Anyone else hate Norman Mailer?



Tough guys don't beat their wives. Fucking dead hack

Lolz

Sic Alps wandered into the consciousness of music lovers at the right time. The band released a slew of well-considered releases beginning in late 2006 and continuing into 2008, helping to dampen the shoddy, prolific output new weird American and neo-noise underground. Sic Alps songs tread a tightrope between pop song composition and deconstructive psych noise meltdowns. Not to say the band fits into some mathematical critic formula. Any given single from the band typifies their approach. The songs vary in length and execution. If Mike Donovan’s vocals were cropped out of the record, a new listener might believe the single is a compilation.

Their new collection A Long Way to a Shortcut (Animal Disguise) plays like one of those singles, mainly because, like those slabs of disorder, it contains a schizophrenic track listing. From song to song, Sic Alps travel from fast to slow, from clean to noisy and on down the turnpike. Every inch of the way, the band maintains the listener’s attention. Their songs contain an infectious base and they warrant the detours and layers of psych the band smears overtop.

On a personal note, I need a new soundtrack— something for my twenties. My age stopped paralleling Neil Yong protagonists two years ago, with “24 and there’s so much more.” After spending 20 at the noisy fair with all my friends there, I woke up at age 22, wondering what to do. I suppose I could have applied “Revolution Blues” to the spiritual wasteland of 23 but I cannot link it to this age. If I decided to mope around for the year, “Running Dry (Requiem for the Rockets)” would coalesce nicely with all the apologies I owe past acquaintances. If life happens to imitate art, I want somewhat happy, fun, exciting songs to soundtrack my late 20s. Also, who wants to spend the future dwelling on the past?

I once saw Liz Phair commenting about the Replacements’ Let It Be on one of those VH1 “Best List Ever” compilation shows. She said something akin to: “I remember when that album came out. I just walked around for a year being those songs.” I disagree with this code of conduct. I would never modify my lifestyle so it resembles a piece of art. I buy into that “Our band could be your life” mantra. Artists sometimes author musical works that intertwine with and parallel life in a way that transcends generalization. The general thoughts, feelings and emotions associated with the human condition are universal. However, different circumstances surrounding these aspects of the human condition make each experience unique. A good narrator exhibits the ability to become his character and transcend a simple assessment of the human condition. The emotions conveyed by this narrator pierce the skin and burrow inside of the subject.

Though Sic Alps never delve into long narrations, they cast a wide net, describing a wide variety of subjects, characters and emotions. The band punctuates its abstract, cryptic lyrical sense with a playful-but-tight instrumental delivery. The majority of their songs linger around the two-minute mark. Each song’s brevity perfectly captures a snapshot of a trade, attitude, situation or circumstance, a trait that becomes especially apparent on the Description of the Harbor 12”. The opener and title track, an interpretation of a Strapping Fieldhands gem, elongates a stream-of-conscious word sketch of a dock, its surrounding landscape and the thoughts they conjure. The mechanics of the song mimic the writing process. Donovan delivers the lyrics in a slow, dreamlike manner, paralleling the sluggish pace of inspiration. As inspiration hits, the song eventually bottoms out into a psychedelic free-for-all complete with guitar noise, horn blasts and echoing piano.

The band forsakes the Fieldhands’ surface descriptions and delves inside its characters for songs like “Message from the Law,” “The Drake” and “Speeds.” On “Speeds,” the audience receives a narrative of a brief time in a slacker’s life set to driving garage rock rhythm. After the song shatters into a wordless chorus, the listener learns the man is “back in denim,” a minimalist characteristic that maps an infinitude of possibilities. It functions like Thin Lizzy’s any-town subject matter in that the universality of the lyrics reach a wide audience. “Message…” moves with the locomotive wheels of a mid-‘60s British Invasion tune, as jangly guitars and two-part vocal harmonies transport the tune on a straight railroad track. Donovan portrays the man and snatches from the protagonist’s life in simple, evocative terms. Meanwhile, “The Drake” sketches out a doomsday getaway wherein a thick guitar line emulates the narrative movement’s rhythm. The protagonist seems caught in a Kafkaesque nightmare, as he sings “He’s got a master list of fakes/rents a room out to the drake” and connects it with “hold my hand/until we run/into the sun set.”

