Subtitled with the tagline “Free Sound and Vision for the Ages,” newly minted barebones blog/netlabel hybrid Fruit of the Spirit is one of several promising independent music sources stepping up in the wake of recent events, and is probably the one I’m most excited about. Each release is simply hosted on Google Drive in whatever format and metadata the artist(s) sent—farm-to-table freshness! My three favorites of the first wave of titles (all of them duo concoctions, incidentally) are the following. I’m not sure if there’s a way to directly support the label yet, but I hope there is soon.
Grey Windowpane – Catskin (Mar 14)
Cobbled together entirely from long-distance digital exchanges of “samples, cut-ups, voice memos and instrumentation,” Transatlantic duo Grey Windowpane’s debut Catskin is a series of messy yet careful collages, each one offering a casual, almost careless strain of theatricality that gives the hour-long album a deeply narrative feel. The vocal elements are some of the strongest and most memorable, from the Black Dice–esque nonsense psychedelia and unhinged lunacy of “Drillers Don’t Trip” to the evocative layering of “Yards of Valiente” and “Shane,” but contributors Troy Curry and Michael “Ma” Turner also include plenty of more inconsequential sounds as well (the shrieking teapot featured prominently in “Friday’s Needle” is a favorite).
I don’t know anything about Equipment Pointed Ankh, the band from which the Roadhouse project(s) apparently arose, but the hazy flume ride that is this tour CD-R is more than enough motivation for a deep dive (it’s unclear when the actual physical edition was first released). Chris Bush and Jim Marlowe pinwheel through several stylistic milieus throughout the single half-hour track, New Zealand earth-drone yawns and airplane-engine guitar roar and finally the most tired, dusty dance music, but its consistent character is that of a free-flowing jam, a.k.a. exactly what I needed this week.
It shouldn’t be surprising to anyone that Pawtucket collaborators Mary Staubitz and Russ Waterhouse are just as compelling as a live unit as they are a process duo (for most of their releases, Staubitz records and Waterhouse processes/edits), but now this 3″-length document ensures that the evidence is out there, just in case. From their diverse arsenal of turntables, garden implements, electronics, and pre-captured sounds arises a whimsical but weighty atmosphere that gives the same uncanny comfort as a shrine made from yard detritus (or limes and paper). I was initially caught off guard by the somewhat clumsy tambura drone that elbows its way in around the ten-minute mark, but it almost immediately peters out and then bounces back, wracked with the same organic instability as all of the other ingredients.
Is there any act with more of a paradoxical mixture of obscurity and ubiquity than Barn Sour? Not exactly likely your next-door neighbor would have a copy of Conté for Dick in their frequent listening stack, but ask anyone at a niche record shop or sparsely attended basement show and they’ll almost certainly have at least heard some of the buzz, because the snorts, neighs, and whinnies of Winnipeg artist Pat Klassen’s most fascinating project have quickly shaken the underground music community to its core. That was true even before the release of One Trick Pony on Matthew Sullivan’s new-ish imprint Staighre, but now, with what I can already confidently call their best work yet, Barn Sour has branded themselves as an unmatched and truly terrifying sonic force. The first two tracks immediately introduce the diverse palette of the release, a seamless amalgam of elements and emotions previously explored: weighty, fraught tape ambience; impressionistic piano and organ resonance; queasy delirium; incoherence both cathartic and horrifying. “Gouch Call” is an early standout with its strangled sax babble and guttural gargles, conjuring what is perhaps the fullest realization of the project’s consistently indescribable atmosphere—that is, until “Peace, Be Still (Mane Mix),” which is easily both the most frightening music I’ve ever heard and my new pick for favorite Barn Sour track. The unnamed contributor whose manic laughter graced the A side of horses fucked over the head with bricks returns to take part in a hair-raising dual-vocal attack, chilling shrieks and startling pitch-doubled shouts and feverish giggling all trampling over the ersatz slur of a mortally wounded phonograph. Even with such a towering precedent “Foal Dub” closes things out perfectly, hanging up the bridle in a loose, careless, apathetically ambiguous way that makes it clear one, two, ten listens won’t be nearly enough. I’ll check back in at #100; stay saddled.
