Smegma, "33 1/3" (Important, 2007)

Smegma, "33 1/3"

Important Records, 2007

Since the release of "The Beast," Smegma's collaboration with Michigan noise-kings
Wolf Eyes, their subsequent performance at the
2006 No Fun Fest, and last but not least an appearance on the August 2006 cover of The Wire, this longtime group of west-coast weirdos closely associated with the Los Angeles Free Music Scene (or, LAFMS) have suddenly found themselves scrutinized under the cool glare of the hipster spotlight. I'm not here to bullshit you, being a relatively young guy, before I read John Olson's passionate exhaltation of everything Smegma in a promo written up for "The Beast" that I found at Zulu Records in Vancouver, I had no idea who these people were or the music they'd been making for 33 1/3 years. Of course, whenever someone begins to boast that (insert band name here) makes the craziest, most out-there sound, I see that as a welcome challenge. In fact, I'm already there: wallet out, eyes gleaming, mouth foaming.

When I was a teenager, it was the usual suspects: Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band, Boredoms, The Shaggs, John Zorn, and later in college it was Caroliner Rainbow, Runzelstirn & Gurgelstock, and The Legendary Stardust Cowboy. And so, after hearing all this hype, I couldn't resist the temptation to see whatthe fuss about, and began digging into their laudable back catalouge. Thankfully, courtesy of the Mutant Sounds blog, I was able to get ahold of the out-of-print 1982 lp "Pigs for Lepers," free of charge, and after spending a bit of my own bread, wound up with the recent reissue of 1981's "Nattering Naybobs of Negativity" (which includes a remastered edition of the cassette-only release, "Morass"), a 2005 collaborative lp with Metalux and Mr. No-Fun himself, Carlos Giffoni, the album which I am (sort-of) reviewing, "33 1/3," and Smegma's latest release, a collaboration with Norweigan noiseniks turned metalheads, Jazkamer.

Clearly, this is a lot of music to digest, and so far, I've managed to absorb the majority of those records with glee, along with enough comprehension of who Smegma are and the sounds they make to write a summary review of "33 1/3."First of all, I think it's important to note the label that has released this record. Important Records have a fair bit of clout in both the indie and avant-garde music worlds, and it's worth noting that as all of their releases receive professional packaging jobs, and are released in fairly reasonable quantities (if you don't count Boris' "Vein" lp), Important Records releases have a better chance of reaching a wider audience, remain in print longer, and might even wind up in your local chain record store.

This is not a criticism of the label itself, or it's business and distribution practices, but I do think that this is reflected in the music Important releases. Like the recent Jessica Rylan album, "Interior Designs," Smegma's "33 1/3," and indeed, much of the music Important releases, tend to function as great introductions to the bodies of work produced by the artists in question. Many of these albums are great, no doubt, some could even be considered essential, but it's my feeling that none of them are classic-status albums. "33 1/3" is an excellent, even essential record, and one of the best new releases I've heard all year, but I can't help but feel that with all it's bells and whistles, it lacks some of the unpolished character which early Smegma classics such as "Pigs for Lepers" and "Morass" have in spades. That being said, for old fans and newcomers alike, "33 1/3" finds all the trademarks of Smegma's peculiar sound intact and sounding better than ever: the Harry Partch influenced homemade instrumentation, altered electronics, warped vocal samples, and turntable manipulations aplenty, and lengthy, unpredicatble jam sessions reminiscent of those found on Beefheart's "Trout Mask Replica," only weirder.


Smegma have been performing this personal blend of soft and chewy free-jazz for over three decades, and it should come as no surprise that as a band of musicians, they've got much tighter with age. As I first listened to this record, one of the things which struck me as really remarkable was how loose Smegma's improvised carnival tunes seemed to be, and yet, on closer examination the composition, instrumention, and sense of dramatic timing that is employed is appropriate, I realized that while Smegma might be a bunch of goofs, they're not goofing around when it comes to technical proficiency. On past releases, Smegma's Beefheartian bozo-antics seemed at time almost randomly slapped together, sounding as if they'd been violently shoved down thirteen floors of stairs with a trampoline waiting at the bottom. In contrast, "33 1/3" finds these freaks strutting their stuff and showing off some serious musical sophistication, while sneaking in a little more structure than before into their gelatinous sound. For example, "The Door," which is the longest track on the album, and my personal favorite, plays for four solid minutes nothing but sound effects and seemingly random noise bursts and blurps before diving into a warbly surf-rock jam which sounds like it was recorded underwater, and continues on in this fashion until peaking at the ten-minute mark. Each track on the album is worth noting for its own nuances, but others I enjoyed profusely include "Glossolalia," a dynamic five-,minutes of sampled vocal dementia, the mushrooms on the midway vibe of the circus-like jam, "Antics," and the smooth-jazz ambience of "World of Plugs."

Whether or not Smegma and their LAFMS friends are the godfathers of the American free-noise scene is besides the point, and so is the fickle attention temporarily being given to them by the hipster press (Pitchfork, Tinymixtapes, et al). I for one will continue to pick up whatever records I can get my grubby hands on from this entertaining group of American originals. If you've become the least bit interested in Smegma after reading this review, I heartily suggest you nab yourself a copy of "33 1/3," or any of the albums I've already mentioned. Better yet, taste test a copy of "Pigs for Lepers" on Mutant Sounds right now, and see for yourself what all the hubub is about.

Porest, "Mood Noose" cd (Resipiscent) & "Tourrorists!" cd (Abduction)

Continuing my seasonal descent into a crazed, credit-card fueled froth, I now present yet another semi-recent find from beyond the margins.

Porest.

Porest is the moniker of producer and musician Mark Gergis, creator of some of the most intelligent, hilarious, and incendiary music of the post-9/11 age. Gergis' music is thoroughly saturated with thought-provoking, point-blank politics that take deadly aim at many of the orthodox institutions that North Americans take for granted as "our way of life." Marriage, misinformation by major media corporations, domesticity, passivity, tourism, terrorism, the wholesale slaughter and exploitation of the so-called 'Third-World' by the U.S.A. and their allies (which includes us, unfortunately): nothing is safe from Porest's oft-hilarious, always accurate scorn. Which isn't to say that you won't disagree with me when you first hear his music, in fact, this music might just piss you right off, but I find it hard to believe that someone who isn't a complete sociopath couldn't be provoked, for better or worse, by something they heard on any of his albums.

He's had his Myspace page shut down at least once by American Zionists who didn't take kindly to his apt criticism of the state of Israel; its continuing oppression of Palestine, involvement in the so-called War on Terror, and insidious partnership with its equally malignant benefactor, the good 'ol U.S.A. Though I guess we shouldn't count on Myspace to uphold the U.S. constitutional rights for it's American users when Rupert Murdoch pulls the strings, now should we?

Porest asks questions that evade easy answers, and rather than spoon-feed you with safe reassurances, he pulls the rug out from under you and kicks the skeletons out of an Imperialist, late-capitalist nation's collective closet. This is music made in the hopes that it will cause a stir in people, get them asking questions, or at the very least, maybe wake them the fuck up.


















