than band. Really, this duo should pass around a charity plate whenever company comes over and they just so happen to both pick up guitars. Imagine what those Matador Records (there's four to dig into) would sound like stripped to their bare elements, endless blooze jams pounded out into endless mantras, those enormous amorphous miasmas sapped of colour and tinted black and white while the listener floats in infinite gray-space.

Who knows how much drugs play a part anymore? I don't know the bros personally, but I remember a dorm room, a bong hit, and a cassette copy of Amanita at a very impressionable age. It was enough to make a believer outta me. Within the three tracks of Philosophy the trio finds the core of freedom, some repetitive release from past musics, chiseling deep into dark space. An endless boogie? After all, Alasehir is the modern name of the holy city of Philadelphia, Turkey. Look it up. There's certainly something sacred about these recordings.

And that brings me to Siltbreeze, and how they've got the cache to receive such grail. Oh how you've done so much for my social life this 2007. May I suggest a couple ideas for your 10th release? Just to end the year in a nice round number? How 'bout a vinyl comp. of all the strange voice mails you must receive in a given week, or yourself reading the correspondence that gets shoved through your mail slot? Or better yet, a little comp. of the best of the trash you get sent on a regular basis. Surely there's a teen from Ulan Bator recording "collage-scape" that we all don't know about yet. It's prolly worth hearing. Basically I'm saying, you've saved a lot of independent face this year. Saved Matador. Written the greatest one-sheet in the history of music promotion (I've read through a million). And turned me onto DER TPK,Pink Reason, Sapat, Factums, all long-players of the year. What's your sweater size?

25 Mintues With Pre (And Dry Jeans)

My time with Pre was brief. I wasn't expecting Pre, I wanted Pissed Jeans, but they had bedtimes apparently and when I arrived they were huddled around the dim lamppost outside the Bobo, looking like regular dudes, not the scum-rock fist-punk saviors found on Shallow. By all accounts their live show was great, but I'll stand by the razzing I gave Hope for Men, a disappointment that should be fully ignored. Shame on Sub Pop.

Back to the four blokes and nymphet from the United Kingdom that seized my attention in spastic spurts of proggy nihilism. I'd thought that I'd grown out of this Skin Graft state of mind -- I was once fascinated with the free-form skronk of Space Streakings and the detailed velocity of Melt Banana -- Pre however seemed to play with unconscious primal ism instead of studied histrionics. This is not Beefheart on 45. Each tiny knick and twist accelerated to Soul Disco absurdities. They've got Boredoms on the brain and that's a movement I can get behind.

Speaking of behinds, I saw the word "shtick" cleverly scrawled on a cocktail napkin to describe the singer's skimpy attire and sexual gyrations. Sure the sausage in the front row were drooling on their used shoes, but the sheer amount of sweat this girl shed allows her any uniform, any form of shock tactics she wants to throw down. The sleazy force of Pre prefectly fit the dingy environs and by night's end, or 25 minutes later, I had to crank my jaw back into place.

Mission Statement Revisited

You're probably as sad as I am that Stylus is dead. They were a nice fit for me. And somehow, having this blog linked through that site I was getting a lot of traffic (spam). So I thought I'd start anew here with the mission statement as read on the Stylus link:

“Teenagers Unite” is the permanent mantra heard in the World of Wümme, for though we age gracefully and our tastes become more refined, we forever cling to that 18 to 35 demographic until we choke out our last breath. If anything, this blog is a resource for young soldiers fighting a daily culture war on the streets. It’s a document filled with detailed tactics and strategy handed down to future generations aimed at creating a brave new world. We have a responsibility to reverse the predictions of an Orwellian fate and to build, to unleash a vertical proliferation of kaleidoscopic colors and deafening sound.

Happy November Already.

Giving You the Best that I've Got...