“The Drake” also exemplifies another of the band’s strengths, as the Alps wrap some of their oeuvre in a thick mystique, so as to obscure the character in the center of the tunes. “Brill Building” constructs an abstract tenement with reverb-blurred vocals and rusty guitars forming the foundation. Donovan sculpts some elusive feeling with lyrics like “I’ve been doubling/Split myself in two for you/Dripping honey/Bags of money, too.” The listener never quite grasps the subject matter but the band etches a bunch of vignettes into the brain.

Elsewhere, the band whips up straightforward rave-ups about singular actions and feelings. The jubilant exclamation: “There must be a story over there/There’s got to be one just about anywhere” frames “A Story Over There.” A clean, clunky riff spreads the joy, as the band merges mariachi sounds with early basement rock. “Making Plans” cakes on the distorto-dust and shimmies forth with a creepy, tantalizing vocal groove. Donovan croons “I’ve been making plans/For you and me,” as disembodied “la-la-las” and Matthew Hartman’s box top drumming linger in the background. The tunes could be about any number of things and the open-endedness of the subject matter lends the songs the ability to project themselves onto the listener’s life. For instance, I always think of “A Story Over There” as a soundtrack to my day job and the joy of finding a localized version of a national story.

Many songs project a distinct Alps flavor, but the boys seem to ghostwrite songs for the bands they listened to growing up. These songs contain a contagious shuffle rooted in the rhythm, variety and charm found on the a-sides of featured on the Nuggets collection. The band seasons most of their tunes with a pinch of dissonance and a smattering of the psych aura. Each tune presents a different face for the band and a new interpretation of the annals of rock history. Driven by a jangly guitar, a postmodern draft dodging throwback like “Message from the Law” would easily fit into Between the Buttons’ tracklist. With the jumpy, acoustic guitar-propelled British folk-pop of “Love is Strange,” the band compacts a simple meditation on courtship into a minute-and-a-half blast that would work great as a Donovan tune. The hissing feedback, sneering chorus and dangerous riff on “Strawberry Guillotine” contains hints of the sharp-edged guerilla R&B of Les Rallizes Denudes. The Alps retain their own voice, however, by working their snarl into each of the throwback tunes. Instead of merely imitating recipient of the homage, the Alps worm into the psyche of the said band and corrode it with a brown acid fog.

It also works quite well as a soundtrack to this year. I tested the album out and it plays well in a versatile array of situations. Its 26 tracks encompass a vast amount of song styles, lyrical themes and instrumental surprises akin to The Beatles’ White Album. It passes the car test, melting away the minutes as I make the mundane drive from Norwalk to New Haven County. The album defeats the boredom of a lazy Sunday. It fails to sit in the background when I attempt to engage myself with another activity while it plays. However, Sic Alps do not create background music by any means. They belong in the forefront, intertwining with life and opening eyes to the possibilities of music and poetry.

What else?

Factums “The Sistrum” (Sacred Bones): Man, the Factums evolved since their early CDrs (one of which Siltbreeze reissued) and currently take their sound into a dimension only touched upon in their initial releases. Not to underplay the value of their older releases but, in the few years that passed since their formation, the band transformed into a stronger beast with the same DNA. The band retains their affinity for Cabaret Voltaire and nihilistic, jagged, emotionless no wave. A fluid interstellar drift flows through the album, preserving continuity while developing a menacing, mechanical mood. Without forsaking the pace or bleak mood of the record, both sides exhibit a variety of textures, dynamics and approaches. “Mushrooms” is highlighted by a future-past guitar line that Roland Kirk would have murder for in 1979. The album also finds the band reaching out to their inner sense of chaos with a series of grounded instrumental detours. Right after “Mushrooms” ends, the title track blazes through meltdown dub, Amazonian bird sounds and synth squeaks. “De-Arranged,” the album’s final full song, cops a “Mushroomhead” rhythm and stuffs bouncy machine funk into the crevices. The song encapsulates the album’s inquisitive motif, as the band finds one more niche to survey before calling it a day.