Mood Noose cd (Respiscent, 2006)

Porest's third full-length album, released on Resipiscent Records (one of my favorite new label discoveries of the past few months), is a densely layered exercise in drawing a number of scenes and compositions detailing some of the darker undercurrents of American life. Of course, as any trip you're likely to take with Mark Gergis, and twists and turns are what make this cd special. You see, Gergis is an accomplished field-recorder as well as a musician. As result of this, his music is unfortunately frequently described as Negativland-styled plunderphonics as it is grouped into the ghettoized genre of *shudder to think* World Music. Rather, Gergis' compositions take on their own unique forms, and on Mood Noose, this means that where one song might comprise of thick, sample-filled sound-collage ("Lady Surinam," "Cartoons Aren't Funny"), the next track might have Porest doing a Residents meets Iraqi Pop song and dance routine ("The Highest Order," "Kabar Yetse Poniskyo").

Mood Noose is less tightly wound around a conceptual framework than Tourrorists!, which was released just a few months afterwards on the Sun City Girls' label, Abduction Records, but as with the rest of the Resipiscent releases I've been exposed to, its quality is impeccable. The cd is held within your standard jewel case, with not much of an insert to speak of, but overall the art and packaging has a slick, slightly home-made feel to it that speaks of real artist' work, and not the careless manufacturing of a major label release. Also of interest to fans of SF Bay Area music, Liz Allbee (who rumor has it is in Hans Grusel's Krankenkabinet) lends her trumpet to "The Mother of All Mistakes." If you've never been exposed to Porest before, Tourrorists! is probably a better place to start, but don't miss out on Mood Noose if you find yourself satisfied and wanting more, like any good capitalist piggy should.

Tourrorists! cd (Abduction Records, 2006)

There is no doubt in my mind, Tourrorists! is the definitive artistic statement on America's so-called War on Terror. Both musically and conceptually, this is Mark Gergis' money-shot on the face of the U.S.A. Before I really get into this, however, let me get something off my chest. Generally, I feel that music and politics rarely make good bedfellows. More often than not, the ideas pushed by today's musicians proclaiming themselves as "Political" or, even worse, "Punk Rock," either lack the intelligence to generate a real dialectic, are entirely hypocritical when one examines their lifestyles and ties to major multinationals, or simply continue to beat a dead horse that doesn't interest me in the slightest. What's important to know though, was that much of the music I cut my baby teeth on was entirely mixed up in politics, and so I do sympathize with those artists who simply aren't satisfied with burying their heads in the sand and saturating themselves in blind escapist fantasy. Contrary to what most college-age youth tend to think (that I've encountered), Dada as a movement was driven by politics, and the desire to change the status-quo. Art that appeared to have no actual meaning, was in fact fueled with a radical intent to transform society. Free Jazz, another hot term liberally applied to much "experimental" music, was likewise driven by a intensely devotional spirituality, and a desire to see change take place.

My point is this, most of the music being made today seeks only to entertain, which is fine in and of itself, but where is the artist who would rather make himself a martyr than a minstrel show? The artist willing to be interrogated, hounded, and hated for asking the wrong questions, for saying what noone wants to hear? Mark Gergis is that kind of artist. The album art alone is enough to send shivers up the spine of any overly patriotic conservative: an explosive device inside of a suitcase is revealed when you remove the cd from it's jewel case, a picture of Gergis standing beside a Hezbollah soldier in Lebanon, a photo collage contrasting racist rendering of red Indians behind a meat grinder, and the large text that reads "God Bless the Terrorists and Their Families."

Rather than describe the music at length, I'd like to say that if you're still with me on this so far, please just spend the money and buy this album right now, or at least test the waters by purchasing the awesome "Eye of the Leopard" on iTunes. It may confuse you, make you angry, or make you laugh, but I can say with total certainty that it will grab your attention like two towers in the New World Mordor who shall remain nameless and ringless.

Peace

Summer Lovin', The Skaters

For the past four years, each summer has gripped tightly to a dear tradition of mine: the mad consumerist rush to obtain albums from all my current musical obsessions (and the excess of money from Arctic Circle Surveillance that makes tracking down said obsessions possible). Last year I was busy picking up back catalog items from Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band, and Tatsuya Yoshida (Ruins, Koenjihiyakei, Knead, and many more), as well as many other random discs of fancy. All in all, I'd say in four months I bought 36 albums. Which, I'll admit, was a tad excessive, but working full-time in the Arctic while taking a break from school should have its perks. Not having to rape my wallet for tuition in the summer months must count for something, right? I think that it does; a cause for celebration (with headphones on).

This summer, the same logic still applies, only with the added bonus that I won't be paying tuition at all this fall, but will be instead be investing in real life stuff, like circuit-bent synthesizers and groceries. So I've got some added carefree cash, complete with little anxiety towards my future state, which'll surely include buying records anyways, so why stop now? Two months have passed in this summer, and I've been on a paypal rampage. With the next few posts, I'd like to introduce you all to the heavy vibrations of my summer obsessions.

Today: The Skaters.

The Skaters are James Ferraro and Spencer Clark; an enigmatic twosome from that blessedly damned state of outsider art, abject poverty, and sun-drenched drone: California. Like so much of the quality lo-fi revelations being put to tape 'Out There' in North America, the term"Noise" doesn't even begin to describe what it is this duo does best. Theirs is a swirling, chaotic, often majestically melodic mushroom cloud of angelic all-vocal psychedelia, an impenetrable cosmic moan that reaches out at you with smoky tendrils, drawing you in deep. Others have said their sound to be an extension of the free-jazz aesthetics dreamed up by Coltrane and Miles Davis, but don't come to this hazy party looking to dig on saxophones, or any percussion that goes beyond one hand beating out a off-beat, repetitive cosmic t h u d d d. I'm not saying that I even really agree with this assessment of their work, but I will say this: there is consciousness and soul alive in this music. The Skaters may improvise their live, electrified incantations, but before they open their big mouths, there is some serious premeditation happening.

If this has interested you so far, stay with me, because there are so important things to know when diving into the gaping body of these boys' canon. First of all, if you don't have it installed on your computer already, get yourself Soulseek (imho: the best P2P file sharing program out there), 'cuz these two sporadically release cdrs, records, and tapes that fall into two categories: 1) limited availability, and; 2) "fucking forget about it dude!" I've been into The Skaters for about a year now, so not very long at all, and I've got eight albums of what they call their "private imaginations" on my pc. Only one of these albums, Pavilinous Miracles of Circular Facet Dice, was paid for. Why? Because the others are gone, sold out, bye-bye. If you're an eBay hound, good luck, you'll do well for yourself, as I see the odd release on there from time to time, but if you feel like jumping into this psychedelic pool, be prepared to diligently nab whatever you can before it's gone in a puff of smoke. I suggest becoming familiar with the following: Fusetron, Midheaven Mailorder, Aquarius Records, Forced Exposure, Hanson Records, and Weirdo Records.

As a primer for any inductee into these secret worlds of Skaters skull-dome pleasure, I humbly recommend seeking out the following sunken treasures:

-Pavilinous Miracles of Circular Facet Dice
-Gambling in Opha's Shadow
-Mountain of Signs
-Receding Smokebath
-Untitled
-Rippling Whispers
-Humming Lattice Flowers (from the 10 lp "California" box-set put out by RRRecords)

Peace.

