IDWAL FISHER

Artificial Memory Trace - Yellow Varvara & 3 Chants of Constructivism
Tentacles of Perception Recordings
3” CDR

Simon Whetham & Slavek Kwi - Exchanges Across A Dinner Table.
Tentacles of Perception Recordings. 2X3”CDR.
2X3” CDR

Linda O’Keefe & Slavek Kwi - Collaboration 2009-2012
Tentacles of Perception Recordings
3” CDR. 100 Copies.

The last time we crossed paths with Slavek Kwi was with the mighty ‘Ultrealith’ release. Here the sounds of insects, birds and John Cage talking [amongst lots of other elements too] were mixed and composed to produce what Kwi likes to call ‘electroacoustic sound paintings’. Kwi’s gift lies in the way he brings these field recordings together with electroacoustic sounds producing some genuinely ear-popping creations along the way - think gentle drips speeding up and resonating into the distance as the jungle canopy chirrups and tweets in the the background. Its a love of sound and ‘sounds’, the ‘phenomena of perception as the fundamental determinant of relations with reality’ that drives Kwi endlessly forward.

Kwi was born in former Czechoslovakia and now finds himself living and working in Ireland. His work includes installations, film, radio and the helping of autistic children and children with learning disabilities via the medium of experimental sound. His collaboration with Eric La Casa won a major French prize in 2002.

‘Ultrealith’ appeared under Kwi’s Artificial Memory Trace moniker, its one that has shared releases with the artists as diverse as Brume and M.S.B.R. and is responsible for over 40+ albums. After 27 years of recording and releasing material there’s a lot to catch up on.

But first these lovely little three inch CDR’s that come on vividly printed postcard sized prints via Kwi’s own Tentacles of Perception Recordings.

The collaborations with Linda O’Keefe and Simon Whetham are long gestation affairs with each artist swapping work with Kwi numerous times over a three and five year period. With O’Keefe this began with each artist creating a 30 second piece that was then given to the other artist which was then extended to 10 minutes. This 10 minutes found its way into a 30 minute piece which then found itself transformed into the two tracks we have on ‘Collaborations 2009-12’ with each artists ‘finalzing’ their own pieces. O’Keefe’s finished composition contains baby gurgles, the strum of a stringed instrument, sci-fi elevators disappearing into a star lit sky, bicycle bells, slowed down and speeded up chatter played over each other with a reversed vocal layered over the top of that [or something like that anyway], glass tubes played underwater [sub aqueous recordings being much favoured by Kwi] and the soft pulse and throb of eddying electronic tides. Kwi’s take is much more playful with the crack of a jack socket ripping from nowhere acting as a defibrillator through to a babies ‘oh’ at the sound of a box of table tennis balls hitting a wooden floor. There’s also distant shotgun blasts, party whistles, owls and the chatter of a social gathering as background murmur. There are corresponding references of course, each piece is a wonderfully laid back immersive experience but the delight to be had here is in hearing how each artist has transformed a thirty second piece into something much fuller and of their own.

The collaboration with Whethem took even longer. For five years they swapped files until we arrive at ‘Simslao’ and ‘Slaosim’. With ‘Simslao’ the sounds are more heavily disguised, a more brooding atmosphere of metal detector sweeps, rubbed fabric rhythms, bees and flies before heading off into ambient territories where surfaces are scratched and rain falls into a galvanized bucket. ‘Slaosim’ develops into a deep glitch-a-thon fest where whats going on [whatever it is] appears to be have been given the skipping CD treatment to the point that all's that left are the bare bones of a track, a series of stuttering glitches. Whether this is by design or fault I know not but around the halfway mark the thing began to loop in my CD player, a sound that for according to the CD player clock was looping but actually sounded like it was developing. Weird.

Things are certainly calmer when we return to Kwi’s own AMT outings. ‘Yellow Varvava’ began life in Russia and pays homage to Russian Constructivism with three tracks; Faktura, Tektonika and Chronosion. Once again its a pleasure to don the headphones and immerse myself in Kwi’s work. The mixing of both the natural world and the man-made one gives rise to shuddering bass rumbles, taxi radios blaring local pop music, bird song, PA announcements, subway cars entering a station and throughout it all the bright song of his friends canary.

Its these mixing of the two worlds that makes me want to hear more of this kind of material. Its a world where you need time to contemplate and appreciate it all. A world away from the busy streets and roads and lives that a lot of us career through everyday. Taking time to listen to what these people are doing results in an all round better frame of mind. It does for me anyway. These releases should be made available on prescription for the health of us all.

Contact: www.artificialmemorytrace.com

SPON #29
Fold out A5 zine and ephemera

SPON #30
Zip lock bag filled with rubbish

Hiroshima Yeah! #100
8 page A4 zine + CDR

Fördämning #2
A5 zine. 32 pages. 250 copies. English language.

Trash as art - we’ve been here before of course. Famously with Metzger’s Tate Britain bag of rubbish that was accidentally thrown away by a cleaner who mistook it for a bag of rubbish and then theres everything that Tracey Emin creates. SPON 30 is another bag of rubbish, a little smaller than Metzger’s but still, its rubbish. Maybe I should just chuck it straight in the bin? But what if Dr. Steg becomes mega famous and his little bags of rubbish become high art sought after by the wealthy I hear you cry? Like when Olsen began sending Underwood his early American Tapes releases and Underwood chucked all the excess handmade packaging in the bin because he had no room for it and now they’re collectors items with Japanese American Tape fans paying hundreds of dollars for them. Well, thats just a chance I’ll have to take because I can’t bear the thought that I’m giving house space to a ziplock bag that contains an empty plastic bottle, a junior hacksaw [no blade], a split and bald tennis ball, food packaging, beads and various other bits of debris and to top it all the bags just burst on my keyboard showering it with the dirt. Great. SPON 30 also comes with an old cassette that has Alternative TV on one side and Chris and Cosey on the other. Both are taped from LP. The C&C side is so badly scratched that whoever it was that recorded it had to keep moving the needle along by hand [don’t forget folks, home taping is killing music]. All this after receiving a small plastic storage box filled with various useless items that was SPON 27. Oh and a SPON button badge. I now have enough button badges to turn myself into a West Yorkshire Pearly King. Or twat.

SPON 29 is nearer conventional in that you can read it. The words being a straight lift from a book or article documenting the last years of the English comedian Peter Cook’s life. And very good it is too. Sort of makes you want to dig out Ad Nauseum again. The whole thing comes wrapped in a poster of sorts that has one of Gysin’s prints on the reverse. Accompanying detritus includes a book mark made by the residents of Pennystone Court, a flyer for the Satan Operator website, a Freepost reply card from Alzheimer’s Research UK in which all three boxes are ticked in regards of the sender wanting to know more information on dementia, an A Band CDR that is ‘Agdam’ that came out on the Blackpool label Must Die Records [no it wasn’t me who sent you it Dr. Steg], a postcard showing Bruce Forsyth and Barbara Windsor in which Steg has added his own comments and a letter from Steg written on the bottom of a piece of A4 headed ‘SIMPLE COMMON- SENSE [SIC] STRATERGIES [SIC] FOR TRANSFORMING MENTAL AND PHYSICAL TENSION INTO ENERGY’ a list of tips, the second being ‘Simplify your life! Start by eliminating the trivia’.

Meanwhile at Hiroshima Yeah! HQ Mark Ritchie has slid into three figures and for the first time included a CD where we get exclusive tracks from the likes of Midwich and the Ceramic Hobs. There lots of other stuff too including PE form Bagman and a superb opener from Derelict Mosquito Squad where the the words ‘Hiroshima Yeah’ are chopped and edited and looped into a gibberish that sounds like a Nurse With Wound experiment gone wrong. Theres quite an expanse of musical styles on offer which pretty much represents what HY Covers, including Mr. Ritchie’s own Shy Rights Movement singer songwriter outing [which is pretty damned good it has to be said]. The winner of the jangly pop song award though goes to Paul Doucét with an impressive Birds like outing on a song called ‘Red Headed Girl’. Experimental outing award goes to Minimal Frank with a swirly thing called ‘UTC-5’, a track that has spoken French language and shamanic ritual alongside some swirly electronics. Noisy award goes to Staline Plays Theremin and the best band name award goes to Cold Boiled Dog whose 23 seconds of singing sounds as if it was recorded down the phone [maybe this was Gary Simmons contribution?].

Talking of which there’s the continuing saga of Gary Simmons 1½ years behind bars. A monthly sermon on the iniquities of the penal system and what its doing to his head [answer:- nothing thats any good for him]. Simmons style might not suit everybody, CAPS are thrown in with gay abandon as are Whitehouse lyrics and references to GG Allin but whatever your point of view you cant deny that the brutal honesty of his writing makes for compulsive reading. Hopefully he’ll be out by September.

Ritchie’s own writing is equally open and honest with gig reviews often beginning when he wakes up and ending when he goes to bed. His poetry, which always fills the front page isn’t too bad either. A proper cut and past zine, the likes of which are all too scarce these days. Available for stamps trades or a kind email/letter I should imagine.

Fördämning [or should that be Fördämning] arrives from Sweden and is notable for one of the few interviews I’ve ever read with Harbinger Sound supremo Steve Underwood. Read about Steve’s contempt for Discog completists and his time as a stuntman for a TV production company. And despite coming across as a grumpy old man he assures us that he’s far from it. Theres also interviews with the Idea Fire Company [plus a guide to their best work] and Swedish industrial/noise artist Händer Som Vårdar who after watching one Youtube clip appears to be suitable Scandinavian-ly austere. LA cello scrape drone noise duo Pedestrian Deposit also get a look in. The editor even interviews himself and has the sense to admit that had Fördämning been printed in Swedish its print run would have been about seven. Plus the usual swathe of noise reviews. Enthusiastic and very readable. What more could you ask for?

Contact:

SPON

HY!

Fördäming

Lasse-Marc Riek - Helgoland
Gruenrekorder CD. Gruen 109
[Field Recording Series]

Daniel Blinkhorn - Terra Subfónica
Gruenrekorder CD. Gruen 117
[Soundscape Series]

Gruenrekorder releases have the uncanny knack of sending me deep into the arms of Morpheus like no other label I know. Its happened before, sometimes on a Greek island, usually at home, feet up, headphones on, a small glass of something alcoholic to hand, the review playlist whirring away only for each track and album to morph into one big blob of half remembered sounds and tracks that are finally recalled when played back compos mentis.

Lasse-Marc Riek’s homage to Helgoland [thats the Germans spelling, everybody else, including us, the Brits, who used to rule the island until we gave it back to the Germans after the second world war, but not before blowing it to smithereens, call it Heligoland]. A small island off the German coast thats home to about a thousand people and well over three hundred species of sea bird. Over the course of three years and many trips to Helgoland Riek gathered over thirty hours of field recordings the edited results of which we have here.