Drop me a line. Brighten up my day. I'm always looking for something new to listen to or someone to meet. kobak77[at]yahoo[dot]com

Upcoming: Sickness/Wolf Eyes collab, Lambkin/Lescalleet, Emeralds, etc.

time

Nothing equals the feeling of finding a composition that resonates with you. Awkwardness and unfamiliarity mar the first sexual experience. Paranoia and inexperience sometime ruin the first high. Loser that I am, I can remember the first time I heard a song better than most of my early sexual experiences (quite possibly because the music maintained my interest more than sex. sad, I know). As I stated before, an effective work of art penetrates that thick security layer outside of your skin and begins to supplement or toy with your emotions

Fortunately, I encountered many of these pivotal musical moments in my lifetime. The first time I heard Nirvana’s “Smells like Teen Spirit” on FM, top 40 radio, it affected my life change. The band connected with my fourth-grader mind on this primal level. The song and I were both outcasts, drifting around in a plain full of pop stars and pretty people. The rough beauty of Cobain’s scream contrasted so extremely with the tailor-made pop that the message of unrest and anger became clearer. The energetic blasts of heavy guitar and fast punker drumming heightened the dissatisfied mood.

Beyond the sound and empathy for the outsider conveyed in the lyrics, the music worked on a simple surface level. Listening to the band’s thick, bleak Pacific Northwest punk sparked the realization that more of these bands must exist. Cobain rattled off legions of artists who inspired him in his interviews. I eagerly checked out many of those bands throughout middle school. Nirvana’s influence on my life extended beyond the parameters of music. Cobain’s man crush on William S. Burroughs influenced me to read a book outside of the middle school cannon. Further research into Burroughs’ peers sparked a life-long love of post-World War II American writers. I also forged many friendships with persons who felt the same way about the band, some of which still exist today.

Lately, finding this feeling seems like an empty endeavor, both spiritually and physically. Plumbing through the depth of dollar and used record bins and continually searching for a new, fulfilling sound is kind of like chasing the dragon. Both involve energy and commitment and contain the potential to dominate one’s life. In both situations, the protagonist eventually realizes no experience will match the excitement of the first time.

As I climb farther into the black hole of underground music, I find myself becoming less surprised with new bands and less enthusiastic about music, in general. Nowadays, an ace can access certain new constellations of the musical galaxy but it’s hard to find a band or artist willing to reach for the outer edges of space. If I possess the ability to break a band down into its influences, it sucks the life right out of the listening experience.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love hearing new albums. A few times a month, the big payoff rears its head in the form of a new, exciting sound or series of sounds. I just question whether or not my work matters. I doubt most artists pay attention to critics, nevermind a lowly blogger. Now more than ever, I need an epiphany via song but I find more truth, soul and vision in older tunes than almost anything contemporary. Prove me wrong, reader. Prove me wrong.

That said, it’s time for this week’s picks:

Brutum Fulmen “1000 Suns” c-46 (Throne Heap): I meant to praise this one for a while but each time I listen to the tape, it transports me to another dimension. The cassette concerns newscasts and announcements during a nuclear blast (possibly Hiroshima). Brutum Fulmen exhibits a surprising amount of restraint while synthesizing the destruction at hand. Their gentle, detail-oriented evocations of distress and build to naturally unsettling mood. The band first launches harsh static missiles to commence the album then evolve into shiver-inducing atmospheric electronics. The band creates backdrops similar to the dark, lo-fi recreations of nature featured on many black metal albums. When Brutum Fulmen splays out cold, moving dronescapes, they hit their peak. The shimmering synth sounds compressed yet multi-faceted and bright, like a thing of beauty amidst the a-bomb rubble. At one point, a fluttering, decaying movie soundtrack emerges from the rubble, engulfing the composition in a moment of ragged glory. All the while, horrific narrations sprout from the void and the band tries to audibly recreate the stories featured therein. Side B showcases a corroded version of the sound world found on the first side.

Kim Salmon “Wall/paper” c-44 (Ecstatic Peace): I have to admit I’m a little under-versed on Australian bloozers The Scientists. The outback post-punk band received accolades from many writers that I respect but I never found a decent price on their albums domestically. Hell, after hearing this tape from Scientists’ guitarist Kim Salmon, I feel the need to jump into the band’s back catalog. The tape begins with a skeletal guitar line, which sounds like a loner psych guitar line recorded from an old ’78. Though played through a wah-wah pedal, it reverberates with this distant past feel, like one of those twelve-inches on Mississippi Records. As the waves of guitar spread out, some backup instrumentation emerges and snatches the déjà vu from the song. Salmon eventually lets his axe ring and the sound sprawls out like a giant outstretched Slinky. Oddly, this tune blossoms into slowly-progressing basement blues a la a gritty, four-track the Scientists stuff I’ve heard. Great stuff.