Return of the Head-Eye or Back Vibes for Heavy Blog-Massage

Well, don't get too excited just yet, but as many of you may not know, I'm currently 'on vacation' in the Canadian Arctic (Iqaluit, Nunavut, on Baffin Island, to be more exact), so my internet connections have been less than steady. Truth be told, I haven't had a decent (ie: dsl) connection in over a month. Future postings should be somewhat more frequent from here on out, however, this blog is going to take on a slightly different format.

Let's face facts (or rather, opinions): you have yours, and I have mine. Personally, I don't believe in such a thing as bad taste, or conversely, in the cultish hegemony of High Art either. All orthodoxies are borders, and personally I'd rather piss on the floor than have to confine myself to the acceptable parameters of what critics define as 'Music Criticism.' Me. I am not a music critic. True, I did write album reviews for over two years (most of them shitty reviews, but the more I wrote the better they became), and I have referred to myself in the past as an aspiring critic and/or a music critic. That age has passed. What I now realize is that all I can possibly hope to achieve, in writing about the sounds I like to hear, is that I may possibly turn someone on to an oddity they might have never been exposed to. Clearly, anyone who possesses a range of intelligence enough for them to place a simple verb before a noun, has the ability to criticize (ex: verb, "shitty", noun, "indie-band") . See, it's easy.

So why the predisposition towards pretention. Why must records be shoveled down our throats buy media (indie or not) organizations as these perfectly hip, fetishized commodities which, if you don't like (insert Trendy Band A here) means you are certifiably clinically retarded, and have 0 hipness experience points. Oh just eat my sweet dick. Nobody has to love anything, and I've certainly had enough experience in weirding out my friends (with their own individual tastes, neither better nor worse than mine) with fucked up music to know that some people, while they may appreciate the artistic intent involved, just don't like it. Giving an overrated, or even genuinely great, record 5 stars or a 10.0 with enough adjectives to fill a thesaurus (and obscure references to postmodern philosophy or fucking Don DeLillo's "White Noise") doesn't make you fucking Robert Cristgau incarnate, it just makes you a bigger douchebag than I'm willing to cop to.

So anyways, don't worry friends, I still love writing about music, and I'm still as opinionated and passionate about the whack-job weirdness that floods my engines as ever, but I'll leave the criticism waiting at the fleshy brown door of my asshole. No, expect this blog from now on to be more about what I'm into, and why it melts my fucking face off!

or (as I also scribbled down on my blackboard brain)

" Aloha boils and ghouls,

after a month-long hiatus (no internet being the damnable culprit), I'm back at the Heavy Vibes blog (http://heavyvibes.blogspot.com) with a slightly altered agenda.

Taste the good times people, don't hate.

I've resolved to remove any critical douchebaggery from the remainder of my music writing. I love what I love and I won't apologize for it, but I'll be fucked if I'm going to tell you that some obscure 4.99 cdr is the noise equivalent to the Tower of Piza (or that the Leaning Tizzower barely rates a 2.6 when compared to the 10.0 of my perfectly flacid cock). Fuck that.

Record ratings are for pitchforked twats.

From now on, think of these musings on music as the humble opinions of one zonked-out lover."

Continue to dye in Peace.

-Christian

P.s. I've got a nice steamy load of cdrs/cds/& dvds on their way, so keep coming back every week and I'll promise to have an extra special surprise waiting.

Jessica Rylan, Interior Designs cd

Jessica Rylan, Interior Designs cd
Important Records, 2007

On Interior Designs, sound-artist Jessica Rylan presents her first published instrumental works for performance on synthesizer, or as I hear it, four acutely personal and distinctly decorated pieces of charming, introverted flower electronics. Important's press release describes these pieces as more "classical in nature than her work as Can't", but this statement is pretty damned superficial, seeing as whether she's performing under her own name, or as her noisier alter-ego Can't, Rylan's work as a composer and performer is instantly recognizable. The only power-electronics performer whose music I would whole-heartedly describe as delicate and pleasant, Rylan is an artist whose intimate and studied approach to home-made electronic noise and circuit-bent beauty generates warmth within a genre often balked at as cold, grating, and annoying. Instead, her carefully considered, though freely improvised, transitions in tonal depth, volume, colour, and feedback, generates an inviting aural space ruled by a highly personal sense of wonder and whimsy. Although Jessica Rylan's work on Interior Designs might be more self-conciously composed than some of her various cassette and cd-r releases, the clean production and fidelity of the album is what really sets this apart from her other releases. It's not the best production job on an album I've ever heard, but it's fidelity is considerably clearer than a cassette, and that's good enough for me! The music on this release ranges from flighty synthesizer scramble ("Extraordinary"), rumbling tape detritus ("Timeless"), digital bird calls ("Phantasia"), and even some acoustic twang on the title track finale. All in all, this is a sweet, high-quality release that Can't fans should eat up in an instant, and a perfectly enjoyable introduction to the work of this unique and celebrated sound-artist.

From Suspiria (1977), dir: Dario Argento

Marnie Stern, In Advance of the Broken Arm cd

Marnie Stern, In Advance of the Broken Arm cd
Kill Rock Stars, 2007.






I should be enjoying this. Recommended to me by a formerly good friend of mine, long familiar with my affinity for noise riddled rock & the spazzier side of maximalist prog-punk (anyone wanna share a Melt Banana with me?), bedroom progger Marnie Stern's debut album on Kill Rock Stars was supposed to be a sure thing. Too bad for me, it wasn't. In Advance of the Broken Arm has many of the electric eclectic ingredients that should guaruntee a sweet spazz-rock record: eargasmic technical proficiency (this gal can really rip!), erratic switches in time signatures, playful lyrics, and continuous swathes of skull-rumbling double-stroke single-kick drumming courtesy of none other than Zach Hill, who also produced the album! So, you might be asking, with all this to enjoy, what went wrong? Unfortunately for my ears, everything. While Stern spent two years alone in her bedroom privately penning and practicing the demo skeletons of the songs that appear on this album, her overwrought songwriting indicates a serious lack of an internal editor. Stern's unique style of finger-picking is playful, peculiar, and intimately personal, but her songs suffer from seeming directionless and forced. Sure, her guitar playing is impossibly impeccable, but where's the impact, or the escastic oomph and bang of a bitchin' solo? More importantly, where's the soul!? If a soul can be found somewhere in this mess, it's most likely bound to be buried beneath layers of Zach Hill's unfocused, acid-washed production values. As a musician, Zach Hill is a frenetically paced, insanely gifted drummer who, with the exception of Brian Chippendale and Chris Corsano, has few peers in modern drumming. However, Hill's handicap is his own self-indulgent musicianship, and this carries over into his work as a producer on In the Advance of the Broken Arm. Had it not been for Stern's self-indulgent songwriting and Hill's lazy production job, Marnie Stern's debut could have been an enjoyable album full of complicated yet dizzyingly fun songs combined with lightning-fast guitar-gymnastics. Instead, In Advance of the Broken Arm is an instantly forgettable, meandering mess, made by an otherwise gifted guitarist and her pals.

Acid Mothers Temple & The Melting Paraiso U.F.O., Crystal Rainbow Pyramid Under the Stars cd

Acid Mothers Temple & The Melting Paraiso U.F.O., Crytal Rainbow Pyramid Under the Stars
Important Records, 2007.