Riek bookend his release with what you get when arriving on Helgoland and what you get when leaving. So its the wind blowing across the sand, the surf and then at the end of your visit a light aircraft warming up its prop before take off leaving behind the lonesome moan of a grey seal. In-between we have the raucous sound of hundreds [more like thousands] of Guillemots, Gannett’s, Black Legged Kittiwakes, Arctic Turns and Black Headed Gulls all doing what sea birds do best, which is of course make one almighty racket. Their is some light relief in the shape of young Guillemot chicks fledging, their parents calling to them from the sea as the chicks pluck up courage to leave their cliff-face nest and there you can hear the splash and the no doubt contented squawk of a parent.

All this bird clatter can become quite dizzying and I guess that is the intended effect. Far more disturbing is the cry of a grey seal, a truly unsettling sound that’s like that of a child in distress. So with the wind and the birds and the crashing waves and the seals we have a labour of love here from Mr. Riek [who I think used to go to Helgoland for family holidays]. Strange place though, no cars or bikes are allowed, no pollen either so a great place for hay fever sufferers. In 1947 the Royal Navy detonated 6,700 tonnes of explosive on it in a bid to obliterate it from the map and failing spectacularly. As a stand alone sound I feel it would have made for a rather interesting Gruenrekorder release.

You’ll find Daniel Blinkhorn in Gruenrekorder’s ‘Soundscape’ department. On Terra Subfónica he’s created 19 short-ish compositions each one dealing with the way in which we, as creatures of hearing, go about our daily routines without taking in the really interesting sounds that are going on all around us. Take for instance the way in which you may be able to hear your neighbours children playing through your incredibly thin poorly built walls. Blinkhorn recreates the event by recording his children at play, playing the results back through some speakers and recording the whole thing from a different room through a drinking glass with a contact mic attached to its base. There are 19 such examples of what Blinkhorn calls ‘sub sound’ each one a startling revelation, each one carrying with it extensive explanations of its purpose and genesis within the accompanying booklet.

There’s a sea scape tryptich the second installment of which records the sounds of a colony of hermit crabs underwater, the insides of a desktop PC where Blinkhorn takes the casing off his computer and records whats going on in there with several [no doubt highly sensitive microphones], ‘Tape Junk’ composed from the outtakes of jazz guitar recordings [big reveal - it sounds nothing like outtakes from jazz guitar recordings], ‘Sub Chron II’ a work made with clocks, ‘Voix Sous’ from whispers. And on it goes.

The results are a stunning. An embarrassment of riches. Blinkhorn not only finds delight in ‘sub sounds’, he knows how to develop them into greater things, make them even more of a delight for the listener. Dip in anywhere on this release, turn up the volume and prepare to be entranced. You might be listening to crabs scramble over each other in their underwater habitat but what you’re hearing is the gentle clack of exoskeleton, like gentle rain hitting a thin sheet of tin. The sounds culled from inside Blinkhorn’s PC become digital micro chatter, overloaded information highways. In ‘[Sub]Urban Mantra’ we find the hum of the city playing host to a powerful throb, voices come and go, distant traffic can be heard and then birds. And on it goes.

Terra Subfónica is one of the most impressive environmental sound/electroacousitc works yet to come this way. The last track is probably the best [I’m saving the best for last] ‘Place/Space Threnody’ finds Blinkhorn playing an array of instruments including the piano which are then processed, clipped edited, reworked, whatever it is he does with these sounds, until we arrive at something that sounds like a cross between Arvo Pärt, David Sylvian’s more esoteric moments and Austrian laptop/guitar dabbler Christian Fennesz. A sublime piece of work.

Blinkhorn’s CV runs to soundtrack work, installations, orchestral work, chamber orchestra, symphonies, radiophonic pieces, he’s been lauded with international prizes and his works are performed worldwide. Its a pleasure to have been introduced to him.

Helgoland comes in a printed cardboard fold out job, both releases contain excellent booklets. Quality abounds.

Contact:

Blinkhorn

Lasse-Marc Riek

Gruenrekorder

Smell & Quim
Barbarians
Chalaque
Septacaemic Vomit
Smut
Evil Man

Gullivers, Oldham Street, Manchester, 13 July 2013

Apparently the landlord at Gullivers is a mate of Mark E Smiths, a regular of sorts who is immune from being barred. You can see why MES likes this end of Manchester which is touted to anyone entering the city as ‘Northern Bohemian Chic’ but is in reality a sea of drunks, rotting buildings and hen parties tottering around on unfeasibly large heels.

Finding somewhere to park the limo is proving difficult due to half of Oldham Street being ablaze. Smoke drifts down the streets 9/11 style and the smell of burning wood permeates everything. Drunks stagger around holding bottles of wine and cans of beer, one of them is escorted from Gullivers in a state that appears to be one sip from total collapse. Walklett swears blind he’s seen someone talking to a lamppost, there’s feral kids chewing on burgers whilst begging for cash and around the corner William Bennett is spinning Italian disco platters. On the way over, dropping down off Saddleworth Moor, there's a coach ablaze on the hard shoulder. Flames are pouring out from underneath its back end as a group of Chinese students look on from five feet away. As we pass there are still people sat on the coach. Everything appears to be in place for a Smell & Quim gig.

Stewart Walden is talking costumes which is of course the main topic of conversation pre S&Q gig. He’s opting for boxing gloves and bananas. There’s talk of mock ups of the ‘Have You Seen Shannon Matthews’ t-shirts that appeared around the time of the little mites ‘disappearance’. Fred and Rose West, Jimmy Savile, and the little mites abductor Michael Donovan loom large.

But first to the room above Gullivers which like many rooms above a pub is a grotty as fuck but whose complaining? You can have the room for not much moolah and make as much noise as you want. There’s a bar in the corner, ledges propped up with mannequins legs and rock icon posters down one wall upon which Dr. Steg appears to be scribbling something with a pen. Dr Steg has been drafted in as a member of Smell & Quim for the evening and will spend the entire set sat two foot away from the right hand stack spray painting his stencil paintings that contain messages like ‘I’VE NEVER BEEN SEXUALLY ABUSED BY JIMMY SAVILE’ and ‘GORDON BROWN IS A CUNT’ some of which are given out to the audience during the set, some of which are to be seen adorning the back of the bar upon leaving.

But first to first act who is Mutant George and female companion who throw beer bottles into a wicker basket, scrape violins and generally make an ungodly racket. The bottles explode upon contact, bits of glass flying, there must be a contact mic in there. George pulls the wicker basket towards him and smashes everything around a bit more for good measure. I think that was Evil Man. Band names appear to have been made up for the night and I’ve not heard of any of them except The Barbarians and Smell & Quim so forgive me my lack of knowledge.
Someone plays a guitar like Gerry Garcia, lots of high end finger frotting and electric beats. This could be Smut. The high notes are designed to reach right down into my ear channel and cause immense discomfort so I decide to get some fresh[ish] air and check out the DJ downstairs who has a huge silver chain around his neck and is spinning James Brown and Joni Mitchell tunes to a crowd of middle aged punters all downing pints of lager in a bid to keep cool during the hottest night of the year so far.

Somewhere along the line there’s a twin guitar attack who could be Smut, Evil Man or Chalaque. Not exactly Solmania but the screaming is effective in a oh-isn’t that-hurting-my-ears-kind-of-way. One stood, one crouched, one nearly deaf.

Next up is some kind of thrown together three piece death metal band fronted by a bare chested [and footed] man who growls into his mic as guitar and drums thrape away. Obscenities are shouted at the audience which only makes them like it more. To be honest I’ve never got thrash whateveryoucallit but people are grooving to it [if that's what you do to death thrash doom metal].

The Barbarians have prayed at the Smell & Quim altar for long enough for the vibes to have seeped through outer membranes. When a 45 gallon drum is rolled into place its apparent that things will be pretty chaotic and so it proves. 45 gallon drum is hit with a piece of wood until the wood splinters, person with paper head shroud screams, person at back of stage screams, someone stage front twiddles knobs, what could be a deflated dinghy is dragged into the fray and worn by various members of band and audience. Drunk audience members join in, chucking and hitting things and falling over. The surge in noise levels is such that it has the power to make me momentarily lose my balance. My inner ear is once again being attacked.

And whilst everybody is outside having a fag and watching the drunks roll up and down Oldham Street Smell & Quim start their set with a good old religious tune. As played from a 60 year old gramophone deck that looks extremely vulnerable in this enclosed space. Someone [Nigel Joseph?] is dressed in an inflatable clown get up and is playing a babies head. Morris is stripped down to underwear and is wearing a Jimmy Savile mask and wandering between audience members. Kate Fear is wearing a Rosemary West mask as cod piece. Stewart Walden is waving his banana-boxing glove combo about. Walklett is bending over to reveal no undergarments whilst wearing a Fred West mask and black curly hair wig. He picks up an angle grinder and takes on a metal disc at stage edge whose sparks cause several audience members sat too near stage front to leap put of the way. Morris collides with them and knocks them over. Drinks are spilt. Dr. Steg sits stage right and spray paints his pictures. I collar him at the end of the night to ask him if he enjoyed his stint as S&Q member and he cant hear me. ‘Can’t hear a fucking thing’ he shouts even though its now quiet. I notice that Gullivers bouncer has appeared and is looking anxiously over peoples shoulders trying to see what all the fuss is, this just seconds after the angle grinder has been dropped in favour of a baseball bat and the demise of a microwave oven. He leaves suitably satisfied that nobody is getting murdered. It is of course a horrible noise and at around the fifteen minute mark perfectly judged. At its end the hymns appear once again and there’s a swaying joining in from Walden and Morris and of course more warm and appreciative applause.

Gullivers is a great room above a pub venue. The PA is spot on, the back drop of Public Information Films [one showing Jimmy Savile and another Rolf Harris] triggered lots of childhood memories for me, the music they play in-between acts [Faust, Happy Flowers, The Fall, Lightning Bolt] lifts the spirits as does the music played downstairs early doors [Manc based Indie]. Thanks to all involved for a memorable evening and for cleaning all that shit up afterwards.

As we make for the limo the smoke is still swirling around Oldham Street, the beggars are still trying their luck and Dr Steg is adding to the litter by chucking his artwork to the floor. A drunk staggers out of Gullivers and life goes on. The car is still there and the hills are calling.

BBBlood - Lazar House
Sound Holes 036. Cassette
70 Copies.

Duncan Harrison - 80 Ghosts
Sound Holes 038. Cassette
58 Copies.