I guess I'll keep the mood all-like fall-like and gush about my theory on autumnal playlists. Livin' in Ohio and experiencing each change of season I've found the fall a time when listening habits become much like the year before or before that. For some reason there are certain albums that just resonate better this time in the calendar. Albums or songs that evoke memories much stronger than others. Granted I've locked myself in the basement to master Guitar Hero III, but there's a reason I keep trying to conquer "One" by Metallica. Metallica just sounds better when the trees are slowly becoming bare and ominous. Right? Or Urge Overkill. Anything by the Misfits. The Posies - Frosting on the Beater. Megadeth. Geto Boys. Tammy and the Amps.

Sure there's plenty of new things to listen to that fit the mood:

A Mountain of One - perfect for a pre-sun commute, in morning silence, to one of Columubus' many fine public schools.

Tiffany Evans - "Promise Ring" -- my deep attraction to light-hearted quiet storm fare never falters.

Brittany -- Yes. Blackout is as neon-coated and darkly pop as the critics allow.

Psychedelic Horseshit and TNV's (new one) shitpop -- for the anxiety that precedes the anxiety of the holidays.

And that Black Swans record Change keeps me up late on the screened in porch through colder and colder smoke breaks.



But for me two songs have won out. The first from Anita Baker's landmark album
Rapture. Listening to "Sweet Love" is being 10 years old again and in Tae Kwon Do. For some reason the sensei was a huge slow jams man, and his clock radio would always have the Dayton classic R&B station on stealth-like in the back office. No matter what we were doing you could hear it's soft whisper from beyond. It was most prevalent when we had our final meditation. Whenever I want I can hear Anita's voice in this rousing song and transport myself to a time when meditation was in a white cotton uniform on a bamboo floor, the only time to actually think and revel in a young boy's life. For a 10 yr. old, that was some peaceful shit. It was in that moment that I would dream off and find myself in the foreign locales I've been lucky enough to see. I owe it all to Anita.



Then there was Sepultura and "Dead Embryonic Cells." I was 14 and sitting shotgun with Big Tim Dafner in the Cutlass Supreme. I suppose like any half-way rebellious teen we were searching for dirt weed, cheap cigarettes and the supreme evil in heavy metal music. Back then it seemed like we had found it with Danzig, Cannibal Corpse, Deicide, and our secret weapon, Pungent Stench. Sepultura was up there with the top three (Slayer, Anthrax, Megadeth), but it wasn't until now that I know how potent and influential they really were. Seeing movies now re: the strife in modern day Brazil, the guys in Sepultura were speaking from the ultimate pit of humanity. Not Africa, but somewhere where opportunity is shoved in your face but yanked away at an instant. Belo Horizonte, where they originated in this late 80's/early 90's turmoil was the real deal for the type of apocalyptic imagery Sepultura conjured both musically and stylistically. It's only now that I've realized how devastating Arise truly is. I'd love to go on a little field trip through the creepiness of the Miami Valley we journeyed; be it tracing the ghost of Polecat Rd., the satanic ritual sites outside of Huber Heights, the head-shop in New Carlisle, or various gravel pits where underage kids could get high. Sepultura as a constant would have made all the difference, at least it does now.

Live at the Circleville Pumpkin Show

The perfect pre-Halloween celebration. What better way that to celebrate pumpkins than with over-salted pumpkin seeds, cult desserts like pumpkins donuts and waffles, pumpkin burgers, pumpkin candles and helmets. You get the idea. I never knew the gourd was so edible and useful in the home.

So there's a pumpkin shortage this year? Not in Circleville. They had the things in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They had the precise scent of dying leaves and cold stone buildings wafting through the air. Wednesday was locals night maybe, the downtown cretins and dark back alleyways lent the town the feel of some place haunted.

But the parade through the city -- with marching bands from Logan Elm, Teays Valley, and Asheville, dentists in Chryslers with their high-school, Pumpkin Queen hopefuls on the hood -- became a microcosm of idyllic smalltown america. Congrats to Andrea Turner btw (really, read through this link).