Japanese guitar-god Makoto Kawabata and his merry band of freaked-out astral virtuosos have been busy melting faces on a near bi-monthly basis for the past few years, releasing more slabs of vinyl per year than anyone should be able to feasibly afford purchasing, on a plethora of labels both domestic and international. To the casual collector, which I admit is a category which includes myself, not every rare piece of coloured plastic these savants of psychedelic rock release is absolutely necessary, but this band inspires a brand of fantaticism which threatens to usurp the once legendary consumer addiction that marked those tie-died freaky Deadheads.

And why not? Friends, let's face the facts: Frank Zappa has been dead and buried for over a decade now, the once-great prog-guitarists have all become bloated with their own self-important, New Agey spiritual adult shitemporary muzak, and the majority of today's so-called Progressive Rock musicians spend so much time "perfecting their craft" (what are they doing, gluing macaronni noodles and pieces of string to their soulless, technically obsessed rock?) that they forget to release an album!

The point is, that AMT have the chops, riffs, talent, whatever you want to call the indescribable holy "It", that makes your heart stop beating and sends your mind reeling completely over the edge until the thought projector catches fire and all you're left with is the pure sound of the Universe beating in your cosmic chest cavity and your brain ascends to Buddhahood. Acid Mothers Temple release an album that makes you feel this incredible at least three times a year, and it becomes addictive. You start checking the band's website looking for information, labels they've released albums on before, your calendar, "when is it going to fucking arrive already!?"

Alright, even if you aren't a fanatic, as I apparently am, Crystal Rainbow Pyramid Under the Stars has a lot to offer the casual curiousity seeker. For starters, the nicely polished production values on this release make it among one of AMT's most accessible albums, with a clean sound and crisp levels shine, excelling even beyond recent quality releases like "Have You Seen The Other Side of the Sky?" (released 2006 on Ace Fu). Older AMT releases like Electric Heavyland, Mantra of Love, and Univers Zen Ou De Zero have a lot to offer the intrepid lover of crazed rock and roll, and are among a few of the classics of AMT's back catalouge, but their rougher productions values make the task of enjoying them all the more daunting for the casual listener.

Crystal Rainbow Pyramid Under the Stars starts off with a bang with the relatively short (at seven minutes) free-form psych-rock song, "Pussy Head Man From Outer Space." This opening song is pretty standard fare from AMT, reminding me of "The Man From Giacobinid Meteor Comet" from the heavenly Myth of the Love Electrique released last year. The album's second track however, is an engrossing jam that'll leave you wet and weak in the knees.

Opening with some atmospheric synth work courtesy of Hiroshi Higashi that reminds me of moments from Tim Hecker's Harmony in Ultraviolet, "Crystal Rainbow Pyramid" finds Kawabata quickly shifting gears from a steady blues standard, straight into Space-Rock Heaven a la Hawkwind, transforming this titular track into one of the best single songs that the Melting Paraiso U.F.O. have ever produced ("Pink Lady Lemonade (May I Drink You Again?)" notwithstanding). And you know what? By the time "Crystal Rainbow Pyramid" is over, the album is only half-finished. That's right, "Electric Psilocybin Flashback" is forty minutes long! How epic is that? Not even Yes had a forty minute song!

So what are you doing Space Cowboy (or Cowgirl)? Quit reading this review and blow your mind with this interstellar beauty right now!

Meet you at the top of the Pyramid.

Please note: the contents of this cd are different than those of the lp, also released by Important Records, under the same name.

Review Archive Series #9: Mew, Deerhoof, Panda Bear, and Whitehouse

The following review represents a series of reviews published during the latter half of 2006, and in early 2007, near the end of my tenure as the resident music critic and assistant Arts Editor for The Phoenix: the official student newspaper of UBC-Okanagan in Kelowna, B.C. They are reprinted here with my own permission, and further edits were made where I saw fit, because I do what I want, bitch.

Mew, And the Glass Handed Kites
Sony, 2006.

And the Glass Handed Kites is the smash-hit sophomore release from the Danish progressive rock group Mew, and if you were in Denmark right now, you'd already know that. In fact, if you were Danish, you wouldn't even be reading this right now (never-mind the fact that the album has a sticker telling you just how "brilliant" and "strangely beautiful" this album is, satements which I assure you are NOT libelous, as hackneyed and trite as they are). Yes, if you were Danish you would know the names of Jonas Bjerre, Bo Madsen, Silas Utke Graae Jørgensen and Johan Wohlert by heart. Why, they'd be your George, Paul, John, and Ringo! You'd see this review as complete kitsch; the barely informative, redundant wankings of some jobless Arts student. Assuming you are Danish (remember: we're pretending), you're absolutely right. Nothing needs to to be said about this band. In Europe, and coming soon to an Asia near you, they're huge! "Sure", you'd scoff, "but so is David Hasselhoff." Shame on you naysayers and player-haters! And the Glass Handed Kites is dreamy pop perfection distilled into fourteen easily digestable tracks. It takes no effort to love this album, all you need are ears! See how I just wrote "takes" instead of "requires" or "necessitates"? It's that easy! Need a reference check? And the Glass Handed Kites is the sort of shoegazer epic My Bloody Valentine just doesn't make anymore and cold-blooded Coldplay can barely fathom conjuring in their weakly impotent, post-Radiohead pop commercials. For the remaining skeptics, I recommend listening to the three songs which I feel compose the album's power-triptych: "Apocalypso", "Special", and "The Zookeeper's Boy." If you haven't fallen madly in love with this band after hearing any one of these songs, let alone all three, you are not Danish, and you never will be.


Panda Bear, Person Pitch
Paw Tracks, 2007

For fans and critics alike, Noah Lennox's latest solo outing, Person Pitch, has a lot of lofty expectations to live up to. As a full-time member of the unpredictable art-rock quartet, Animal Collective, whose last full-length Feels joyously wormed its way into the collective hearts of many condescending critics and hopeful fans (including yours truly), Panda Bear risks treading redundant sonic ground, alienating Animal Collective fans, or worse, producing another Danse Manatee (arguably A.C.'s worst album). Thankfully, Person Pitch entirely avoids each of these possible creative pitfalls, delivering instead eight pitch-perfect pop songs which draw fantastic images of Zombies attacking Brian Wilson's blissed-out beach house as reverb-soaked foams crashes soflty upon the shore. Produced on his laptop, and composed entirely of Lennox's voice and found samples, the album is a perfect example of Panda Bear's unique pop sensibilities and increasingly approachable songcraft. Person Pitch is a far cry from the wild psychedelic freak-outs of Animal Collective's 2004 noise rock record Here Comes the Indian, as much as it is a deviation from the painful mourning which he expressed on his first official solo record, Young Prayer. Whether it be wading in swimming pools on a sunny summer day, drifting in and out through morphine drips, or the wet anxious lips of your first, Person Pitch sounds like every sweet memorable moment of your life condensed into forty-five minutes. I could sail on these sounds for days at a time.