Drop me a line. Brighten up my day. I'm always looking for something new to listen to or someone to meet. kobak77[at]yahoo[dot]com

Well, I used to be a folk singer
Keeping managers alive,
When you saw me on a corner
And told me I was jive.
So I unlocked your mind, you know
To see what I could see.
If you guarantee the postage,
I'll mail you back the key.
Well I woke up in the morning
With an arrow through my nose
There was an Indian in the corner
Tryin' on my clothes.

"Last Trip to Tulsa"
-Neil Young

sunshine and geeks

Summer time arrives once again to enliven the bleak mood of my co-conspirators and yours truly. A heatwave fails to anger me, as it forces positive change. Life slows down, allowing me an afternoon of back-porch sitting and ice tea sippin’ to the sounds of John Sterling’s hyperbolic Yankees play-by-play. Summer love evolves to the tune of “Sunshine and Grease” by Royal Trux and every block hosts action.

When the heat radiates from the sidewalks and roadways, one becomes more efficient with movements. On a walk to the supermarket during a heat wave, one stops off at the Laundromat and the barber shop to save time and duck the heat. The thrift of maneuver leaks over into simple, everyday tasks. One might grab additional tools in anticipation of an event while traveling to an area for a main reason.

Similarly, thoughts come into focus with humidity. The fervor seems to purify the inner deliberation by pressurizing the brain and allowing one to squeeze out a single coherent rumination instead of an onslaught of scattered brain spew.

These seasonal changes affect the predominant musical acts in my rotation. In the summer, I cut down on lengthy compositions and focus on succinct works. Perennials for this time of year include Pere Ubu, Jim Shepherd, Thin Lizzy and the almighty, original Stooges. In other words, the craving switches from the grandiose to something written in a direct manner that meanders at the proper interval without wandering into the stratosphere.

Thus, Nothing People’s Anonymous (S-S) marks the year’s first perfect summer record. The anonymous band picked a fitting name, as they continue to metamorphose their sound throughout the record without altering their DNA. The record finds the band claiming and conquering various modes of slanted rock’n’roll. From the thunderous, creepy-crawl boogie of “Suspicious” to the feel good hit of the summer, “In the City,” Nothing People compile two perfect sides of warped rock.

As they continually blossom and shapeshift, Nothing People fail to fit perfectly into any one pigeonhole. Sure, they fit in well with fellow weird punkers like Blank Dogs, Psychedelic Horseshit and Eat Skull, sharing a knack for odd posturing, junkyard post-punk and invigorating and well-written songs.

But the genre casts a wide net and Nothing People, like their peers, deserve a classification unto themselves. Songs like “Outsiders Are” and “In the City” contain a distinct, dark groove but sound nothing alike. “In the City,” the album’s anthemic leadoff track, serves as a call-to-arms. Throughout the tune, the band embraces and tweaks rock tradition. The wailing guitar that guides the song fluctuates between feedback squalls and robotic new wave blurs, setting the scene for a classic art-as-arena-rock summer tune. On the chorus, the band enlivens the decades old “Spin me around” chorus, as the unnamed singer adds “Show me your town/The radio’s dead/But there’s songs in my head.” The band finds strength in sparse notes during the maniacal guitar solo that ends the song. Sounding like a circuit bent fire engine siren, the guitar line rings as a wash of crazed fret melting slides in, eventually overtaking the simple solo.

On the other end of the spectrum, “Outsiders Are” thuds through a wide open stretch of desolate post-punk boogie like an Americanized version of Scientists. The masked singer shouts faux-angrily as the band filters the blues through a post-industrial landscape. Helios Creed-style melting future guitar yowls hide underneath the four-dimensional shuffle. A psychotic supernova of guitar sound eventually overtakes the hoodoo and sucks it into a black hole.

The Chrome nods mark one of many post-punk touchstones that pop up throughout the record. Like any great band, they simply know the difference between borrowing a great sonic idea and stealing a band’s identity. At various times, the masked madmen evoke footnotes and cornerstones of the history of rock. “Corner’s For” steals a page from the Alice Donut fakebook, fade-in vocals repeating a single, haunting pair of lines (“That’s what the corners for/That’s what she said) with disturbing results. The unnamed singer even apes the snotty, squealing delivery of Donut throatman Tomas Antona, furthering bad trip psych-punk effects. The comparison stops there, however, as Nothing People, like Ed Gein, merely wear the skin of their subject but retain their soul. Chug-and-drone power chords and mammoth funeral procession keyboard heightens the morbidity. Instead of inserting a masturbatory guitar solo, the band segues into a sonic laser assault complete with acid rock guitar splinters and moans cuts in for about 30 seconds. The band effectively adds power to the statement by keeping their indulgences in check, ensuring the discordance adds to the song instead of overtaking it.

