The Bandcamp tags for DiscordMeansLiberation list both “blastbeats” and “blast beats,” a pair of descriptors that would be redundant in most other cases, but in this case it’s completely appropriate. I don’t know much about DML other than that they hail from Seville, Spain and deliver some of the most intense hardcore-influenced grind I’ve heard in a while, so I’m grateful for Rip Roaring Shit Storm’s vinyl release of their first two EPs (grouped together as an LP under the title of the more recent release). “Tsundoku” doesn’t waste any time in setting the intensity level for the rest of the album, forcing its way into existence with heavily distorted punk riffs and larynx-shredding screams. The band is equally skilled at minuscule blasts of scalding fury as well as (relatively) more reticent atmospheric respites—”Endorphin Fueled Euphoria” is the shortest track on the LP at only five seconds, breaking into dizzying, lightning-speed technical fury after a brief snare count-in, while “Indentured Servants” stretches itself across four minutes of punishing sludge jams and ends with a whirlwind of harrowing, mangled shrieks. DML occupies a sweet spot somewhere between the heavily hardcore-influenced, shrill “false grind” of bands I love like The Ergon Carousel and the earthier assaults of Weak Flesh, so DiscordMeansLiberation is exactly what I needed in this brand new year.
Both a member of innovative avant-rock trio Palberta and the sole creator of the modern outsider masterpiece I Hope All of Your Dreams Come True, Philadelphia-based multi-instrumentalist Nina Ryser is easily one of my favorite musicians at the moment. On Fire Roast she lends her always charismatic, charming vocal style to a new quartet that also features Ani Ivry-Block, Zoë Talkin, and Gabe Adels. The band’s sprightly brand of art punk is much less skittery and elusive than either of the other projects I mentioned previously, but with a decidedly reticent approach to songwriting and a warm, raucous power-pop energy, Fire Roast more than competes. Ryser is the only member credited with vocals and presumably also doesn’t lend her instrumental talents to this new band, a lineup configuration that frees up space for layered harmonies and other vocal idiosyncrasies while maintaining that distinctive post-punk power trio sound. From the magnetic guitar/bass interplay on “Smash” to the slow burn start and superb lyrical imagery of “What a Pity,” the twenty-minute debut covers a great deal of ground before even reaching the wonderful concluding track “Folly or Fate,” a long and ambitious cut that proudly displays every facet of the scruffy four piece’s irresistible charm.
Fire Roast is available on cassette from the Single Girl Married Girl website.
As stated in the description, Dances with Beast and Giants is indisputably an album that suits a variety of environments, whether it’s “club, stage, [or] street.” The UK quartet, which features drum set, trumpet, trombone, and baritone sax, explodes into existence with a propulsive drum groove and cacophonous wind battles on “Bone Dance,” an incendiary opener that rivals the formidable presence of much larger ensemble pieces (one that immediately comes to mind is Angles 9’s “Equality & Death,” a track produced by more than twice the amount of musicians). Magog displays this unique ability to sound like much more than just a quartet not just on “Bone Dance,” but many times throughout the record. On “Rising,” the second track, power is found in tightly orchestrated unison licks, but “Dancing with Giants” returns to the fiery fray with clashing simultaneous solos, but eventually the jagged, unaligned cells fall into step with each other, crossing the chasm between chaos and unity in an impossibly short amount of time. Truly both a “mini brass band” and “deranged modern village band,” Magog combines traditional jazz sensibilities, exceptional musicianship, ecstatic harmony, and an ever-astute collective ear for the abstract to produce an enrapturing “dream time jazz for today.”
For me, “local band” has long been an implicitly derogatory, or at least separating phrase. The “local” qualifier always seems to denote a musician or act that has little appeal other than being based closed by, something that’s unfortunately true for many local bands. But if you’re fortunate enough to live in a city or town with an active scene, dig deep enough and you’re almost guaranteed to find something (or multiple things) that break the mold. This is part of the reason I’m so appreciative of Cincinnati post-punk bands like Crime of Passing and Mardou, whose releases I’ve reviewed here previously (Winter ’19 and Bitter Energy, respectively); they remind me of how amazing it is to have exciting musical output being generated so close to home. Now, musicians who have played with and written for both projects have formed a trio with The Serfs, whose reclusive, nocturnal brand of minimal wave first made an appearance on 2019’s Songs of Serfdom. All six tracks released on that EP are also featured on the similarly titled and covered Sounds of Serfdom, the band’s debut full-length released on LP by German imprint Detriti and on tape by Cincinnati label Wasted Tapes. I was lucky enough to see The Serfs play a live set a while back, and every ounce of their mysterious presence and outsider scruff is conveyed by the beautifully lo-fi production of Sounds. Energizing chants defiantly emerge from dark, dank caves of moody synth and muted drum hits on “Vanishing Act”; piddling electronics morph into cheerful, infectious melodies on “Perverted Disco”; and “Imitation” joins the ranks of other incredible “I—–tion” songs—along with Mardou’s “Information” and “Immersion”—for a lovely conclusion. Pretty much every song on this album is fantastic though, those are just the three that stood out the most on my most recent listen-through. I send eternal love to The Serfs for not just being a “local band,” but also making me feel like I’m truly a part of something by being in close proximity to them (not that I actually am, but it still feels like it).