Even for someone who was not only just then getting into Gero, but noise as a whole, the surprise comeback release of Moenai Hai in 2016 was an exciting event, to say the least. Thinking back, perhaps more so than anything else that experience was the catalyst for the solidifying of my interest in experimental art in general. I’m far from alone in having a deeply personal connection to Juntaro Yamanouchi’s infamous project; awe, curiosity, nostalgia (of varying sorts and sizes), and gratitude are just a few of the many emotions that their music, aesthetic, and philosophy—or lack thereof—evoke for fans all over the world. Though the band has remained active for these past six or so years, the recent concluding installment in the >(decrescendo) series already feels like another significant, poignant milestone in a formidable body of work. This is attributable to the fact that, over its two-disc sprawl, Final Chapter carefully enshrines so much of what defines Gero’s undefinable art in a single, inexplicably unified acoustic experience. “Farewell Dream Treatment (a.k.a. Our Dream Is Over)” is an extended cut of the original >(decrescendo) release: a simple mono recording documents Yamanouchi quietly playing a HAPI drum at a park in the wee hours of morning, the softly malleted metallics humbly blending into the pre-dawn naturescape. The minimal, organic, solitude-steeped approach is of course not far from the hermitic reticence of past releases like Hell Driver (1999) and Gig in Train (recorded in 1993, released in 2019), but gone is the oppressive isolation and bleak despair that saturated that pre-reformation material—instead, Yamanouchi’s extended meditations sound more like a tribute to being alone rather than a desperate decrying of it. “Destructive Crust Treatment (a.k.a. To the End of the World)” elevates the beautiful, beguiling catharsis to new heights with a blanket layer of diaphanous distortion, which both alters and shrouds the sonic profile of the preceding disc like smoke over lightning storm desolation. You can still hear the pensive tones of the HAPI beneath the haze, and when the squawking birds send sharp sound-spires through the crust, the harmonies formed are nothing short of otherworldly… and yet they aren’t, because all in all Final Chapter may be Gero’s most profoundly grounded work yet, and for that reason it may also already be my favorite.
(Image credits to speranza.)
Review are back—sort of. Please read new submission guidelines in the sidebar (bottom of the page on mobile).
This new batch from Sam McKinlay’s Lake Shark Harsh Noise imprint presents music from two artists not exactly known for producing the titular genre of music, one of whom is Chris Fratesi. The brains behind the obscure but beloved Gene Pick project, Fratesi has now released three full-length works of electronic sound art under his own name, each one more radical than the last. Sound for Blank Disc, true to its title, comprised eviscerating sessions of modified empty compact disc playback, while Red Lead utilized an even more unidentifiable approach to create unsettlingly lifeless soundscapes of displaced electrical din; if anything, Stunad is a sort of stylistic fusion of those two preceding documents, embracing both unruly digital indeterminacy and uncompromising minimalism. Generated using an ostensibly simple process—”source taken from a sine wave generator and then put onto CD then manipulated using a modified CD player”—the A and B sides of the tape are unique but complementary slabs of hypnotic glitch-stasis. The former is thick and bass-heavy, an incessant stutter of sterile distortion and fractured frequency artifacts that will put any listener in a turgid tech-trance within the first five minutes, whereas the latter strips the noise down to a shredded high-pitched whine. It’s impossible not to get hooked on the fleeting illusions of structure that haunt these unyielding sound-obelisks: wreckage of rhythm-remnants, gnashing loops, heathen harmonies.