Deerhoof, Friend Opportunity
Kill Rock Stars, 2007

The cat is finally out of the bag: Deerhoof are, without question, one of the sweetest bands currently rocking on the green planet. Their ninth studio album to date, Friend Opportunity finds the terrific trio of vocalist and bassist Satomi Matsuzuki, guitarist John Dieterich, and drum-savant Greg Saunier satisfied in having outgrown their garage roots and art-rock pretensions, and ready to become the biggest stars in the Milky Way galaxy. Satomi introduces herself (and by association, the rest of the band) in Friend Opportunity's first song, saying "Meet me. Meet the perfect me," in the album's opening track, and she is absolutely right. Though the album is considerably shorter in length than its predecessor, it is much more focused than The Runners Four; featuring tighter, brighter, and more dynamic arrangements, supporting quirky, memorable songs guaranteed to be bouncing around in your brain-case for days on end. This is the sound of a group in their finest form, playing purely for the sheer fun of it. Seriously. If you even need proof, "Kidz Are So Small"s alchemical mixture of booty bass, Thomas Dolby "She Blinded Me with Sciene" style keyboards, and Satomi's endless repetition of "If I were a man and you a dog, I'd through a stick for you" is so infectiously silly that it's simply impossible to resist its charms. Check your chest cousin, 'cuz if you don't get Deerhoof, you got no heart n' no soul.

Whitehouse, Asceticists 2006
Susan Lawly, 2006

William Bennett is the father of power electronics, and, along with TG pioneer Genesis P. Orridge and early tape manipulator Boyd Rice (aka Non), one of the godfathers of noise music as we know it today. Without the hateful, insolent influence of Whitehouse, current harsh noise heavyweights such as Wolf Eyes, John Wiese, or even No Fun curator Carlos Giffoni would not possibly perform as they do today. That said, being influential does not instantly make one worth listening to, and if there is one thing Ascetecists 2006 proves, it demonstrates, without remorse or reproach, that Whitehouse's white hot power electronics and broken glass cut-ups of Bennett's virulent rants are just as powerful and relevant as the current noise-mongering of their contemporaries. Ascetecists 2006, despite Whitehouse's reputation as detestable noisemakers unworthy of your attention or even your respect, is not an anti-record. True, the back of the album does say "warning: extreme electronic and acoustic music - please acquire with caution," but Asceticists 2006 is an album, and believe it or not, it does contain actual songs possessing deliberate form and content, lyrical subject matter (as obscene and incendiary as ever), and building progressions of high frequency violence coupled with intense, cut-up glitchscapes. What the fuck is 'real music' anyways? I'll tell you what it is, absolute SHIT! Ascetecists 2006 is an expert, point-blank execution of a single-minded concept which could only be pulled off by one of extreme music's most (dis)reputable acts. The title of Asceticists 2006's final cut says it all, dump the fucking rubbish indeed!

News: White Stripes in Iqaluit coverage, and new reports from deep within Interzone to come later this week!

Things have been pretty exciting here at Heavy Vibes for the past two days. Very recently, my girlfriend was graciously given one of the coveted, extremely limited tickets to The White Stripes concert at the Arctic Winter Games Arena in Iqaluit, Nunavut! Jack and Meg will be performing here in Iqaluit on June 27th, just eight days after the release of their highly anticipated (Inuit eat this shit up, seriously!) sixth album, "Icky Thump," so expect both an album and show review from guest contributor, Le Zais, sometime around the end of next month.

But on a more serious note: what the fuck are the White Stripes doing playing a show at an overhyped hockey rink in the Eastern Arctic? And why the fuck do I keep coming to this place every summer?!

Pocahaunted and Robedoor, Mouth of Prayer cdr review

Pocahaunted and Robedoor, Mouth of Prayer cdr,
released on Blackest Rainbow

The hard-working people at the Not Not Fun label have been making plenty of waves recently with the burgeoning success of Goliath Bird Eater, as well their Bored Fortress 7" series, and I decided it was time, for my own benefit, to give some of bands associated with the L.A. label a much needed listen. Having heard the Robedoor's Shining Smoke cdr, released on LongLongChaney Records, I had some idea what to expect of this collaborative effort, but having no exposure to Pocahaunted previous to this release, I was still in for quite the surprise, and what a surprise! Blooming like a haunted orchid unfolding in one long single track, Mouth of Prayer opens with the light strumming of some distant looped guitar chords, surrounded by the warmth of a gently growing drone. As the warm tones thicken and become more layered, mournful, angelic vocals enter into the mix, crying out over softly padded tribal drumming. Robedoor definitely explore their softer side on Mouth of Prayer, ditching their usually heavily layered, smoke-machine drone textures for a more subtle, breathy approach, exposing a much softer side of the duo's doom-dub experiments. Most likely, this is a result of the more playful company they decided to keep on this cdr. Wordlessly channelling voices from some native netherworld, the ladies from Pocahaunted chant in ghostly circles, adding an ethereal element to Robedoor's burning spirit-fire. Mouth of Prayer is repetitive, but in a good way, and can be experienced as an exercise in ritual ambience. While fans familiar with Not Not Fun's skronkier, no(w)-wave styled releases might be turned off by Pocahaunted and Robedoor's New Agey jrone and jrum circle jams, listeners looking for something to soothe their noise-seared ears would do well to take a swim in these ghostly waters.

Excepter, Stream 40 review

Excepter, Stream 40
Self-released, 2007

Stream 40 is exactly what it sounds like, the 40th in series of self-released streaming media audio documents straight outta computers from the Excepter camp, the only difference being that this particular podcast is five hours long! I shit you not, five hours of pure unadultered Excepter pouring out your iPod headphones like the Dalai Lama decided to spend damn near 1/4 of a day in your head praying and chanting on a bed of synthesizers. Not only is this the longest podcast or encoded mp3 in the history of the digital age, it's a solid slab of Excepter's dub-inflected, noise-hop hybridization from start to finish. Stylistically, Stream 40 runs the gamut from the lo-fidelity sci-fi ghettotronics of the Tank Tapes cassette to the howling dub spiritual sound-system psychedelinoise of Throne and KA, skullfully approximating the alternating sounds of this ever-mutating group from past to present, laying down a five-hour blueprint that sounds more like a five-year plan of what's yet to come. Excepter have been releasing these streams through their site on podomatic for a couple of years now, but never have these free downloads been so essential. Excepter recently saw the potential in these releases and put out a slimmed down 2-disc compilation of all the quality cuts through Fusetron called entitled Streams 1, but you'd be missing out if you didn't go to their page on podomatic now and grab all these streams while they're still free.

Review Archive Series #8: The Flying Luttenbachers, Cataclysm cd

The following review represents one in a series of reviews published during my tenure as the resident music critic and assistant Arts Editor for The Phoenix, the official student newspaper of UBC-Okanagan in Kelowna, B.C. They are being reprinted here because I feel that while these reviews might represent a point of serious-suckitude in the developement of my writing, they are examples of my earliest attempts at criticism (if jerking off on an album's cover can be considered criticism), and above all: these albums desperately deserve the attention of your tinnitus-damaged ears.