Tina Turner - Tidal Wave
Sound Holes 042. Cassette
57 Copies.

Roadside Picnic - Where Is The Rented Forest?
Sound Holes 046. Cassette
55 Copies.

Journey Of The Mind - Salt Rubber
Sound Holes 055. Cassette
71 Copies.

U Boat - The Snake Needs A Tatty Cage.
Sound Holes 056. Cassette
61 Copies.

Being - Hunters Fingers
Sound Holes 057. Cassette
82 Copies.

Sound Holes Sampler #1
CDR

The inability of the English to cope with the extremes of temperature is a well known one. Two days of the mercury rising is enough for most whilst two weeks of 25C+ is considered to be something of a national emergency worthy of headline news, continuous 18 point header fonts in the Daily Express and tips from the government on how to keep cool. I have to admit that while I do like to get out of bed in the morning knowing that my wardrobe for the day will consist of nothing more than a pair of shorts and short sleeve shirt I do find the heat to be somewhat draining. Thus it is was that last Friday afternoon I found myself sat in a queue of traffic with sweat rolling down my face all caused by me having to do nothing more than strenuous than breathing. Not having air conditioning and swimming pool here at Idwal Towers I find myself resorting to gin and tonics, I.P.A.’s, decent lagers and several open windows as an aid to fighting what we in England call ‘a scorcher’ and what in many countries is called ‘just another day’.

The small dark room from whence these missives emerge becomes so hot I sometimes wonder if it has a tin roof. Upon entering the room beads of sweat appear unbidden on my forehead and my clothes begin to stick to me. After two or three sweaty gasps I’ll grab whatever it is I’m after and make for the Poang and for what passes as breeze coming in through the front door. Thus armed with a pile of review material I’ll forgo the outdoor festivities that seem to consist of annoying everyone else with barbecue smoke and shit music and instead don headphones to soak up some vibes.

Seven cassettes and a CDR sampler later I emerge happier for knowing that with Soundholes we have someone who mans [womans?] an eclectic cassette label. I like Soundholes for the format and the aesthetics, for its genre scope and that it introduces new artists/bands to me.That some of them may be made up names or people going under various monikers only adds to my enjoyment and happy confusion.

As evinced by trying to Google tape loop constructivist Tina Turner whose two sides of Basinski like decay, are along with ‘Journey of the Mind’ the highlight of this particular package. Both decompositions have that wonderful languorous feel of being adrift on a mill pond, voices drifting in and out of your consciousness, chamber orchestras being deflated and sunk, things going by slowly in reverse. One side of Journey of the Mind also brings to mind Gavin Bryars soporific mid 70’s classic ‘The Sinking of the Titanic’, another colossus of decayed drone with the all too easy ability to pull you under. Perhaps the Tina Turner work is more forceful and less relaxing, a bit more urgent and star burst-y, think cycling multi-key Nitsch drones recorded on to Boots C120’s and degraded all the way down to a series of rough utterances.

More tape manipulation comes in the shape of Duncan Harrison but here the end result is harsher in parts and more chaotic overall with an array of wailing sirens, church bells, Islamic chant, reversed vocals and general tomfuckery [all ending in a TNB-ish trash noise-a-thon] being the ying to a yang that begins all spectral vocally but soon ends in a murky noise/drone.

And there is noise too, because where there is tape there is noise. BBBlood with some steam train noise, bubbling lava subwoofer noise, cresting waves noise, each side book ended with some kind of chill out ambience. ‘Being’ is also noise, needle fluff noise, Jap noise, everything in the red noise and then you turn it over and its even more in the red noise than the other side.

Roadside Picnic have ‘out there’ keyboard dabblings and spacey synth dabs, space age Noh music, low end rumbles and giant sized Sci-Fi organs emitting monstrous farts. One of the several tracks that they’ve managed to cram on to this C46 is all but silence as recorded in the middle of a nighttime forest with distant nocturnal birds and the spatter of light rain on tent sides.

Perhaps the stand alone release here comes from U Boat with some vocal explorations aided and abetted by sparse drum rattles, small gongs and wooden blocks. Like Sunny Murray sparring with Phil Minton. The vocals are of the running out of breath variety or what the Toddmiester might call ‘gurglecore’, as if some Lithuanian witch was casting spells in a rhyming kind of hymnal way and although I was left mightily non-plussed by it all I couldn’t help but like them for what they’ve achieved. Perhaps best listened to alone, at night, in the dark, when you're in a very receptive frame of mind.

Which leaves the sampler CD. Ten tracks all segued into one 46 minute lump where you can try and spot Optrex Ten Pints Never in and amongst BBBlood, Merit, Developer, Pax Titania and KPLR amongst a few others. Noise, drone, lots of things in-between and Oneohtrix doing the analogue boogie synth bit. Not bad at all and available to stream from the Soundholes

[Yesterday there was an old woman in the pet shop. She was sat on a bag of feed worn out by the heat. A cup of refreshing hot tea to hand brought to her by the shopkeeper kept her from keeling over completely. She looked up at me and said in a weary voice ‘eeee its too ‘ot for me, I’ll be happier when it cools down a bit, I like a breeze you see’. This is probably the same woman who 16 weeks ago complained that it was too cold and that snow in March was evidence that the world had gone mad and that we were all better off when Labour were in power. And now the heatwave is no more. Thunderstorms and three inches of rain in eight hours last night. She'll be happier now.]

http://www.sndhls.com/

Human Combustion Engine
Vile Plumage
Daniel Weaver

Todmorden Unitarian Church, July 27th 2013

It was only as we were passing through Hebden Bridge that I realised I’d never been to Todmorden in my entire life. All I knew of Todmorden was that Andy Kershaw had recently moved there and that the place itself was either in Lancashire of Yorkshire depending on where the boundary fell during any particular political struggle. Tod [as it usually gets called] is a down to earth, no nonsense stone built market town on the edge of the Pennines, a more lived in place to my mind, whereas Hebden Bridge just a few miles down the road is a more Guardian-ista lesbian knit your own cannabis yoghurt kind of town chock full of day trippers buying tricolour pasta at £5 a bag.

Things got off to a good start when we passed a burning bus outside Shibden Hall. Having passed a burning bus on the way to see Smell & Quim this could only have been an auspicious sign. After discovering Tod we parked behind the train station and made our way to the White Hart, a Weatherspoons pub inhabiting what looked like a 16th century coaching inn with a huge stone fireplace and drunk locals. After asking one of the friendly drunk locals which way the church was we were soon climbing the steady slope to the impressive late Gothic edifice that is Todmorden Unitarian Church.

And it is impressive. As church’s were meant to be. I always feel sorry for worshipers who have to kneel in prefab boxes built in the 1960’s, the kind of places that are usually built on the edges of housing estates and have flat roofs covered in rolls of barbed wire and appear to be more locked down survivalist bolt holes rather than places of worship. And there was food on offer, roasted potatoes with rosemary, grilled eggplant with garlic, couscous, beetroot with goats cheese and various other examples of the vegetarian art. There was beer and cider and wine and soft drinks for those not imbibing and TWO TOILETS. These things are important.

It was four quid in and even though the turn out wasn’t what you could call massive by any stretch of the imagination, I bet everybody present enjoyed themselves immensely and will be back for further Tor Booking events. But perhaps not the six Americans who turned up with ten minutes to go.

Because this being a church we were all off and running by 6.30pm so we could all be back on the streets of Tod by 9pm. First up was Daniel Weaver who played electric guitar, first with ashtrays and then bits of bubble wrap [I’m guessing, I was sat on a rear pew] and then with a violin bow. Moving around picking things up and making noises with them. Three pieces the first being more adventurous in an experimental stood erect tuned up Keith Rowe kind of way before moving into more melodic looped melody mode that my accomplice Big Joe described as a cross between Twin Peaks and a twisted blues.

Vile Plumage looked suitably demonic and suitably at home in their church surroundings with their oxen head and skull mask. Hammer Horror came to Tod with a continuous blast of destroyed tapes played through an old school cassette deck [literally old school - it was saved from the skip as part of an equipment upgrade]. Two cassette players lined into this old box then mixed to produce a constant ugly dirge that is the sound of the streets of Burslem brought to life in a 150 year old West Yorkshire church. It was the longest Vile Plumage set I’ve witnessed and all the better for it with the chance for Skull and Ox to wander amongst the congregation with prayer bells and a general air of menace. At its end various cassette players were ripped from the box until just one totally crumbled vocal mantra was left wailing away.

But there was to be no Todd in Tod, thus depriving me of my my chance to use a thin joke. One half of Human Combustion Engine was on his sick bed leaving Mel to tackle the set on her own. Sat once again near the rear of the church the acoustics of the place finally revealed themselves. With only a small PA [Vile Plumage didn’t even use it] the slowly evolving synth motifs rang from the wooden rafters with a distinct clarity making you wonder what it must have been like to witness Tangerine Dream play York Minster in 1975. And while there wasn’t as much going on TD wise [and I’m not in anyway shape or form going to compare HCE with TD] the chance to hear synths [it was a synth wasn’t it? sat at the back couldn’t see didn’t investigate] in this most magnificent of structures was a memory that will live with me for a long time. These were very gentle structures that eventually morphed out into something larger but never harsher, eventually disappearing like smoke form a snuffed out candle. And there were plenty of candles to snuff.

A great gig in a great venue in a great town with amazing food and beer and happy punters [six Americans notwithstanding].

On the way home the recent heatwave came to a crashing end when a thunderstorm of Biblical proportions descended. I bet it put the bus out no problem.

SPON 33 - The Digital Issue

What you are about to see is a collaboration between Dr. Steg and the Ceramic Hobs guitarist Jake Halliwell.

Dr. Steg is working on the covers for the new Hobs album and is a busy man so this new SPON is in full on glorious digital. Makes a a change from bags of rubbish I suppose. More SPON coming soon.

Dr. Steg

The last time we saw Dr. Steg he was littering Oldham Street with his artwork. He was now stone deaf in one ear after having sat through Smell & Quim's entire set at Gullivers not two foot away from the right hand PA stack. I'm happy to report that his hearing has returned and that a recording made by Steg of their set is on its way here as we speak.

SPON 31 is the Portrait Issue [A4 zine]. You may be able to spot some of the more well known faces. Or not, as the case may be. Whether 'The Sound of Tear Gas' was included in all SPON 31's I know not. Recorded by Steg after he found himself on holiday in Istanbul during the recent demonstrations it contains the sound of Istanbulis banging drums and generally making themselves heard. I listened to about twenty minutes of it before my PC had a demonstration of its own and refused to play it any further.

Dr. Steg

Yol - Cordless Drill Faces Separation Anxiety
Self released CDR.