Christian Mirande is one of those few musicians whose releases I buy without hesitation. The Philadelphia-based sound artist can always be relied upon to produce wonderfully difficult music with distinct and unmistakable emotional resonance; see the simultaneous domesticity and seismic rumble of Trying to Remember a House, the criminally underappreciated sprawling sonic odyssey Scaled Deposits, or even the minuscule field recording collages of Strangeways if you need proof. It’s immediately apparent that his newest work, My Friend Went to Heaven on the Frankford El, is a very personal outing for Mirande; the title, along with the tape’s dedication to “Jason & Sean” and a link providing instructions for administering Naloxone, immediately evokes a profound sense of loss. But My Friend Went to Heaven is not cheaply elegiac, never tugging on low-hanging heart strings with monologues about grief or other clichés. Instead, Mirande bases what may be his most elusive release yet around the strange milieu of American life during a rampant opioid epidemic. There are no warnings, no time to say goodbye; your friends and family are simply there one day and gone the next, and the surrounding world is heartbreakingly apathetic to your grief—trains rattle by with countless passengers all oblivious to what you’ve lost, conversations carry on without you, classic pop anthems are snatched away by the same uncaring, unceremonious hands that yank so many lives from their human vessels. The world of My Friend Went to Heaven on the Frankford El is one that is at once familiar and distorted, an unyielding constant viewed from the fragile perspective of a single consciousness.
At the heart of PINK, Prism Shanks’ debut cassette release, is percussion—not only the “hand built” rhythmic devices the duo utilizes but also the way in which they approach the other elements in their music. This “largely improvised audio collage” finds footing amidst almost entirely formless cascades of manually struck drums and other objects, yet snaking in and out of this tactile clatter are the unmistakable metallic scrapes and ragged, distorted howls of a prepared guitar, an instrument here used with the same percussive predilection as its fellow sound objects. To my knowledge I’ve never heard any music by either James Worse or John W. Newman, the two members of Prism Shanks, but their abilities to construct immersive atmosphere and hypnotic headspace are immediately clear when you hear PINK; despite never quite falling into the familiar comfort of conventional rhythm, the tape nonetheless draws a magnetic energy from the dark, ritualistic timbres at play in the music. Every instant of the release’s thirty minute duration radiates a powerful, mystical force, concluded in the sublime final moments of the B side, where uneasy beauty is hewn from electric hum and Prévost-esque bowed cymbals (I can’t be the only one reminded of the formidable drone-scapes of Crux / Flayed).
Note: each copy of PINK comes with a unique custom collage overlay.
There’s not just an essential, but also an audible difference between an orchestrated, technical maelstrom and total improvisation. The former may sound chaotic or random but cannot match the complete, blissful freedom of the latter. The songs in this mix, however, lie somewhere on a spectrum between those two endpoints, tending towards spontaneous gesture without disregarding or eliminating the fragments of structure that still linger in the music. Some of them gradually fall back into a conventional meter, others remain formless and ease through fluid dynamic changes, and still others play rhythmic patterns so loosely that they often don’t appear to be rhythmic at all.