The Flying Luttenbachers, Cataclysm
ugEXPLODE, 2006

Weasel Walter is on a mission to make modern music his prison bitch. Having penetrated the gaping-asshole blackness of godless infinity on 2004's The Void, Cataclysm finds the self-described 'free-chromaticist' and his partners in 21st century compositional crime, Mike Green, Ed Rodriguez, and the inimitable Mick Barr, celebrating "the inevitable self destruction of decadent, tyrannical, or non-sustainable systems." Wowza. Well...if there is one thing you can't accuse Weasel Walter of, it's not taking his music seriously enough. Case in point: on one of the albums stand-out tracks, the Luttenbachers cover the fourth movement of French composer Olivier Messiaen's "L'Ascension;" which accentuates the album's conceptual framework while attesting to Walter's affinity for twentieth-century avant-garde composition. The most recent addition to the Luttenbachers line-up, Mick Barr, makes his manic mark all over Cataclysm, delivering his best shredding since Orthrelm's obscene 2005 masterwork, OV. Showing no signs of slowing down, this iridescent behemoth of a band continues to hybridize itself and its sound; incorporating every conceivable genre from brutal progressive rock and no-wave skronk to technically absurd avant-jazz and beyond. Give Weasel Walter your money!

Review Archive Series #7: The Advantage, Elf-Titled cd

The following review represents one in a series of reviews published during my tenure as the resident music critic and assistant Arts Editor for The Phoenix, the official student newspaper of UBC-Okanagan in Kelowna, B.C. They are being reprinted here because I feel that while these reviews might represent a point of serious-suckitude in the developement of my writing, they are examples of my earliest attempts at criticism (if jerking off on an album's cover can be considered criticism), and above all: these albums desperately deserve the attention of your tinnitus-damaged ears.



















The Advantage, Elf Titled
5RC, 2006

Concussive bolts of blocky energy whirred past me, shimmering in the glass of my space helmet's face-plate as sweat beaded down my forehead. My panicked eyes had long gone bloodshot, vision blurred. Nervously I gripped my controller tighter, pressing it in closely to my chest. Energy tank low, I descended down airlocked corridors in the deep catacombs of Zebes: firing off blasts into the deep blackness. Finally, I reach my target. Its scale is massive, towering from floor to ceiling, a seemingly endless 8-bit behemoth. The single, lidless eye of Mother Brain stares at me coldly. Suddenly, hungry Metroids appear out of nowhere, there's a flash, I dive to move out of the way...

My controller smashes against the carpet floor, my mouth dry from screaming childish obscenities. Mother Brain tells me that I've had enough for today, and to go outside and play in the 'real world'. Fuming, pissed, and defeated, I leave: the cartridge quietly collecting dust within the mocking grey console.

My childhood is populated with scenes like this: hours spent with eyes captivated on the television screen only to end in humiliating defeat at the hands of Dracula, Dr. Wily, or those damned eggplant wizards from Kid Icarus. The Advantage are a progressive rock four-piece who made their debut in 2005, covering the classic themes of the NES games that were the source of so much of my childhood joys and frustrations. Where their debut covered many of the more well-known bases, Elf-Titled tackles the themes of more obscure Nintendo classics, as well as some old favorites, and Castlevania, Megaman II, Ducktails, Double-Dragon, and Metroid are just a few of the games feature on the album's sixteen compositions, which includes two, three-part medleys.

Not unlike the classic NES games which inspired it's creation, Elf-Titled's greatest strength lies in it's replayability. More often than not, The Advantage's new renditions surpass the original themes them by giving them a sonic depth and texture the 8-bit system simply wasn't capable of, and their ingenuity and technical skill put them head and shoulders above the rest of their nintendocore contemporaries. What few critics tend to realize is that the themes to these games weren't just cute little keyboard compositions set to play as muzak while us gamers brought down alien civilizations or saved Princess Peach for the nth time. These tunes were thought to be examples of modern classical music in Japan. So obviously, bringing these themes to life requires impeccable musicianship, which thankfully, The Advantage have in spades. Armed with a diverse arsenal of instruments ranging from electric sitars to Hammond organs, The Advantage rock with as much passion as technical precision, coming off as a King Crimson for the Nintendo generation. Elf-titled features a variety of musical styles, from the hard-driving electro-funk of "Batman - Stage 1" to the symphonic metal medley of "Castlevania III - Boss Music > Willow - Village > Megaman II - Bubble Man", with each song building in strength until the triumphant finale of "Wizards & Warriors - Tree Trunk > Woods > Victory". Fans of The Fucking Champs, the aforementioned King Crimson, Rush, and The Minibosses should have a lot of fun with this record, making it the perfect soundtrack to a long night of munchies and Mountain Dew in the Mushroom Kingdom. Game on.

Review Archive Series #6: Mindflayer, Expedition to the Hairier Peaks cd

The following review represents one in a series of reviews published during my tenure as the resident music critic and assistant Arts Editor for The Phoenix, the official student newspaper of UBC-Okanagan in Kelowna, B.C. They are being reprinted here because I feel that while these reviews might represent a point of serious-suckitude in the developement of my writing, they are examples of my earliest attempts at criticism (if jerking off on an album's cover can be considered criticism), and above all: these albums desperately deserve the attention of your tinnitus-damaged ears.



















Mindflayer, Expedition to the Hairier Peaks
Corleone Records, 2005

Expedition to the Hairier Peaks opens with a maelstrom of messy noise bursts that burr and whirl about in a harsh, barely discernible rhythm: setting the tone for an album whose appeal is limited at best to the most rabid fans of LOAD Records extended family. Once the initial blast is over, and the radioactive dust begins to settle, Chippendales psychotic drumming fades into the mix. By the time the third track, "Netherworld Bike Patrol C.H.A.O.S.", blows out your speakers, a discernible pattern begins to emerge from the ruins Mindflayer have left smoldering in their wake. "Time Tunnel (Cosmic Crypt Chronoscape Collision Course)" draws the listener deeper into the album's painfully psychedelic keyboard and drum jihad, and the song's repetetive rhythm and noise combo holds brutally hypnotic power over the bludgeoned listener.

Previous releases had Mindflayer tagged by some as the mere bastard lovechild of Lightning Bolt and Forcefield. Nothing could be further from the truth. Expedition to the Hairier Peaks, their fouth album, indicates the deadly seriousness of this duo as a not the work of a side-project. Set apart from their tamer siblings, Mindflayer are an altogether different animal: a nasty-ass irascible beast with acid blood dripping from its frothing rabid chittering maw. Expedition to the Hairier Peaks features three epic patience-testers, which is fitting considering the albums name is a play on the name of a Dungeons and Dragons add-on. The fourteen minute "Nasty Meeting at Peak Park (Exploding Remains)" stands as the most terrifying amalgamation of Matt Brinkman's throbbing electronic gristle, and Chippendale's drumming is the stuff to inspire all-out prog-genocide. Throughout the album, vocals are barely audible, buried deep beneath layers of sound. When heard, the vocals are distorted, demonic, and screamed like scraped nails across a chalk board of white noise. There is little rock to be found in the raging wind-tunnel noise at the top of the Hairier Peaks, but that shouldn't turn curiosity seekers away. This stuff may be for the dudes whose ears are already ringing, but it isn't Merzbow, and it will lead to a greater appreciation of Forcefield, Lightning Bolt, and all their related excursions into your ear (especially the excellent Brian Chippendale solo-project, Black Pus!).