Cordless Drill Faces Separation Anxiety finds Yol in a far more serene state of mind. Yes, I know, where’s the abused mop bucket and the spittle flecked tourettes utterances, the scraped along the floor dustbins, the clatter of sheet metal and feral barks? They’re still here, don’t worry, but in shorter quantities and, gulp, in a more refined manner. it feels that within the span of but a handful of releases our man on the east coast has already matured from all out one man whirlwind of manic energy into something far more subtle.

Take ‘Rain Gutter’. An echoey empty space where the sound of passing vehicles and distant chatter play foil to a series of uncoordinated knocks and our man gurgling, as if in some twisted way, to his own offspring. A lullaby of sorts but one as administered by an Incubus slobbering over the trapped frame of some innocent cherub. Its the incongruity that appeals.

Previous Yol outings have had the same effect as sonic grime dislodgment machinery. Pointed in the right direction they were capable of dislodging plaque, flaky brickwork or precariously balanced ornaments. With his trusty mop bucket and a vocabulary made from short syllables and grunts the effect was enough to make this listener make involuntary backward head movements, the chin slowly dipping towards the chest, eyes opening wide in genuine shock and then the faintest of smiles.

Here we have seven shorter tracks that have the feeling of being, well, thought out. How else to explain ‘ilver’ and its slave boat rhythm beat, soon to be joined by squeaky metal, the clanging of bright steel and Yol rubbing a bastard file over his mop bucket. And only then do the vocals come in, the word ‘ilver’ expanding until it becomes ‘silver foiiiiiiiiiugggghhhhhl’ and then ‘no trolls under bridge’ in clipped tones by way of amusement.

‘what is’ is one of those tracks that I presume Yol records in his own space. Here the delivery is more frantic and more representative of his recent past - a constant blur of stream of consciousness against dragged and scraped metal.

‘eco’ even has a squeeze box on it. Two of three wheezy chords against which Yol utters nonsense words. A sea shanty. A dying mans lament.

‘short horses’ is contact mics in the mop bucket noise, plus various small bits of metal getting chucked about as light percussion. Yol: ‘two crashed cars over two days’ [repeat a few times quickly] followed by horrible noise and then ‘short horses’ in a breathless manner before retching sounds and squealing feedback.

‘thumbed’ sounds like it has one of those African thumb pianos on it.

‘forked tongue’ is squeaky bike seat time with an asphyxiated Yol slowly passing out on the floor.

The man has energy in spades and his recordings show it. His delivery is infectious and the way he’s matured over these seven tracks is remarkable.

Cordless Drill Faces Separation Anxiety shows that Yol isn’t just a one trick pony with a mop bucket and a contact mic. I doubt a concept album will ever appear but in the meantime long may he utter.

Yol1971@hotmail.co.uk

Tuluum Shimmering - Inside The Mountain
Sheepscar Light Industrial.
SLI/016 - 3” CDR

Daniel Thomas and Kevin Sanders - Transit Times Variations
Sheepscar Light Industrial.
SLI/017 - 3” CDR

Plurals - Glands Extraction
Sheepscar Light Industrial.
SLI/018 - 3” CDR

It would appear that me and Daniel’s schedules are now completely out of whack. Daniel does exactly the right thing by releasing three releases every three months and I do one review a week ... If the sap’s rising and the winds blowing in the right direction.

So it seems entirely predictable that just as Sheepscar Light Industrial release its next batch of groovy three inchers I find myself, only at this very late juncture, getting to grips with the last lot. Not exactly fingers on pulses but better late than never I suppose.

The wait has been worth it though. Far from running out of steam and offering up mates rates deals SLI continues to deliver quality material for the enlightened connoisseur. Three, three inch CDR’s usually works out to around an hours worth of entertainment, that when backed up with stark, generic, black and white covers and an easy to navigate website leaves everybody and me going home happy. SLI’s continued success means that each 50 run release disappears faster than the free money at a broken ATM but don’t worry there’s always the downloads. Its the quality of the sounds on offer that keeps the punters coming back. A reflection not only on label cheese Daniel Thomas’ keen ear but no doubt his own highly eclectic tastes too.

And just when you think you’ve got a grip on a label and you can put them in a box along with A,B and C they throw you a curve ball so devastating it takes the legs from under you leaving you with a cracked skull and eyelids full of dancing stars. Tuluum Shimmering are the surprise package this time around. No, I have no idea who they, he, she or it are but what they make is meditative, peaceful, gamelan, bamboo stick, Indian violin saw, flute and moaning devotional raga of a sort that had me deep in an ashram with the scent of joss sticks staining my clothes wanting to get all mystical and devout [its probably the nearest I’ll get]. ‘Inside The Mountain’ could have been made in a dope stinking squat in West Germany in 1974 or Ladakh in 1960 when a keen amateur sound recordist stumbled upon a group of Buddhist monks chanting at 4.30 in the morning just before sun up. Its effect is enough to make me want to play this ad nauseum thus extending its soporific head nodding effects into my own personal oblivion. If I’d have adopted a lotus position and joined in with some finger clinking cymbals of my own I reckon I could have been halfway to being a Hari Krishna devotee by now.

Things return to a considerably more familiar territory with the final two releases. The Plurals with a track that ends with some fine guitar neck banging in a oh-lets-see-what-happens-when-I-turn-this-thing-up-all-the-way-to-ten-and-bash-the-buggery-out-of-it kind of way but not before first emptying the sense with the echo of empty factory spaces and the electronic burbles of various gadgets as triggered by the touching of things with other things. There’s moaning too but I’m guessing it comes from whatever was poked on the table and not from someone with a spiritual thought in mind. When the clatter begins its impressive with the guitar being unleashed from its perambulatory proddings to do what guitars really do best - make a howling racket. At times it sounds as if the player is actually doing battle with the instrument, face to face, strings being scuzzed over with ten bob bits ruining fret board and fingers alike before it all becomes too much and collapses into a series of prop planes warming up before take off.

When Thomas teams up with that other West Yorks habitue Kevin Sanders the results tend to end up with lots of space in them. Literally. Transit Times Variations ended up getting a mention from NASA after the pair titled one of their works after a NASA mission that shared a name with a group of streets in downtown Sheepscar … or something like that. Floaty, nether effervescence, electronic dust motes, calming and reflective, droney and captivating. You can let this wash over you or you can concentrate, trying to pick up where this is all coming from and, like me, probably failing. From a muffled lo-fi beginning things develop at about the same pace as a weak pulse until in its final death throes a throbbing thud makes it presence felt. Highly enjoyable. All of it. Here’s to 19,20 and 21.

[I even got a sew on patch for my denim jacket. Now all I need is a denim jacket.]

Sheepscar Light Industrial

Lobster Priest - Crucial Trading
Fuckin’ Amateurs #72. LP

To the the North East and Viz and Gazza and the Angel of the North and Newcastle United and Earl Grey, Jackie Milburn, Richard Rupenus and those doll like girls who look like Oompah Loompahs and go ‘eeee fookin’ hell I’m proper pissed me’. I saw them on a recent BBC3 program about shop staff at the UK’s biggest retail outfit which is in Gateshead, two typical North East lasses with blond hair extensions, black smudges for eyebrows and orange skin sitting in the Metro centres champagne bar bitching about how hard life is when one of them said, arms all a-fling and in all seriousness ‘I am not materialistic … but I do like materialistic things’.

To the North East and Gazza giving gunmen much needed refreshments and Chester-Le-Street and The New Blockaders and Toon fans who’d rather see their families go hungry than not buy a season ticket. Whats not to like? The people are friendly [except for the gunmen] and the beer is particularly good. Should you find yourself in Newcastle I heartily recommend the Crown Posada down by the Tyne Bridge as a place of refuge not just for the fact that the beer is impressively good but that the landlord is the most miserable twat you could ever wish to meet.

We go up every year to spend a week walking along the empty beaches of Alnmouth and Bamburgh. Its heavenly and I urge you all to visit and tidy up after yourselves.

And then there’s Lobster Priest who I must admit to having never head of before. My loss. Tales abound of dressing up like the Sun City Girls and Peter Gabriel when he was in Genesis, hitting drums in an animal Muppet Show way and thrashing guitars in a Rallizes Denudes way before ingesting large amounts of alcohol and just going for it. Its what you do in the North East.

Judging by the cover these guys are soaking up the faded druggy American East Coast scene replacing ‘Ludes with Newcastle Brown Ale and lithe tanned, uber gorgeous stoned groupies with Oompah Loomphas that go ‘eeeee fookin’ hell’. The vibe is twin faceted with side two giving us a more near eastern tinged Muslimgauze wig out replete with Muezzin call, doped out ethnic beats and radio Ethiopique. This is ‘Live in Harran/Free Radio’ and as good as it is it doesn’t beat the monumental stoner dirge that is ‘Suzie Fuckin’ Q Death Trip’ a track that marries the desert waste space of Jodorowski’s ‘El Topo’ with the kick ass riffage of many a Jap psych outfit. The snatches of 50’s B-Movie gives us a Cosmonaut Hail Satan groove and anchor points from which to grip the armchair more tightly as you venture further in. ‘Suzie Q …’ travels a path that is its own trip, probably improvised or jammed, a riff taken out for a long trawl through the Bigg Market at 2.a.m. on a Sunday morning, all leery laddish drunken bonhomie and lasses freezing their tits off in teeny tiny outfits during a freezing gale. Part of its appeal is the recording quality which sounds as if its all captured through one mic, everything overloaded and rupturous, boiling to molten metal levels before crashing and burning one more time.

A mysterious group this Lobster Priest. A five piece made up of bits of other groups like ‘Bong’ and others of a similar dirge-ish bent. By the sounds of it they’re all having an amazing time. I’m a north easterner at heart and you should be too.

LINK

LINK

LINK

The Ceramic Hobs - Spirit World Circle Jerk
Must Die Records. MDR032 LP. [Includes download code]

The last time I was in Blackpool I was with the Hobs main man Simon Morris. At ten a.m. on a sunny Saturday summers morning we were sharing Blackpool’s famous ‘Golden Mile’ with some seriously psychotic Scousers. They looked like they’d been up all night and were intent on making the buzz last that bit longer. Loud, feral and oblivious to passers by they seemed to be teetering on the edge of some wild chasm that would either see them fast asleep for two days an hour hence or fighting off the attempts of several police officers to arrest them. The pubs were just opening up and day trippers were appearing, some of them already with enough ale in them to see the day out but with an eye on getting plenty more down before trying to find their B&B’s or their coaches for the trip home. Simon told me that his abiding image of Blackpool was of seeing a fat lass spewing into the street at eleven in the morning whilst being comforted by her equally fat friend who told her that if she got it all up now she’d be able to get some more down later.