Even though I and I’m sure many others are partial to the immediately recognizable sounds of shortwave radio recordings, producing compelling music in which they are the sole ingredient is more than just adjusting an antenna or twiddling a dial. Field Recordings and Shortwave Volume I, a new digital release by a self-described “post-rock duo,” contains the first material I’ve heard since Alyssa Festa’s 2017 self-titled tape that harnesses shortwave in a way that’s truly beautiful, immensely evocative of the person or persons behind the knobs yet still embracing enough dull passivity to let the static and garbled speech shine in all its otherworldly spectral glory. As with Festa (who unfortunately will not release anything else under that alias), the Charlotte, NC–based Peter’s Gate doesn’t provide information about any sort of methodology behind the compositions or improvisations, instead letting them speak for themselves—and speak they do. “6.58-7.06” and “59.4kHz 9900.0kHz” establish familiar textural presences, including the deadpan recitation of codes and messages popularized by the Conet Project and others, and set the languid pace at which the majority of the album proceeds, an introduction that makes the much more sudden jumps used later on tracks like “Found Radio” and “Voice of Korea (Taiwan Missiles).” The former is a truly gorgeous piece of music, making ample use of both near-dead air and active frequencies to paint a greyscale spectrum of metamorphosing noise, fragile stasis, and ephemeral melody—the brief cut to the Eastern new age song about four minutes in is breathtaking. And if you still doubt the humanism of this work, order a CD, which will apparently bear handwritten thank-yous from both members. Long story short: tune in. Now.
Compared to their last release—the LDQ Ysimaro / Mente-Atada split tape, reviewed here in January—Antenna Non Grata’s most recent offerings are a radical stylistic departure, but in actuality that’s just the name of the game for the venerable label, which has been incisively documenting the wide range of Polish experimental electronic music since 2010. Still, the new round of CDs are also radical in themselves no matter how you approach them, particularly Na Dzikim Zachodzie / Skutki Uboczne (Live), the second official recording from duo Bolek i Lolek (following 2020’s W Krainie 1001 Nocy on Plus Timbre). Regardless of whether it’s named for the 1936 comedy or the iconic Polish cartoon brothers, Jacek Chmiel and Jakub Miarczyński’s collaborative project is a playful one, a fundamental characteristic that makes every minute of their colorful interplay worthy of both rapt attention and casual amusement. In the material comprising this “double album,” much of which originates from an improvisation workshop the two musicians participated in at the Musik-Akademie of Basel, Chmiel contributes electronics, zither, singing bowls, and objects, while Miarczyński counters and converses with percussion and toys, an eclectic spread that demonstrates its full potential right away; the opening moments of “Bolek i Lolek na Dzikim Zachodzie,” which see crystalline sine tones, static, and bowl laments wrinkled by a lush garden of tactility, squeaks and scrapes and shuffles—spectacular stuff. Chmiel also occasionally rides the FM knob throughout the disc, bringing in everything from pointedly meta self-reference to “Blank Space,” and the resulting uptick in obtuseness is always complementary. What austerity the music does have manifests in the form of a deep reverence for the sanctity of texture, and that is a kind of seriousness I can get behind.
Even amidst unprecedented uncertainty and turmoil, 2022 keeps on giving in the smallest but brightest of ways, this time in the form of a brilliantly titled new small batch label out of Minneapolis and its debut release, a split tape between Italian junktronics stalwart Nodolby and Activated Skeleton’s founder/operator, Minnesota’s own Marsha Fisher. Unfortunately the run of 20 handmade copies has already sold out, but for $3 you get the digital versions and the excellent collage from which each unique j-card was cut (a steal, as I’m sure you could guess). “Nastri del Misterio,” Nodolby’s single suite on the A side, is a phantasmagoric stumble through recycled and exhumed sound of all sorts, sometimes clumping up into hallucinatory knots of radio grabs and lo-fi field recordings with a Carnival of Souls–esque haunted psychedelia (think the early work of Nome Morto/Cássia Siqueira), other times dissolving into sloppy cut-ups and errant looping. Fisher responds with a set of three radical tape works that somehow cover an even wider range of energy levels: “9-26-2021” is a harsh, workshed-industrial bricolage of analog noise and boisterous percussion improvisations that’s immediately followed up with the muffled, tiptoeing reticence of “10-30-2021,” and then the two approaches are combined for “12-27-2021.” While certainly different, both sides are very much of that irreverent abstract tradition that I can never get enough of.