RTX, Western Xterminator cd review

The following review was originally written for The Artbeat zine, issue #1, published May 3, 2007.












RTX, Western Xterminator
Drag City, 2007

SHIT YES! With or without the junkie-guitar gunslinging of grunge-hero Neil Micheal Haggerty, Royal Trux continues to ride towards Rock and Roll Heaven on a flaming deathcycle of pure a-w-e-s-o-m-e. I mean, just look at the cover of this thing! Lead-vocal vamp Jennifer Herrera is decked out like a badass cartoon super-pirate, and she's playing a fucking flute! And yeah, for the record, she actually does play a rippin' flute on the opening track, it's all part of the fun. Make no mistake, Western Xterminator is an acid-washed rock record in tradition of Wendy O Williams, AC/DC's Highway to Hell, and G'N'R's mammoth Appetite for Destruction, sans the shitty ballads and Axl Rose aquanet jumpsuit theatrics. Instead, RTX cut the fat, and deliver only what's expected of them: sleazy, drop-out rock and roll. Seriously, if not for the total sense of embarrassment I'd suffer at the hands of "respectable" friends and family, Western Xterminator makes me want to carve myself a dyed-blonde skullet, tear the sleeves off all my t-'s, and crack open a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon as I chug to nothing but Motorhead's "Ace of Spades" (every time Lemmy roars "the Ace of Spades", drink!).

Wolf Eyes, A Black Wing Over the Sand cd and Lambsbread, Stereo Mars lp reviews

The following reviews were originally written for Artbeat zine issue #2, published May 17, 2007.



















Wolf Eyes, Black Wing Over the Sand
2007, iDEAL Recordings

I once read in an interview with Ben Chasney that he envisioned Six Organs of Admittance's 2006 album The Sun Awakens to be an audio experience akin to Alejandro Jodorowsky's bloody zen spaghetti western epic El Topo. Well, if Six Organ's The Sun Awakens evoked visions of El Topo's savage desert space and mystic grandeur, then Wolf Eyes' Black Wing Over the Sand is more like some imaginary El Topo 3000, where the Mexican cyborg gunslinger hero doesn't even get a chance to rot before his failing body is picked clean by a flock of monstrous, mechanical vultures. Wolf Eyes have often managed to churn up visceral images of bio-horror and organic decomposition with their mass of homemade oscillators, decaying tape loops, synapse-frying saxophone, and a whole other manner of instrumentation traditional and jerry-rigged alike, and Black Wing Over the Sand, not unlike the recent "official" Sub-Pop release Human Animal, continues to confuse sound sources both organic and electronic into a seamless hypnotic horror with frightening prolificacy. Released on Gothenberg, Sweden's iDEAL Recordings, Black Wing Over the Sand is spread out over two sides (or two tracks, if you've got the slightly-less limited cd version), with each track just breaking the seventeen-minute mark. Side A begins with some electronic detritus, squealing tapes, a screeching loop (the vultures begin to circle), and a gaping chasmic synth drone that'll set your head to spin and stone. Side Two is essentially a continuation of the first, featuring similar stretches of undulating rhythms and sonic shrapnel that should please anyone familiar with the Wolf boys at this point in their career, but should also provide a more accessible jumping point for anyone who shied away from Human Animal's more intense, concentrated miasma. Black Wing Over the Sand is not entirely essential, but it's endemic of Wolf Eye's current musical direction, and I for one can't wait to hear what they cook up next.



















Lambsbread, Stereo Mars
2007, Ecstatic Peace!

Stereo Mars is the latest semi-ultra-limited (that's 500 copies brothers and sisters) release from Lambsbread, a trio of Ohio-based Harry Pussy lovers who rip into righteously distorted free-improv instrumental hardcore in the polluted, lo-fi vein of Husker Du's Land Speed Record, or the aformentioned Harry Pussy's infamously titled In An Emergency You Can Shit On A Puerto-Rican Whore. Still, any apt comparisons between Stereo Mars, or any selection from Lambsbread's rapidly growing discography, becomes pathetically null and meaningless given that the greater majority of 80's hardcore goons performed songs which gave up the ghost after a minute at most, Lambsbread allow their sonic spasms some space, spreading out the skree out for nearly fifteen minutes on both sides, without barely pause or reflection. Guitarists Zac Davis and Kathy O'Dell inspire feedback spiked freakouts and total fretboard-fuckery in ways that haven't been pulled off successfully by any player in the post-Thurston world, and drummer Shane Mackenzie provides an element which balances Lambsbread's transcendental thrash with raw percussive power. Prior to checking this lp out I'd heard nothing but good things about Lambsbread, and given my fondness for Harry Pussy styled free-noise, Stereo Mars did not disappoint.

Review Archive Series #5: Behold...the Arctopus, Nano-Nucleonic Cyborg Summoning cd

The following review represents one in a series of reviews published during my tenure as the resident music critic and assistant Arts Editor for The Phoenix, the official student newspaper of UBC-Okanagan in Kelowna, B.C. They are being reprinted here because I feel that while these reviews might represent a point of serious-suckitude in the developement of my writing, they are examples of my earliest attempts at criticism (if jerking off on an album's cover can be considered criticism), and above all: these albums desperately deserve the attention of your tinnitus-damaged ears.


















Behold...the Arctopus, Nano-Nucleonic Cyborg Summoning cd
Metal Blade/Black Market Activities, 2006

Dear reader, please indulge me in a favor. I entreat you to, in heart, mind, and spirit, ignore the fact that Nano-Nucleonic Cyborg Summoning is quite possibly the most-ridiculously titled album, ever. A name not even surpassed by the trio who hath wrought such a fucking perplexing beast of an ep. That being said, this three-song, 17 minute ep is one of the most mind-blowingly brilliant documents of instrumental progressive rock made in America today. I'm talking a prog-rock blowjob for your brain that you'll never forget! Nano-Nucleonic Cyborg Summoning is the King of prog-blowjobs (or Queen of said blowjobs, if that's your trip)! With this, their sophomore effort, Behold...the Arctopus crown themselves as the true successors to the throne of King Crimson. I cannot exaggerate this record's sheer awesomeness enough: this record is the soundtrack for the real 21st Century Schizoid Man.

Each solo launched on Colin Marston’s 12-string customized Warr guitar viciously assaults the human mind’s capacity to interpret rhythm and melody: first resulting in confusion,closely followed by reverent awe, and resulting finally in a total fucking face-melting. As indicated by ludicrous, pseudo-scientific song titles like "Estrogen-Pathogen Exchange Program", it is clear that the Arctopus’ tongue is placed so firmly in cheek that it has managed to pulsate, grow, pierce through the flesh, and lick it’s own eye. Fucking Behold this shit already!

Special Note: this cd was re-released by Metal Blade/Black Market Activities months later, completely remastered and featuring not only their previously released Arctopocalypse Now...Warmageddon Later ep, but some live cuts which shred even more than the 'official' studio tracks.

Review Archive Series #4: Arsis, A Diamond For Disease ep

The following review represents one in a series of reviews published during my tenure as the resident music critic and assistant Arts Editor for The Phoenix, the official student newspaper of UBC-Okanagan in Kelowna, B.C. They are being reprinted here because I feel that while these reviews might represent a point of serious-suckitude in the developement of my writing, they are examples of my earliest attempts at criticism (if jerking off on an album's cover and then snorting the cum in a line off my hand can be considered criticism).



