Tales of Blackpool drinking excess are ubiquitous amongst Northern pub frequenting types. I had a workmate who on a day trip to Blackpool decided to sleep off his afternoons drinking on the beach only to find himself dragged back toward the prom, minus toupee as the tide made its inexorable return journey. Back in the 80’s when pub trips to Blackpool were de riguer you’d all fall off the bus at ten thirty in the morning, already half cut after having been drinking since eight in the morning and drink until three in the afternoon, [before the pubs shut and you got chucked out, as they did in those days] before descending on the Fun House where you’d throw each other at the dizzying rides and slides that were aimed at kids but seemed much more fun to adults, especially those with about eight pints in them. Night times in Blackpool were perilous, hungover adventures spent trying to avoid getting your head kicked in whilst trying to get off with equally drunk females. Quiet back street pubs were sought out leaving those huge pubs on the front, the Manchester and the Foxholes, to those who preferred fighting for their beer and their manly, drunken pride. Shirts were torn and vomited on, people got lost and never made it back, women pissed in the street and black eyes were sported the morning after. On one half remembered trip I found myself venting the bladder for the last time before boarding the coach home and spotted the figure of one of our group looking the worse for wear in the corner of the Gents. Deciding it was only right to help him back on the bus I got some fellow drinkers to help me get him upright but as we neared him the smell of what can only be described as an accident in the trouser department entered our nostrils. The three of us immediately took a step back and said it would be better if he was just left where he was but one good Samaritan took it upon himself to get him back on the bus. And that he did. And whilst shitty pants slept all the way back to Gomersal in the middle of the bus the rest of us were crammed for and aft with the windows open spending a long cold journey trying to get some sleep.

Then you throw in the poverty, in a recent survey of 31 English seaside towns researchers discovered that Blackpool, despite having more visitors than any of the others on the list had the worst poverty of them all. Then there’s the anti-depressant prescriptions, the alcohol abuse, the casual violence, the fading guest houses offering bed and breakfast for £15, the shit and overpriced watered down lager served in plastic pots, the ‘doormen’ who gladly take two pounds off you for the privilege of entering their establishment. Its against this backdrop that the Hobs have created Spirit World Circle Jerk. Perhaps their best album. Perhaps the best we’ll hear this year.

At the time of writing there are eight Ceramic Hobs some of whom have escaped the grip of psychiatric help and some who are in a constant battle trying to keeping it at arms length. There’s a guitarist in his teens [I think] and in and out member Nigel Joseph who is now famous for playing the Hoover and who when I saw them once sat stage front with a guitar, his nose so close to the fret board you had to wonder whether he was playing it or sniffing it. For Spirit World they’re also joined by the likes of Large Veiny Member, Calum Terras, Lee Stokoe, Kakawaka and Jason Williams some of whom are familiar and some of whom are either complete nutters or just joining in the fun for the day.

Spirit World Circle Jerk is probably the the Hobs most complete work. Coming on the back of a series of confusing releases all called OZ OZ Alice, Spirit World at least feels cohesive in the sense that its a record with some tracks on it that all have names.

Here we have African witchcraft, German nursery rhymes, Scientology, the theme from Cheers, easy listening, The Reverend Gary Davis covers, drunken Scotsmen singing ‘I Belong To Glasgow’, people who claim to have been through stargates, Led Zeppelin lyrics, celebrities, the landlady of the Hobs local singing ‘Smile’ and obscure references to the musical Grease.

The Hobs obsession with cults posing as religion and celebrity is shown to best effect in the sing-a-long ‘The Hong Kong Goolagong’. Nut case extraordinaire and leader of ‘The Family’ David Berg’s coughing fits rendered as words brought forth the word Goolagong [an aboriginal hitchhiking demon who killed Christian missionaries] a ‘fit’ that felt to him like being smothered in female breasts and then “I’m Angelina, you Jennifer’.

The first words we hear on Spirit World are of an African; ‘in accordance with the Bible witchcraft is a reality’. Before Morris’ belts out ‘say no to the devil’ against a background of fizzing high end guitar twiddle and chugging chords. The whole thing collapses into a squeal of guitar abuse and drum rolls whilst Morris wails into a spacey echo-y end before that African voice comes back with, more bizarrely, a disco track.

Its these juxtapositions that give Spirit World its fucked up what-the-fuckness. As the two minute riff monster ‘Falling Down The Stairs’ collapses into screams ‘The Hong Kong Goolagong’ begins with a straight lift from a YouTube video of a larger than life American female trying to get us all to sing-a-long to ‘I’m John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt’. Which collapses and thence the screams and stuttering drums that are the start of the two minute ‘Glasgow Housewife’ that includes the theme from Cheers speeded up to nonsense values.

The tile track is a James Barclay Harvest acoustic guitar strum-along, first as background with Morris talking about who knows what before it leaps into the foreground all ringing clear with wind chimes, chiming chords and high falsetto Amon Düll hippy chants.

T.A. Death is a straight forward 12 bar chug that sez its ’33 Trapped Chilean Miners part four’ 33 Trapped Chilean Miners was their last single on MDR and the precursor to all this.

But its the side long Voodoo Party that sets the hairs on end. The Hobs are no stranger to the longer track workout but never has the results been so mind boggling. A twenty minute track that at its very beginning of beginnings is a short burst of musical box tinkle, the Pearl and Dean intro via some African shamanic shaker bells before a loop of some descending four step easy listening intro music and two conversations going on at once, one from a woman who claims to have been through a star gate and the other between two blokes who may be talking about sex and then the whistling, the whistling of a happy Dean Martin, hands deep in pockets, not a care in the world whistle. Then a Burt Bacharach type composition that opens with a horn section before the voices disappear and we get the tribal drum meat of the side - the nearest the Hobs will come to the Stones ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ with the massed Hobs singing ‘Voodoo Party’ as if dancing half naked around a large cooking pot containing the tied figure of a white missionary. At its end Morris speaks in a creepy guttural voice. There’s some live applause and Orb-ish beats, general disorientation and Morris singing ‘If it keeps on raining the levee’s gonna break’ and then the line from Eddie Grant’s reggae pop hit Electric Avenue whose ‘the feeling is bad’ has a completely different meaning when plonked in the midst of whats going on here. A rinky-dink piano section runs into samples taken from American TV newsflashes giving info on the James Homes shootout at the premier of the Batman film, the Sandy Hook shootings and the arrival of Hurricane Sandy. As the Hobs landlady sings ‘Smile’ theres a Beatles-esque crescendo of ‘Day in the Life’ proportions before everything goes very quiet indeed.

Like all great releases this has a depth that surpasses mere rock record. Even after a casual first time listen most Hobs fans, and music fans in general I hope, will realise that there's more going on here than first meets the ear. And I recommend you do investigate because once you get the bigger Hobs picture there may be some small chance that some of this will eventually make sense. Not total sense, that would be asking too much and maybe even impossible, but for a while you will be in Hobs World, in Blackpool, lost in witchcraft and cults and religion and rock music like no other, all of which need to be experienced.  

Comes wrapped in 250 differently coloured silk screened covers courtesy of fellow East Coast misanthrope Dr. Steg. An essential item.

Further Reading

Must Die Records http://mustdierecords.co.uk/

Hong Kong Goolagong http://www.xfamily.org/index.php/Hong_Kong_Goolagong

David Berg https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Berg

Angry Gay Pope http://angrygaypope.com/gold/

Nacht Und Nebel/Lea Cummings - Split
KIKS/GFR 007
C40

W>A>S>P>S/Nacht Und Nebel - Split
NUNWSP001
7”

SCKE// - Ornaments
MEIR 2004/KIKS/GFR 2012
7”. 300 copies

What is this mixture of acronyms, German language and angle brackets you ask? It’s enough to drive a reviewer batshit. What does it all mean? And who uses angle brackets in-between CAPS these days anyway? This jumble of CAPS, >’s and //’s has me yearning for simplicity, clarity and clean lines, but fear not, all is not lost for when I actually make my way through these three releases I find that there’s life in a small label..

Like with that Lea Cummings, the purveyor of the horribly monikered but you got to like him for it anyway ‘Kylie Minoise’ [who may now be defunct anyway]. Putting aside his Minoises he lays down a warm drone made from an unchanging set of held down keyboard keys. Cummings is no stranger to the drone having released a number of such compositions under his own name and on his own label but I feel this track has a deeper purity and is all the better for it.

Nacht Und Nebel deliver stuttering sub wooer fart PE like atmospherics where the screams of tortured souls are replicated by circuit board abuse. A brooding atmosphere of uncertainty for those who like their nights in to have a darker edge. This is true of the split with Cummings and to a certain extent the flip of W>A>S>P>S but overall I feel that Nacht Und Nebel have yet to make the most of the grit in their oyster for once in a while a sound emerges that puts the teeth on edge has you squinting out of one eye hoping that there’s isn’t another one around the corner. Still, both N&N performances here hold enough promise to make further adventures into dark ambient industrial territory worthy of attention.

W>A>S>P>S meanwhile delve in to the Whitehouse back catalogue and emerge with a remixed b-side from 1981 where the synth buzz of bent circuitry leads to a constant barely shifting drone of amp crackle and jack socket abuse. Played at 33RPM and at a loud volume its drone like effects and unbending nature are stimulation enough. Like Power Electronics without the histrionics.

Which leaves SCKE// and two sides of glitch electronica. Described on the website as ‘2 X gritty loops and piercing feedback over warm undulating tones’ I found it to be anything but - which just goes to show you how two people can hear the same thing and give completely differing views. I found harmonics and yes, loops, but of a Harry Partch strings hit with water balloons kind of thing. The treated sounds of an analogue phones engaged signal that loop into rhythms in a Penguin Cafe Orchestra kind of way, only with PCO playing Otomo Yoshihide’s table top gear instead of detuned cello’s - if that makes any sense.

http://www.kiksgfr.net/

Psychoyogi - Opulent Trip
CD

The Subs [Cribers] - Spilling Gravy in the Castle of Unfathomable Terrors.
Crater Lake. CL003. Cassette. 50 copies.

Half An Abortion - Small Scale Demystification Quandary
Angurosakuson Cassette
Anguro 008

Early Hominids - Two Halves of Delirium
Angurosakuson. CDR

Human Combustion Engine - Goats Balls/Gods Balls.
Angurosakuson. Cassette

MSHR/The Tenses - Split Tape
Pigface Records. 019
Cassette. C40

Ju Suk Reete Meate - Solo 78&79
Pigface Records. 016
Cassette. C40

My doctor told me to stop letting the review pile approach insurmountable levels and to get on with it. After all, he reasoned, some of the stuff you get sent probably only gets listened to the once anyway and seeing as how you’re so far behind with the review pile most of what you’re reviewing has long since been sold out or given up for dead or forgotten about anyway. Its not like the world’s hanging on your every word either is it? And besides, the people who send you this stuff want an opinion within oh ... six months at least, and most important of all want the world to know that the thing actually exists. I mean some of these people had gigs to promote that were tied in to the release you were sent and that was like months ago.