One of the most understated and curious releases on Graham Lambkin’s inimitable Kye Records (closed since 2017) was Chilean quintet Glorias Navales’s Cofradia Náutica, a humble debut LP of artfully naïve communal acoustic jams that warmly absorb the sounds of their surroundings and audiences even as they are performed for/to them. There are very few, if any recordings that can match the magic that occurs (though some other Kye releases, such as cellist Alec Livaditis’s Clear and Cloud, come close), and thus, despite their devoutly modest approach to music making, GxNx has become legend. Live at Fundación Comunidad Contemporánea comes nearly four years after their last record, Presenta El Blues de Istvan on A Wave Press, at a time when new material from the ramshackle folk unit was needed most—I’m sure I don’t need to explain why. The release makes available an intimate live session from November 2019 by the core lineup of Christian Bartlou (banjo), brothers Alvaro and Ivan Daguer (drum and ukelele), Tomás Salvatierra (guitar), and José Luis Sepulveda (rabel) featuring renditions of songs from El Blues de Istvan (and I stand by my earlier use of the phrase “new material,” because every time a GxNx piece is played it becomes something unique), including “Enero,” which also appeared on Cofradia Náutica. From the plucky, pastoral beauty of “Entrando el Espejo”—augmented by some absolutely breathtaking bow and effects work by Sepulveda—to the overlapping, glorious mess of “Sabres,” there won’t be many moments while listening to Fundación Comunidad Contemporánea when you aren’t smiling.
Water surrounds us. It’s our constant companion and the biggest part of us. It’s in human veins, in tears, in wet air in the lungs, flows like continuous river from our birth to death. And so it is in outer world, where water has its own life in many cycles. Water vapors and clouds transform to rain drops, gather in tiny brooks and then in wide loud streams. Groundwater faces the surface by million murmuring springs. World ocean holds planet Earth in a tremendous and caring embrace.
I’ve been doing a lot of quoting in reviews lately. Sometimes, as I’ve said in the past, it’s because the artist, label, or fellow listener has captured my own thoughts perfectly (see being there). Other times it’s just that the copy is so good it would be an injustice not to reprint it (see Performance Outrage Enhancement). And then every so often the text begins a conversation that I feel compelled to continue, a phenomenon of which the translated Russian introduction to Jum-Jum’s Ways and Waves is a remarkable incidence. Because what makes this 42-minute single track so utterly gorgeous is not the sublime overtones and harmonies woven by twirling, fluid drones, not the warm bed of synth ambience that feels like a full-body hug, but the fact that the sound of water itself is the most prevalent and consistent presence throughout. Soft, cleansing raindrops pool on and drip off of all the corrugated metal roofs in your brain; bubbling brooks wash away the encrusted mud of exhaustion and despair; damp subterranean caverns quieting and cooling the noise and heat of being—“our constant companion” indeed.
I have no idea if Curcuma Street actually exists (if it does, it would most likely be somewhere in Spain, the artist’s home country), but for the sake of imagining the glory of an entire turmeric-themed avenue, let’s just say it does. “Ueckermünde” is hardly the lively soundtrack that would be blaring from boomboxes set on windowsills and the tinny cell phone speakers of passersby on this hypothetical street; if anything, it lurks at the invisible boundary between stillness and motion: the scrape of a shoe sole against concrete as someone is just beginning to walk, the unconscious shifting and rearranging of tools or utensils right before an artisan begins their work, the sound of the contents of one container being carelessly transferred to another. The subtle electroacoustic shuffling and peripheral electronic interference is reminiscent of other liminal tinkerers like Small Cruel Party and TVE, but Curcuma Street’s precise arrangements seem to spring from a single source point (rather than comprising a scattered supply of junk stitched together), a structural curiosity that makes “Ueckermünde” all the more elusive and enthralling. Errant swipes of pen across paper, swelling emf clouds, fiddling and fumbling: this is the sound of hustle and bustle before it actually happens. I’m not synesthetic, but I wonder if to those who are, this music’s color is that instantly recognizable shade of yellow.
(It should be noted that these words only pertain to the title track; unfortunately, the superb composition is appended with “Paysage cosmique,” a rather mediocre stretch of laptop ambient. Normally I don’t review things when I don’t like them all the way through, but the heights this release reaches makes the sacrilege necessary.)