00:00. Dilute – end of “Apple” from Grape Blueprints Pour Spinach Olive Grape (54º40′ or Fight!, 2002)
02:14. Storm & Stress – “And Third and Youngest, Unnamed” from Under Thunder and Fluorescent Lights (Touch and Go, 2000)
07:22. Gorge Trio – “Roof Halves and Dewdrop Gems” from Open Mouth, O Wisp (Skin Graft, 2004)
10:41. Coptic Light – “Mix the Races” from Coptic Light (No Quarter, 2005)
18:27. Who’s Your Favorite Son, God? – “Tapestry Mouth” from Out of Body Diva (KDVS Recordings, 2006)
20:40. Sister Iodine – “Western Lei” from Helle (Textile, 2004)
23:57. Fading Tapes – “O-bon” from Radio Okinawa (Katuktu Collective, 2018)
29:09. Jackie-O Motherfucker – “Dark Falcon” from Ballads of the Revolution (Fire, 2009)
33:46. zOoOoOm – “Ablution” from Eight My Heart (Condor, 2004)
I know I repeat this ad nauseam, but Bandcamp is a truly wondrous place. There are endless bewildering, obscure gems to be mined throughout the depths of the popular music hosting service, finding something like Actually Stupid is the equivalent of finding a mysterious old cassette at the very back of a rack or an unmarked CD amidst the stacks filled with bizarre sound. What makes this discovery even more valuable, however, is the fact that what is ostensibly New York based artist Richard Pizzaro’s first release is defiantly new and fresh, released on the fourth day of the new year and adorned with an artfully low-effort cover image made with Snapchat. Actually Stupid is also not a work that distances its aesthetic from the zeitgeist; featured on the cover is someone’s iTunes music library, “Aria” gets extensive mileage out of samples from Ariana Grande’s “God Is a Woman,” and everyone knows sex dolls are all the rage right now—but the music itself could hardly be any stranger. Opening track “Draining” evokes an arresting feeling of isolation, stripping fuzzy field recordings of a running tap and rushing air currents down into a single, spectral drone like the feeble sound of the arctic wind as you lie freezing to death in the snow. “Sex Doll I & II,” a continuous two-part piece that is itself part of a “Sex Doll” track trilogy, collapses into chaotic clusters of malfunctioning percussion patches and contorted electronic glitches; the soft synth washes of “Midwit” battle against jagged, unpredictable intrusions of silence and grating radio grabs until the whole track is commandeered and we’re left with an absurd yet strangely melancholy mass of monotone text-to-speech, a grandiose pop ballad, and what seem to be field recordings from either a cacophonous construction site or a violent firefight; and download-only bonus track “White Powder” concludes the proceedings with another delirious pop song dissection. Three cheers for democratic hosting platforms, hilarious album covers, and the people out there able and willing to make shit as weird and wonderful as this.
Bandcamp opens up many opportunities for avant-garde artists in regards to how they make their music accessible to the masses. Artists can simply host albums on Bandcamp that they would have released anyway without impacting their release timeline, while others perhaps get carried away with the ease and freedom that the site provides, releasing so much music that fans get overwhelmed and the individual merits of single works are drowned out by prolificacy (I’m looking at you, O’Rourke and Drumm). Joe Posset is no stranger to handmade CDrs or ultra-limited cassette tape runs, media that certainly coincide with his sonic aesthetic, but he also doesn’t shy away from having an established online presence, something many of his peers in the field of text-sound, tape skronk, and lo-fi surrealism often eschew in favor of obscurity. Posset’s Bandcamp allows us access to many things we otherwise wouldn’t be able to hear, such as the short We Are Fresh Weekend collection or a collaborative live set with fellow UK gargle poet Territorial Gobbing. Nine Copper Rods rings in the new year with eight pieces from various origins, along with easily one of the most entertaining album descriptions I’ve read through in a long time. The slithering, plasticky swirl of “Exi” encourages us to “feel the whirr [sic] of polyurethane nestle the gong farmer” while the kinetic swipes and yanks of “Dicta Solo 26th Oct (take two)” contradict its being “recorded in bed, sunny afternoon. Probably should have been doing something else.” The absence of any single unifying theme on Nine Copper Rods, abandoned in favor of scatter and sketch, allows the walls of impenetrability to fall away and reveal the truly amazing technique and skill involved in Posset’s music-making process.
“Download, press play and go about your business. I hope soft grey clouds bloom in your ears and it makes you sizzle a smile like Nicholson’s bacon.”
Once the new year rolls around there always seems to be a standout short ‘n’ sweet extreme hardcore release that helps me barrel through the duller moments of winter break. Last year it was Bandit’s Warsaw, an eight minute slab of brutal techgrind that still gets regular plays over a year later. Exactly one year and two days after, we’re given the gift of LA fastcore quartet Guilt Dispenser’s succinct self-titled debut. Plowing through ten tracks in less than half as many minutes, Guilt Dispenser draws elements from a vast array of hardcore subgenres into its breakneck vortex of speed and fury, devoting as much time to angular riffs in odd time signatures and mathy core breakdowns as the breathless d-beat gallops one would expect. Incendiary opener “Incite” fulfills its titular promise with a heavyweight propulsive groove that gets heads banging right off the bat, while shorter tracks like “Discern” showcase the band’s penchant for jarring arrangements, tempo changes, whiplash vocal trade-offs, and bite-sized atmospheric interludes. The minuscule outing ends on a powerful note with the formless “Cease,” a swirling whirlwind of effect-laden vocals and distortion. Inject full contents intravenously for maximum energy increase.