As with Psychoyogi. Who despite being a mouthful had a gig in June to promote Opulent Trip. Psychoyogi sound like they like to listen to lots of quirky English 60’s band like Giles, Giles and Fripp whose angular jazz like leanings and oh so English tales of funny people they delivery with great accuracy. I also detect Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band and Soft Machine. The ghost of Kevin Ayers looms large. Singer/guitarist Chris Ramsing holds the thing together with a guitar thats a bright thing with many quick changing chords on it that runs to tinkly solos as the bass plucks out back notes. His voice resembles that of a 1920’s crooner meets Viv Stanshall singing into a lozenged shape microphone. Short instrumentals of the kind heard during afternoon spa recitals are sprinkled throughout but the actual songs are the stand outs. These guys can really play too as evinced in ‘Shadows’ with its breathy delivery and Zappa like sharp turns in the chord department. I found myself curiously drawn to their work but only because I do like the likes of Giles, Giles and Fripp and Soft Machine and some of Zappa’s more quirky output. If those names don’t mean anything to you then you may find their output totally alien but I do recommend you at least give them a go, but not before putting on your smoking jacket on first of course.

Also finding their inspiration in the past are The Subs[Cribers]. A sometime synth duo out of Stoke comprising of Markylooloo [Marky Loo Loo? Looloo? and Mika [Jarvis I think]. Six songs that sound like rough demos from an early 80’s Human League or a chipset Kraftwerk covers band trying to do Depeche Mode numbers. Which is no bad thing of course. It all works thanks to the harmony created by Marky Looloo’s half spoken/sung Midlands tones and Mika’s matching sing song singing voice. I see them both sat on the floor of a living room in Burslem, crossed legged, picking out their favourite preset rhythms and drum sounds from a cheap Casio keyboard before writing the words on the fly. A favourite track would be hard to pick but I did like ‘Blown Away’ and its line ‘Will I ever learn to fly’. The songs are so short and happy you can forgive them the worst sleeve of the years and the terrible band name. Impossible not to like and destined for cult status.

The Subs[Cribers] appear on Pete Cann’s Crater Lake label whilst Pete Cann himself [under his still annoying everyone but I’m not changing it anyway ‘Half An Abortion’ moniker] appears on current Loiner Pascal Ansell’s Angurosakuson label. Stuff happens in Leeds and people need to know about it. Whether they’ll want to hear Pete’s junk noise more than once though is a moot point. The kindest thing I can say about Half An Abortion’s ‘Small Scale Demystification Quandary’ is that some of it almost sounds like TNB scrape. Pete likes to smash things up and when he does the results are usually pretty good but when he introduces masses of feedback over the top of it I find myself wondering if his quality control monitor is on the blink. The quieter moments on here are thus the more revealing ones.

Further Angurosakuson noise abuse comes courtesy of those Belgian ale connoisseurs Early Hominids. The pink elephant being what you see after listening to this at dangerous volumes whilst consuming the two halves of requisite numbers of Delerium’s that is all it takes to render speech, thought and coordination muddled. The conjoining of Neil Campbell’s Astral Social Club mutant beats and Paul Walsh’s Foldhead noises produces a delightful mixture of ear assault where the noise bleats crumple under the sheer weight of synaptic rupture of psychedelic noise. Nine tracks and 45 minutes worth, the highlight for me being track four which sounds like a disco being destroyed by an army of invading DJ’s all playing Merzbow’s Pulse Demon in unison on Technics coffins that they push into the venue on hospital trolleys. A mighty sound for sure. And again all Leeds based.

More Leeds based merriment comes courtesy of Human Combustion Engine. Yet another project courtesy of the Todd/Delaney hit factory. I saw Mel play an HCE set on her own in Todmorden the other week where the acoustics of the church the gig was held in did those eerie, spacey sounds a world of good. A total Moog synth experience if my decoding of the fools fonts on the sleeve is anything to go by and one that benefits from being all wonky on one side and more ambient on the other. If, like me, you have a few Tomita albums tucked away that you don’t tell anybody about, or have a hankering to dig out a Tangerine Dream album now and again, purely those early ones [not the first one obvs as that is neither meditative or electronic] that are all echoey and transcendental then this may be the one for you. This is more your thinking mans synth blather though with one strand hovering in the background going all wobbly whilst in the foreground the Millennium Falcon ticks over warming its engines up. Not one to confuse with Ten Pints Too Many or any other of those so called ‘vintage synth lovers society’ ‘bands’ that emerged in the wake of the Emeralds debacle but pure weird synth burble. A directionless wander in the greatest possible sense.

The Pigface label isn’t from Leeds, as any self respecting fan of ‘underground music’ should really know. The label started by Smegma member Ju Suk Reete Meate over thirty years ago has resurfaced mainly due to the resurgent interest shown in cassette only labels. Late 70’s and early 80’s Pigface records are now highly sought after items - a measure of the importance with which they are now held. These guys were making crazy sounds when the rest of us were happy with what was left of the Sex Pistol making records with seedy bank robbers. Five cassettes have appeared over the last couple of years with two being handed over to 40’s jazzbo drummer turned Smegma collaborator Lee Rockey and the other from Tenses - another Smegma offshoot featuring Meate and Oblivia - who also appear here sharing a release with MSHR who, I discover, are a duo making noises with synths of their own making. The MSHR/Tenses is a collaboration between the two and as you’d expect its a constantly changing scenery of parps, synth stabs, spoken word LP samples and general all round buggering about in the name of jamming improv. Apart from an instance where someone goes a bit mad with a gong I found it all to be in the finest Pigface tradition. Think bells, toys, things that are shaken, rattled, banged, bonged, dropped, kicked, bashed and blown, plucked, prodded, patted, poured and popped, clanged, cut, creaked and coddled into a myriad juxtaposition of sounds.

The Ju Suk Reete Meates solo stuff is a different bag altogether with one side showcasing his solo guitar work and the other a session in front of a pump organ. There’s other instruments involved too including a bass guitar played by foot and some reel to reel tape loops but the main instruments ring loud. I’ve heard some of Meate’s solo guitar stuff before via the De Stijl’s reissue of his other 78/79 guitar solo work and this is a fine accompaniment to have. The guitar is loud and freakish, squealing along to the singing of bowed sheet metal. The loops appear like snoring insects, the records are stuck in forced grooves emitting remnants of 50’s rock and roll bands, the trumpet it doth parp and the guitar [electric au natural] a frantic spazzed thing, twanged hither and thither, scratched and slowly scraped down the length of one string bringing forth a joyous hum from the speaker. The pump organ pieces are the best work I’ve heard from Meate, not a Nitsch blast but a considerable presence all the same with a powerful drone emerging that comes at you like a twisted horror flick soundtrack played by a demented Dr. Mabuse. Through it all you can hear the squeak of the pump being pumped, in other hands an irritant but here most welcome and redolent of a quirky NWW Sucked Orange track. Not something you hear in church everyday.

To be thrust into the Smegma/Pigface spectrum once more makes me realise how boring a lot of other so called improv/experimental music is.

Psychoyogi

Craterlake

The Subs-[Cribers]

Angurosakuson

Pigface

When I was younger I soaked up as much music as was humanly possible. Having very little money meant that, like a lot of other kids growing up in the 70’s, I had to tape music off the radio and even the TV and when money did come along, usually in the shape of a gifted fiver or maybe a WH Smiths record token I’d spend all Saturday afternoon perusing the selections on offer even though I knew exactly which record it was I wanted and which record it was I would be taking home on the bus with me. Singles and LP’s were played over and over again until the lyrics became ingrained. Sleeves were poured over and ruminated upon, talked about, ogled, held in awe and inspected for hidden messages. Run off grooves would be held up to the light to see if there were any jokey references from the pressing plant. Tapes were made from LP’s I borrowed off friends but no matter how hard I tried I could never get an album on to one side of a C90 thus ensuring that lodged in the memory for ever more would be the last track of an album that cuts off mid word. Picture discs and shaped vinyl only enhanced the pleasure. A record with a picture on it. Whodathunkit? Coloured vinyl. Smelly vinyl. Clear vinyl. You lapped it all up and wanted more. You could never get enough. And when a mate mentioned a new band that you needed to hear a tape was produced from a top pocket and you took it home and looked at it as if it held the secrets of the universe and when you played it you knew that just maybe somewhere in there the secret of the universe lay waiting.

Then you started working for a living and you could afford to buy a lot more music. And your record [and tape] collection grew more quickly. Now you could afford to take risks and some of the records [and tapes] you bought were not only the recommendation of friends but those of writers of music papers like Sounds and the N.M.E. and Record Mirror and soon you began to realise that some of the people reviewing didn’t share the same tastes as you and you ended up with records you didn’t like that much and they got sold on to second hand record dealers or mates that wanted two copies of the same LP so that they could play it on their stacker record deck thus enabling them to listen to both sides of the record without having to turn it over.

And then they invented computers and the internet and the world of music shifted on its axis.

Having every note of music ever recorded available to stream and download may seem like a dream come true to someone like me but I find it anything but. I now find having too much music available to me a distraction. Having everything ever recorded [almost] within my grasp is like being a kid let loose in the worlds biggest sweet shop except that after being in there for a few years I’m now sick of it and look back on the days when I played a record to death and ogled the sleeves with great fondness. Hard drives have been filled as have memory sticks and DVD’s, all full of countless thousands of hours worth of music, most of it still un-listened to, uncared for and ultimately unwanted and all I want to do is spin a Roy Harper LP I bought this afternoon for £2 in Vinyl Tap.

There is only one way to combat this fear and that is to go back to how I used to listen to music. I can do this with whatever format of music I care to choose, I prefer vinyl but I'm not averse to CD's and cassettes and MP3's but the overriding factor is one of familiarization. I’ve been adopting this method for about last few years now which is why the review rate has dropped off the end of a cliff. Coming from someone who used to write a zine and listen to tenth rate noise CDR’s with my finger pressed on the fast forward button I know which method I prefer.

In the early days of downloading it was all Napster, and then Myspace appeared [and oh how we all laughed when Murdoch bought into that clunky monster and turned it into the biggest turd on the web] and when Napster got caught by the goolies any number of soulless P2P’s chock full of bugs and porn appeared.