Elsewhere, on “Boccioni’s Mother,” the band cops a throbbing space shuffle out of the Silver Apples’ two classic albums but transforms it into a snarling portrait of a conflicted woman. The band strings together a warbling synth/axe trod and bursts of Moog and splintered guitar heroics. The anti-solo rears its head again in the form of an ambient, guitar-as-Asian-percussion-instrument breakdown. Again, the band reveals a great deal by stating a small-but-thought-provoking trait about the protagonist. Vocalist X wails: “There’s something missing/She’s anti-graceful,” while injecting his delivery with a claustrophobic intensity.

Thee Oh Sees fete another gunner for the summer stunner with The Master’s Bedroom is Worth Spending a Night In (tomlab). Whereas their breakthrough record Sucks Blood found the band jumping around with their sound and finding a comfort zone, The Master’s Bedroom… features a matured band penning perfectly twisted garage-pop. The opening boogie of “Block of Ice” renders the album in the same ass-shakin’, heart-breakin’ territory of Anonymous.

However, Jon Dwyer’s knack for kitsch rhythms elevates the fun meter a bit. He surprises the listener with a right hook of an experimental venture but he continually finds new pathways within the Oh Sees modest tract of land. The typical Oh Sees tune revolves around thumping rhythm guitar jive and an onslaught of space greaser attitude. Adding to and coloring the instrumentation, Dwyer and Brigid Dawson share vocal duties and float a Page/Krauss vibe throughout the record. Dawson proves the perfect foil for Dwyer, as the pair shimmy through the future past. With their intertwining vocals, the duo snake bizarre melodies around the rockabilly rhythms. The band could easily fit into one of those throwback rockabilly joints. That is, until the locals realize Dwyer slipped liquid acid into their Schlitz.

Both The Oh Sees and Nothing People squeeze single, coherent sounds out of a blistering hot formula. The albums promote the fluid movement of a summer heatwave. They’ll drive you to put the needle on the groove, grab yer old lady and shake yer fine ass in one swoop.

Free Band Names

ass bandit 4
commie mcsnotface
moon burgle
squish tunnel
tuesday macwednesday
AIDS palace
child bride suicide
cornerstore twats
pipe toss
valtrex superstars
dimebag lick
menstrual chicken
(comma)
teenage pederasts
cocaine legs
fellatio fallout
liquid epiphany
bang bike
tears of blood
murder squiggles
miserable corpse sex
dragon punch
dirty time
mayor mcsleaze
fourteen pages
urban boysex
chalkboard porn
ninja sadness
razor mouth
private cancer
poop smear
earring rip
depressed call girls
drooping misery
mall hookers
big gay freedom
rocket pants
dry buttfuck
mugger olympics
lead crackers
the half-assed gloryhole
homeless twin cobras
steaming time
fencin' formula
orgasmic anthill
kittie kaoss
lazy peter
std factory
Guns 'n Shit
burgeritis
NBgAy
happy floor stain
winking anus
lifeitis
the minorities
dick burglar
chomp'n ludes
gargle monster
rescue ape
dan simons gang
kobe leg punch
the goodbye blowjob
rainbow rape
fattie eggroll
satanic pap smear
dickhole needle fuck
backseat jimmy and the unplanned pregnancies
dolphin slaughter
lude chute
vicious hug
warcrime disco
vaginal misfire
crowbar face smash
clinic looters
occult fish
jailhouse oxycontin
dead bride soufflé
mustard lube
autoerotic party
moist meat
stiff funk

(For a Guy Named Rex) Partyasaurus Rex

(Hanson Records collabo) michigan sandwich
Bonus Rapper Names:
gunsmoke johnson
MC Committin' Felonies
Pimp Cheese
MC Appliance
B Scared
Teethasaurus
Boost'n'Juice
Abe Ortion
Meta Phoric

if anyone puts out music under any of these names, please send me a recording.