Arsis, A Diamond for Disease ep
Willowtip, 2005

The title track of this three-track ep by two-man American Death Metal innovators Arsis is beyond a shadow of a doubt the most ambitious single to be released this year by any aspiring prog-metal duo with only guitar, drums, and a whole bloody ballet company at their disposal! Forget the amusingly aggressive cover of Alice Cooper’s “Roses on White Lace” or the relentlessly repetitive bore, “The Promise of Never”, all that is really supposed to matter about this releases is the incredibly wank thirteen-minute melodic metal 'masterwork' that is “A Diamond for Disease.” A Diamond for Disease is the follow-up to last year’s A Celebration of Guilt, which along with Neuraxis’ Trilateral Progression was one of the best technical death-metal albums of 2004, let’s hope this trend of super-duper-fantastic releases from Willowtip continues to rejuvinate and revitalize what is truly the new classical music genre of the new millineum (snobbish technical posturing and refusal to branch out in ways that don't involve a ballet company intact). Heavy, but this attempt at legitimizing metal by combining it with an "avant-theatre troupe" is trying on my patience at best. Metal is best served with satan, beer, and/or dope, but not ballet slippers.

Exact review date unknown.

Review Archive Series #3: Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti 8, Worn Copy cd

The following review represents one in a series of reviews published during my tenure as the resident music critic and assistant Arts Editor for The Phoenix, the official student newspaper of UBC-Okanagan in Kelowna, B.C. They are being reprinted here because I feel that while these reviews might represent a point of serious-suckitude in the developement of my writing, they are examples of my earliest attempts at criticism (if jerking off on an album's cover can be considered criticism), and above all: these albums desperately deserve the attention of your tinnitus-damaged ears.



















Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti 8, Worn Copy
Paw Tracks, 2005

Imagine that you built yourself an odd time machine, one that would not necessarily transport you physically into the past, but would tune your consciousness to a late 1970's dial, causing you to live forever caught in a mental rerun: transported to a hazy haunted realm of poisoned Air Supply sucked dry and made equals menacing and goofy, with the glam of Ziggy Stardust, and the banal pop A.M. light radio gone violent and junk-sick vampire a la Near Dark. Now imagine that something weirdly wrong has happened, real weird, and not just the decade doesn't sound as it should, nothing does. If the things you hear and see are lo-fi beyond compare, abrasively acid-washed, obstructed, and abstracted to near-Dadaist lengths, this time machine, your stereo, has obviously tuned you into 2005's Worn Copy, the latest offering from obscurist pop eccentric Ariel Pink. It would be irresponsible of me to tell you, that if you listen to enough of Worn Copy, cloud your head with it, you will honestly never want to leave the place your mind travels to. Just start listening to it, day and day-glo night, and prove me wrong ("The Drummer", "Creepshow", or "Credit" wouldn't be a bad start for the A.P. curious). There are no suggestions I can offer you, brave traveller, nothing I can say could possibly be of aid to your ears. The only advice I can offer you is this: be careful, for these are strange times.

Exact review date unknown.

Review Archive Series #2: AIDS Wolf, The Lovvers Lp

The following review represents one in a series of reviews published during my tenure as the resident music critic and assistant Arts Editor for The Phoenix, the official student newspaper of UBC-Okanagan in Kelowna, B.C. They are being reprinted here because I feel that while these reviews might represent a point of serious-suckitude in the developement of my writing, they are examples of my earliest attempts at criticism (if jerking off on an album's cover can be considered criticism), and above all: these albums desperately deserve the attention of your tinnitus-damaged ears.



















AIDS Wolf - The Lovvers Lp
Lovepump United, 2006

Aids Wolf are on the prowl to burst the Pop bubble using jagged shards of broken beer bottles. Trapped inside the bubble is your mind, and Aids Wolf wish to set it free- at a price. That price, is whatever you’re willing to pay for their debut album, The Lovvers Lp: LSD and pints of human blood not accepted as hard currency at all retailers. This is noisy, proggy, "free your mind and your ass/cock/pussy will follow" art-punk in the nasty-ass spiked vein of Teenage Jesus and the Jerks, Onani Bomb Meets the Sex Pistols-era Boredoms, Lake of Dracula, and Les Georges Leningrad. Curious? Be careful, this album is what killed the cat. The stabbing pogo beats and string scrapings on the album's opener, "Spit Tastes Like Metal", sound like an homage to the shower scene from Psycho, while the cacophonous, anarchic glee heard on "Panty Mind" and "I Multiply" remind the listener what this is all about- peace, love, and playing games with loaded guns. Great fun for art-damaged eardrums, but for the rest of you, stay inside the safety of the bubble until the aural area contaminated by AIDS Wolf has been thoroughly disinfected and sterilized.

Exact review date unknown.

Review Archive Series #1: AIDS Wolf, Live Deth cdr

The following review represents one in a series of reviews published during my tenure as the resident music critic and assistant Arts Editor for The Phoenix, the official student newspaper of UBC-Okanagan in Kelowna, B.C. They are being reprinted here because I feel that while these reviews might represent a point of serious-suckitude in the developement of my writing, they are examples of my earliest attempts at criticism (if jerking off on an album's cover can be considered criticism), and above all: these albums desperately deserve the attention of your tinnitus-damaged ears.








Aids Wolf, Live Deth cdr
Kitty Play, 2005

Ask me who my favorite, currently active Canadian group is, and I’ll tell you it’s Montreal, Quebec’s AIDS Wolf. Why? This independently released 3" cdr called Live Deth, that’s why. Both sprawling and sprawled out on the floor, AIDS Wolf slashes through convention with a silkscreened straight-razor, leaving a messy trail of pink blood and white-hot strings freshly snapped from the axe of a battered guitar, the remnants of a drum kit found face down in a nearby river, minds blown in so many directions the janitor quit on the spot, “I refuse to clean this shit up (as he walks away).” Shameless, gutless, and murderous; AIDS Wolf have distilled noise-rock into a neon black slime, addictive and organic, a pulsating, thriving, deadly sound. Their full length, THE LOVVERS LP will be released in January 2006, and until then I’m left alone as this rabid disease itches and gnaws away my ears, leaving me to foam at the mouth in hot anticipation.

Exact review date unknown.

Heavy Vibrations

Salaam.

This is the first, albeit slightly unofficial, post of Heavy Vibes, a new review blog designed to focus on the awesome, the pop, the esoteric, the underappreciated, and the totally fucked! In other words, anything that gives you that totally unadultered rush of the weird gnostic truth of FUCK YES! The sort of feeling that would (when mixed with a few red bennies) keep Lester Bangs up all night; the same feeling I got when I first heard the Sex Pistols, or Sunn O))). It doesn't have to be meaningful (but by all means draw meaning from oblivion if it suits you), but it does, it absolutely MUST inspire a feeling. I've gotten these vibes mostly from records, cds, and tapes, but I've felt it through films, video games, drugs, art, when travelling, fucking, and from hours of staring at the ocean, feeling like I was the ocean!

So, if you've ever felt like that, keep coming back true believer, and you might just feel those vibes again.

Peace.