At the fag end of 2013 things have settled down and you can go legit if you want: iTunes, Spotify, YouTube [typing ‘full album’ into YouTube gives you 9,500,000 returns] and any number of other websites allow you to stream and download to your hearts content.

And then there's Bandcamp with which I’m now listening to the new Sleaford Mods album [and you should too]. I’ve found myself coming to like Bandcamp, mainly because I get a lot of CDR’s to review that refuse to play and the labels involved have a Bandcamp page where for absolutely nothing [barring your device and connection] you can listen to their output to your hearts content.

All of this so as to give my fellow traveller Rob Hayler over at Radio Free Midwich an enormous plug. Rob has set up a Bandcamp page whereupon you can listen to his own true Midwich-ing including a piece he played at the Wharf Chambers earlier this year that he dedicated to yours truly [still one of the proudest moments of my life]. Then there’s that other fine Leeds label Sheepscar Light Industrial who have yet to release a dud and whose physical releases disappear pretty quickly. And the Sleaford Mods of course, whose new album is yet a fine greasy smear on the MacDonald’s window of life.

Streaming and downloading has its benefits and I'd rather have it than not but the magic of those early years will never be replaced by a few clicks of the mouse.

Bandcamp

Midwich

Sheepscar Light Industrial

Sleaford Mods

The Black Neck Band of the Common Loon - The Fleshing Beam
PRO030. CDR 100 copies.

Patrizia Oliva & Jason Williams - Untitled
Setola di Maiale CD

What fun, what jolly japes. An hour or so of Brighton improv and some Italian noise with an Eastbourne filling thats the common link courtesy of Jason [to give him his full name] Williams. Or as I call him the six foot nine inch length of peripatetic noise thats more likely as not to be found on a bus or a train or cramped uncomfortably in the back of a car trailing halfway across the country on the off chance of deafening a few people in a room above a pub.

He’s been ‘at it’ for as long as I’ve been writing this drivel but never have I seen anything appear with his given name on it before now. I suspect a maturing, a growing of sensibilities, a chance to put his name to something. Literarily.

Having abused guitars and noise boxes for years it seems only natural that he should bring these forms to his involvement with Brighton improv duo The Black Neck Band of the Common Loon who when not grubbing around in Hectors House and various other houses of Brighton ill repute are chilling with Unky Thurst and doing their best to keep improv alive in the land of salad and cock rings.

Having just soaked up a few bars of improv courtesy of some Smegma offshoots in the last review it seems appropriate to pluck their 'The Fleshing Beam' from the pile. Where we find Andy Pyne playing drums and vocals and the curiously named Blue Pin playing electrified violin, piano and ‘whine’ as well as even more drums. They take on collaborators now and again, mainly as ballast I assume, this time with the aforementioned Jason Williams as just down the road accomplice. To it all Jase throws in modified cello, tenor sax and of course, electric guitar.

And it works a treat. Over eight tracks and fifty minutes worth with the moods swinging from all out thrash to Pharoah Sanders fluttery flute solos to sparse drum rattle and tinkly piano. Strings are tugged and frotted, when the vocals appear they’re buried deep in the mix so that they emerge sounding like Native American chants except that the Indians have had too much fire water and things have gone all sloppy. All this on ‘Static Pleasure’. Breathy flute like wheezes are forced gently down the neck of a sax and are joined by scattered drum rim shots and a forbidding sounding church organ that mutates into a moaning vocal drone. Beats or rhythms that are more like slightly speeded up funeral marches or quick march Eraserhead themes are slathered with wild cello [Force Feeding The Flock]. On one track theres some kind of garbled language that sounds like a Turkish stall holder shouting his wares or a call to arms by an overzealous Iraqi or is this a Lightning Bolt cover all played out to massed spazzed out drumming and masses of guitar abuse. If anything our Mr. Williams bosses things a little, I guess he can’t help himself, not that the rest would have complained seeing as how the results are so effective

The collaboration with the Italian vocal improvisor Patrizia Oliva on the other hand harks back to Williams earlier days as noise provocateur when making a racket was all that counted and bugger the aftermath. After what turns out to be probably the worst first track of a release I’ve ever heard, anywhere, by anybody here now and in all likelihood, the future too there does appear to be something of worth lurking within but bugger me if it didn’t labour in revealing itself.

Oliva’s voice is a gentle thing, a child singing nursery rhymes or a dreamy Japanese schoolgirl absentmindedly moaning the lines of a J-Pop song whilst staring out of the school window. An ethereal presence that when left alone is a very strange thing to listen to indeed but when slathered in Williams own brand no-fi noise gubbins becomes a so far out there what-the-fuck moment you have to wonder whether this was all one big joke on the Wire magazine or a genuine attempt to reconfigure whatever clash of genres this actually is. Oliva’s vocal moments are few and far between alas. I’d have liked to have heard more but when calm does descend, to a level of barely heard buzzes and shuffling, we’re left with too much of Williams glitch dub noise and too little of Oliva. A curious release and one that's had me baffled for quite a while now. I’m either so far off the pace these days I don’t even know my own arse or this is the new dogs bollocks. Someone else decide for me please.

Foolproof

Black Neck Band of the Common Loon. Bandcamp

Seto Di Maiale

Smell & Quim - Spaceshit
Must Die Records.
MDR026

I first heard Spaceshit at Diz Willis’ wake. Not feeling quite sure as to what it was exactly I was listening to I asked current Smell & Quim accomplice Paul Harrison for clarification and when he said 'its the new Smell & Quim album' nobody could have been more surprised than me. For it sounded nothing like any Smell & Quim album I'd ever heard before.

Appearing at the end of the millennium on Nigel Joseph’s Mental Guru label its 40 continuous tracks contained prank calls to prostitutes, the theme from the Onedin Line, twisted beyond recognition songs, very little noise and a sleeve that had green aliens on it. It was, and indeed remains, the most ‘out there’ Smell & Quim release to date.

Spaceshit saw a particular Smell & Quim era come to an abrupt end. The death of Diz and the departure of Neil Campbell, Harrison and the slow falling apart of the Sowerby Bridge crew led to more drinking, less gigging and a hiatus of about seven years in regards as to any significant Smell & Quim activity. Containing contributions from just about everyone who’d ever been involved with Smell & Quim up to 2000 the end result was put together by Srdenovic and Holly Hero [no doubt over a few gins] and is in some ways a tribute to Diz and those Sowerby Bridge years.

Thanks to Must Die Records re-releasing it in a split track format you can skip to track 19 and ‘Fannies and Priests’ to listen in on a drunken conversation about shagging that must have taken place in Graceland [the house cum studio in Sowerby Bridge where drink sodden S&Q activity loomed large] at three in the morning [or, quite possibly three in the afternoon] after large amounts of alcohol had been consumed. ‘Fannies and Priests captures for posterity the slurring before it turned into snoring and then there’s ‘Fucking Ada’ which consists of thirty seconds worth of a room full of drunken people shouting 'fucking Ada' at the tops of their voices. A snapshot of everyday folks lives in a hill side West Yorkshire town circa 1999.

Littered throughout Spaceshit are two recurring tracks of an Hawaiian nature in which a lap steel and a Martin Denny rhythm are fed through short loops upon which a manic ‘yeah, yeah yeah’, some pummeling drum and bass and the sound of a needle being carelessly pulled from a record are slopped all over it. 30’s Jazz, 80’s pop and old blues records are all looped and mutated into shapes far distant from their origins. Frantic film voices become deranged chatter, stuck CD’s come and go, The Hollies ‘He Aint Heavy’ is just about discernible [going backwards, stuttering, breaking up] under a drum beat that's also treated and breaking up and going backwards. When Milovan sings ‘Too Much Dipsy Doo Will Make You Cooney’ right near the end of it all on track thirty six against, what is possibly Stewart Home reading from one of his books, you want to punch the air, pull down your pants and tip a bottle of Buckfast Tonic Wine down your neck in drunken homage.

There is little in the way of ugly noise on Spaceshit and some people may find that rather odd. What It does have though is buckets of Smell & Quim humour and a gentle hint of nostalgia. After listening to it again for the first time in 13 years I now find myself loving every daft sodding minute of it - the juvenile track titles: ‘Any Other Arsehole’, ‘Master Testicle In the Knickers of Time’, ‘Can’t Fuck, Wont Fuck’, ‘Beef’, the recurring Hawaiian lap steel, the dopey prostitutes who don’t realise they’re being taken for a ride [‘do you have any girls who can do circus tricks?]. Every daft and glorious sodding minute of it.

Thirteen years later its a sentimental ride and an affectionate one too. A release whose purpose is that of a fingerpost to a time past. It is also, quite possibly, the best Smell & Quim album to date. Go and argue over that one. Over a few beers obviously.

Must Die Records

Vile Plumage - Live at Pearl Assurance House
Self released 3” CDR.

People-Eaters - Hinterland
Aetheric Records 20 copies.

Hagman - TKT and TMS
Sheepscar Light Industrial.
SLI.019. 3”CDR 50 Copies

Seth Cooke - Run For Cover
Sheepscar Light Industrial.
SLI.020. 3”CDR 50 Copies

These Feathers Have Plumes - Untitled
Sheepscar Light Industrial.
SLI.021. 3”CDR 50 Copies

The collective noun for a group of 3 inch CDR’s is now known as a scattering. For that is what happens tot hem when you try and place them upon one another. Its impossible to stack them higher than three due to the nature of the plastic sleeves in which all but the most outre three inch CDR’s arrive. Sheepscar Light Industrial release their 3 inchers in groups of three and that's plenty. I rest my case.

And so to Burslem and some more fine dictaphone conflagrations courtesy of those two fine upstanding member of the community Wyngarde and Jarvis. Who can be found most quiet Sunday mornings conducting their rituals and lamentations outside places like Pearl Assurance. A place that I assume is a place of trade and commerce and not some fancy dan nightspot in darkest Stoke-on-Trent. I’m only surmising of course, I've never been to Burslem, but from the sounds herein you can hear the passing of traffic and other ambient sounds as associated with a town center. A transformation has taken place though - thanks to the numerous trips betwixt dictaphone and ghetto blaster and back and back and back and forward and back again speech, footsteps and the general comings and goings are rendered into some kind of middle England EVP. Here we have ghost voices, turnstiles clicking and the debris from a Saturday afternoon shopping session being swept down the street with a stiff besom brush. Tape is abused in all manners of ways with judicial use of the stop/record button being distinctly audible. The densely layered, looped, thick coda that see this thing on its way is a most unsettling and disturbing ride indeed and a fitting emission from people whose interest in all things Hammer horror looms large. A splendid achievement from these two devil may care modern day troubadours. The Alvin Lucier twins of Burslem, the derring do-ers of downtown Stoke.