Perhaps it's a sign of my old age that I actually enjoy such preciousness. Either way it's better than any fair. It's a show. Bring a flask though, for I searched for Pumpkin Beer high and low to no avail.

For Noise Enthusiasts Only...

I'm thinking I skipped over this because it's such a solitary record, not for the masses, the proles. Thurston Moore has put out a great bunch of releases this year, half of them much like the split between 16 Bitch Pile-Up and Mike Shiflet, and half of them like the MV/EE's Gettin' Gone (rootsy, incense-burning, myth collections), and one that puts both sides together (Magik Markers brilliant Boss). The solitary albums have been vinyl only, pressed in tiny amounts and spit around to inquiring heads (i.e. Lambsbread R.I.P.) and for that Moore is philanthropist rather than label mogul. He knows these recordings have a purpose, not a mass audience, and judging by the amount of pure "noise" Moore ingests in a day (see Bull Tongue) the 30 minute romps from Leslie Keefer and this one here are his bliss-out moments (or cave retreats).

Solitary -- if someone says they listen to "noise" records at parties, with friends, they're lying. Even in a live setting, with crowd, and the "mercy applause" that concludes even the more irritating extremes of the "noise" sub-culture, a spectator is likely to get trapped and/or escape in a deeply personal singular experience. There are no knowing glances to the people around you, no high fives and critical mumurs. The only sign that the "band" is acheiving an altered state is within oneself. Quality noise is a conscious trip without medicine, measured by one's own enlightenment. It's telling that "noise" enthusiasts treat the genre like a religion. I would attend the next NO FUN FEST, but I'm not sure if I'm devoted enough.

Make Like a Fetus and Abort is the perfect break-out for the Bitches. A space odyssey on the outer limit's best morphine, portioned like a radio drama for the hearing impaired. I've seen a few Pile-Ups in my time and it's quite an emasculating live show -- not homicidal femme fatales out for male blood, but these girls got demons they need to release. Knives, screwdrivers, cross-stitch, a massively hot DJ de-grooving dollar opera records,fake blood, fake puss, fake bruises (have you seen the pictures?) boiling in a mess of chum and broken strings and howls. These are nightmare quasars, the primal screams that rush out the ears once you've pressed you palms against closed eyes. Childhood fear, adult-hood taboos. Space travel without any scientific data.

And Mr. Shiflet? Well he's been loafing on the pulse of "noise" for many, many, years. His Gameboy Records will one day be documented in some elaborate, gold-plated, box-set. Extract, Behold is a fitting a title as one can find in the "*****" world. The Ohio ex-pat, now in Japan, is an artisan of drone, through static and long, buzzing, chords, he reveals jazz-like melodies. You've got to listen hard, much like those hidden eye photos, to find them, but once you do you'll dispute the claim that one man's construction site is another's form of transcendental meditation.

It must be noted that though both artists now have different locales, the recordings found here were recorded in Columbus, OH, USA. Again, I of the B Holder.

Live with Billy Corgan's Corpse

Yes. Another big box concert, but I had legitimate hopes, expectations, 3/4 of Siamese Dream in ripe October moonlight. I can't say I was let down. Billy Corgan is a consummate showman. Really. He's the alt-rock generation's Jimi Hendrix. He fucking owned the guitar and even though this night he plowed through 3/4 of Zeitgeist instead, that lazer-beam tone was ever-present. "Hummer" alone was worth the price of admission and in the context of a live show coupled with half a fake reunion, those new songs actually worked.

But alas, Billy is a zombie, the "zero" of his song (and numerous t-shirts I've seen since), which might explain the awkward noodling through "White Rabbit," Joan Jett, and the Van Halen-esque hammer-ons. Honestly, the last twenty minutes of the "real" show were nothing but band jam, excursions through "Heavy Metal Machine" and whatever else Billy felt like playing. Just drop it all, contact All Tomorrow's Parties, and take the Dream on the road. Hell, I'll even take an exclusive Adore tour. Love that one.