-------

Thanks to the detailed press release that came with Hinterland I can make up for my own lack of research by telling you that these two tracks of cranial drift were made by two people using numerous instruments which included; electric guitar, thumb piano, prayer bowl, mute synth, e-bows and contact mics amongst many others. There’s also a long list of influences ranging from mental illness to Butoh dance to Horror films [see above] to reverb and noises. All this translates into two tracks of slowly moving drone of the kind that hovers in mid vision, a darker version of a heat haze shimmer. For there are murky depths here as evinced by all manner of horror film icons on the Soundcloud page and track titles like ‘Vu-Ni-Diuva’ and 'Amai-Te-Rangi’ both of which are either obscure anagrams or some kind of made up language. Both tracks are the kind that phase along in a heavily processed way in which all the instruments listed [I counted twelve] become reduced to a thick syrup where the original instrumentation has all but disappeared. A hum here a hum there, a tad of thick throb as if the lowest key on the Cologne cathedrals organ was left depressed for two minutes and left to ring within its vast chamber. I’m undecided as to whether these pieces would work better if stretched from their eight minute originals or best left as is. As they stand now they sort of waft over your head leaving barely a trace but with deeper immersion a better trip may be had.

-------

Back in Leeds we find Daniel Sheepscar emitting another fine hat trick of releases. This time around the laurels are wreathed over These Feathers Have Plumes with two tracks of deeply sonorous drone. The first ‘Between Earth and Air’ beginning with some deft Arvo Pärt like tintinnabulation where tiny bells ring out into deep space - deep, deep space. These are tubular bell like resonances made with oversized glasses [if what I’ve seen is anything to go by] where each singular dink is ridden out until the next one appears and a finale which is one glorious luscious drone. ‘Don’t Wish Your Life Away’ is far more new age. In that I can see this being the soundtrack de jour for one of those West Coast better life gurus who like to play something soothing as they tell you your treatment is going to run into the thousands. Pure tones that rise and fall like a gentle tide and are guaranteed to have you drifting off should you be feeling the exertions of the day.

After such bliss its back down to earth with Seth Cook and the aptly titled ‘Run For Cover’ where our man seems to be drilling a hole in a piece of tin thats not being properly secured. Anyone familiar with such a DIY faux pas [and the odd TNB live action] will instantly recognise the godawful incessant buzz that this creates. Of course I could be completely mistaken and Cooke is instead trying to get his Jetex toy model plane to take off whilst dropping dried peas on a bass drum. A live track I assume or a piece played live to mic. An electro-acoustic thing which certainly has its moments not least of which is a kazoo being blown by an asthmatic waif and some rustling sounds that could be the springs on a snare drum being amplified. Last we heard from Cooke he was making drones from the drilling sounds caused by next doors workmen, that was a more lonesome thing, here the tension mounts as the volume increases until a solitary hit piano key and then timpanic drum roll. Ta-Da.

Daniel Thomas’ involvement with Hagman ensures plenty of field recordings [presumably culled from Sheepscar environs?] are used in a suitably austere and sombre electro-acoustic fashion. This is minimalist composer country, tiny sounds, all coming together creating pylon hums, urban murk, overcast skies, wet tarmac and cold black puddles. Its the very heart of Leeds, a heart the tourist board never see or fail to mention. A grimy passionless sound - in the most positive of ways. A scattering of noises, all of them quite wonderful.

Contact:

SLI

People-Eaters

Vile Plumage

Ambrose Field - Quantaform Series
Music For Solo Flute in Virtual Places.
Sargasso. SCD28071

Ah yes, the flute. An instrument of torture. Unless of course its in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing. Having been forced to listen to Jethro Tull as a teenager I’ve had an aversion to the instrument and just when I thought I couldn’t take no more the world of light classical gave us James Bloody Galway.

All is not bad though. Having discovered Hariprasad Chaurasia, the famed Indian classical flautist, who’s traditional raga’s are some of the nearest thing to aural relaxation a man can get, I will quite happily spend a relaxing summers evening listening to his sublime playing whilst drifting in and out of consciousness, my head resting on a bejeweled bolster as a loyal punkawallah brings me a mint julep.

So I was intrigued to see how Jos Zwaanenburg would tackle award winning contemporary composer Ambrose Field's flute compositions. Divided into two different sections each deals with the flute in a different way; the ‘Quantaform’ sections are where you hear the actual flute whereas the ‘Technoform’ sections are where you hear the ‘electronic ambient interludes where the flute is absent and only its echo “its acoustic after image” remains’. Needless to say, it was these ‘Technoform’ pieces that I found the most intriguing.

This is to take nothing at all away from Zwaanenburg’s skillful flute playing. The pieces are meant to be technically challenging. I’m no expert on the instrument but you don’t need to be to realise that what you are hearing isn’t Ian Anderson stood on one leg or James Galway going through ‘Annie’s Song’ for the umpteenth time. The way Zwaanenburg stresses certain notes and pitch bends others is certainly impressive, as are the way the acoustics contrast during each set of 'Quantaform's’. Ambrose’s idea was to compose each piece for the acoustic space he had in mind, working backwards by analyzing the acoustics of each space and then composing the piece for it.

Its the ‘Technoform’s’ that prove to be the more interesting part of the project though. Especially during the middle section [5-8] where Field manipulates the echo of half caught breaths and Zwaanenburg’s feathery cycling notes turning them into flighty ethereal drones. ‘Technoform 9’ produces an ominous industrial drone, ‘10’ an electro-acoustic composition, ’11’ you could call glitch electronica.

I recommend headphones and a healthy twist on the volume dial too for there is plenty of detail in here. Whether you can overcome your flute aversion is another thing but I’m glad I overcame mine.

Sargasso

Zwaannenburg plays Field

http://ambrosefield.wordpress.com/

Sleaford Mods
Human Heads
Vibracathedral Orchestra

Kraak, Manchester, 20th September, 2013.

'I don't like puddings'.

The Kraak exists off a narrow black brick sooted alley in the Northern Quarter of Manchester the kind of place where Engels and Peter Sutcliffe passed by both with very different intentions in mind. The bohemian quarter of Manchester, a place where the streets used to run with human filth and disease was the norm, a place where old age began in your 40's and people lived in cellars. The Empire.

Things have improved somewhat and you can now park your car on former slums and return to it several hours later to find it still intact. The pubs are still cramped affairs with 1930’s themed bar staff pulling Iron Maiden bitter, whilst across the street well heeled Manc pay £10 for three bits of tapas whilst washing it down with Boddingtons and Stella. They have record shops here too of course but according to the Undermeister the pickings are poor. After a spicy bowl in a Bradford style 70’s curry shop its up a few steep flights of stairs to a room with a stage and a wooden floor, a bar that charges made up prices for cans of red piss and a gents that will leak said piss into the venue - kind of. Some things in Manchester never change.

The Sleaford Mods aren’t wearing Keep Calm and Carry On t-shirts - they’ve come to cheer these miserable Mancs up and theyr'e succeeding. There's one young girl down the front whose swaying to the Mods pummeling beats and rants and she’s not just smiling, she’s beaming from ear to ear, a grin that would revive a dying man. Her hips are going like she’s warming up for a night at the Wigan Casino and she’s here with about fifty other souls to see the Sleaford Mods before they explode in the face of Saturday tea time mediocrity.

The Sleaford Mods are here to make your miserable existence that bit more bearable. Theirs is an existence laid bare, a shitty world full of shitty meaningless jobs and shitty pubs selling shitty overpriced beer to help numb the shitty life that people thinks great because we’ve got a SKY subscription, a 50inch telly and a two week all inclusive in Skiathos in October to look forward to. Theirs is a world of dodgy drugs and Amber Leaf 12 gram packs, tinned lager and pointless fights in pubs that used to be centers of social community but are now viscous drinking holes existing purely to see the clientele numbed before being ejected onto dog shit encrusted streets. Its a world few people write about or sing about or perform with any kind of grasp of reality or humanity, a world that is bleak but not without humour. Take them as your own my black hearted friends. The Sleaford Mods are here to help us on our merry way to the crem.

Its a simple set up - a lap top in front of which Andy rocks about clouding his face in a wreath of e-cig steam whilst Jase stands and rants in those flat Notts tones. Cans of lager are clutched and the songs come thick and fast. The whole things last about thirty minutes but seems like a blur that flies past in ten. They kick off with the new single ‘Mr Jolly Fucker’ before ripping into ‘Fizzy’ and ‘the cunt with the gut and the Buzz Lightyear haircut’ and the slightly more down tempo ‘Shitstreet’ ‘I built a swimming pool in my living room and I called it deep house’, a word that appears like a mangling of arse. The ‘Wage Don’t Fit’ and its chorus ‘When I said I didn’t like it, its because I really don’t’. One day we will all be singing these songs. Rants laid upon looped riffs with infectious melodies. Simple and effective.

Earlier in the day an Astral Social Club slot morphs into a Vibracathedral Orchestra jam which lasts for about an hour and takes us from synth bleat TG-ness to Faust forest follies to Eno-esque ambience. Six of them crammed on to the stage with a mass of instrumentation which they pick up and put down for about an hour, the thing shifting like the mutating beast it is. You can measure the intensity of any VCO performance by the amount of energy Campbell puts into it and about half way through he’s shaking like an off centre washing machine that has a lead brick in it. Its good to have them back.

A Manc filling of Human Heads had me scratching mine. Male/female one with electronics and the other playing a table top fan whilst ‘singing’ and at one stage bouncing a tubular steel chair on the floor. I had it described to me as Volcano the Bear meets or Milk From Cheltenham. Its just Manchester innit?

Slavek Kwi/Artificial Memory Trace

SPON29&30 - Hiroshima Yeah! 100 - Fördämning 2

Lasse-Marc Riek / Daniel Blinkhorn

Smell & Quim Gullivers Manchester 13th July 2013

Soundholes

Todmorden

SPON 33

SPON 31

Yol

Sheepscar Light Industrial 16,17,18

Lobster Priest - Crucial Trading

The Ceramic Hobs - Spirit World Circle Jerk

Nacht Und Nebel - W>A>S>P>S> - Lea Cummings - SCKE//

Psychoyogi / The Subs [Cribers] / Half An Abortion / Early Hominids / Pigface Records

Bandcamp

The Black Neck Band of the Common Loon / Patrizia Oliva & Jason Williams

Smell & Quim - Spaceshit

Vile Plumage / People-Eaters / These Feathers Have Plumes / Seth Cooke / Hagman

Ambrose Field - Quantaform Series

Sleaford Mods, Human Heads, Vibracathedral Orchestra. Kraak, Manchester.