Another Dancer I Try To Be Another Dancer LP (Bruit Direct / Aguirre)
Cute band alert: hailing from the sleepy burg of Brussels, Another Dancer make their debut on the anything-goes Bruit Direct label. Their take on indie-rock is artsy and inquisitive, shifting in sonic palette but unwavering in congeniality. It calls to my mind the Night People label, back when they’d release these homespun lo-fi bands (or “bands”) that pieced together cheap synths/drum machines, fragile guitars and their own high-pitched voices in personalized, underground takes on Brian Wilson’s oeuvre. I’ve got a few of those Night People records, and while the thick polyvinyl picture-disc sleeves those records came in hazed up the records considerably, Another Dancer’s music is mostly haze- and distortion-free. They’ll throw in a rhythm-box groove for dancing, some soft little guitars for campfire strumming, and anyone in the band who feels courageous enough to sing is given the chance. I’d also compare it to some of the Vermont pop pleasures that revolved around Ruth Garbus and Chris Weisman a decade ago, Animal Collective two decades ago, or more contemporarily speaking, Feeble Little Horse right this very moment. There’s an unmistakable European-ness to Another Dancer that won’t be found in the American artists I mentioned, though – they’re out there in cobblestone courtyard cafés drinking their adorable six-ounce beers and not really having jobs, not living in fear of getting shot and hit by cars and being billed directly by the ambulance company like we are over here.
The Art Gray Noizz Quintet / Gravel Samwidge Relief / Don’t Go There 7″ (Sound Pressing)
The underground tunnel that connects New York City and Brisbane hasn’t been cleaned in decades, so it makes sense that groups like The Art Gray Noizz Quintet and Gravel Samwidge would eventually encounter each other there. Each band has developed their own takes on fine-aged scuzz-punk, as documented on this split single. The Art Gray Noizz Quintet, led by the illustrious Stuart Gray, refuse to slink into the comfort of (elder-)middle age, conjuring more NYC-as-swamp noise-rock with “Relief”. Served with extra sleaze care of Nikki D’Agostino’s sax, this is what I’d imagine plays in the background as Lydia Lunch makes a random man cry outside the club. Gravel Samwidge are far less metropolitan; this is music not for the lounge-lizards leaving the bar at 6:00 AM but the laborers starting their shifts pouring concrete across the street. There’s some stoner-y bounce to the chorus, and the undeniable sense of its Australian origins, all hairy forearms and sunburnt faces. Get these two groups together on an uninhabited island with some building supplies and a few cases of liquor and it’s gonna become the next million-dollar hipster enclave in a year, I can all but guarantee it.
Autobahns First LP! LP (Legless / Phantom / Magüt / Feral Kid)
Grab a hammer – First LP! is yet another nail in the egg-punk coffin. A solo recording-project turned hired-gun live band (as seems to always be the case these days), Autobahns is the work of Leipzig’s Giuliano Iannarella, and he followed the egg-punk rules as if they were an IKEA instruction manual. Super-fast drumming with airtight rolls; weak-on-purpose guitar-tone that warbles out Chuck Berry riffs at three times the speed; thrift-store synth effects; vocals with just enough modulation as to sound like they were recorded in a flying saucer. “Telephone Freakos” is a prime example of this overly prevalent punk style, because I’d say that on its face, it’s a cool punk song were it to exist in a vacuum, but every aspect of its structure and presentation, from the intermittent guitar strums to the Space Invaders synth effects to the hyperactive drumbeat and goose-y vocals… when you package that with a cartoon cover that looks like it was done with the same marker as The Coneheads’ first album (which they also named “LP1”), it’s like Autobahns and the dozens of other copycats out there should have to pay an aesthetic licensing fee to Mark Winter in order to legally make records like this. There’s really nothing wrong with the music here – if you simply want to hear more caffeinated, DEVO-inspired punk from a nerd in his room, First LP! will set you up nicely – but another permutation of this calculated, trendy sound leaves me as weary, sore and headachey as the newest Moderna shot.
Bad Anxiety Bad Anxiety 7″ (Refuse / Feral Kid)
Hopes were not high when I pulled this record out of its cardboard mailer. Just glance at that Hey Arnold!-ass punk on the cover, looking like he just got back from his terrible Euro edge-core band practice working on a failed cover of “Can’t Close My Eyes” in 2005! Upon further inspection, Bad Anxiety are from Hattiesburg, MS, one of the most vibrant small-town punk scenes in the US, and there are ten songs on this seven-inch, which of course is another very good sign. Maybe I need to apologize to that cartoon punk on the cover (okay, no I don’t, I still really hate him) as it turns out Bad Anxiety rips! It’s the solo project of Hampton Martin, prominent member of both Big Bleach and Judy & The Jerks, and he whips up a youthful frenzy all by his lonesome here. The music is fast and frantic, and the delivery is snotty and immature, so it starts to feel like Angry Samoans playing Neos songs. It flails, falls over, gets back up, topples into the audience, accidentally unplugs itself and cartwheels out the window, usually in under half a minute. “Hardcore” might be the best song about loving hardcore since 25 Ta Life’s “Hardcore Rules”, and I thank Bad Anxiety for it. A good friend of mine did a solo project called Slogan Boy years before the current Slogan Boy existed (a Discogs Cheapo if there ever was one!), and Bad Anxiety reminds me of that OG Slogan Boy EP, just as likable and yet I don’t have the pleasure of knowing Hampton Martin personally at all. Now all he needs to do is draw the punk from this cover getting brutally vivisected on the cover of his next EP and I’ll be at peace.
BASIC This Is BASIC LP (No Quarter)
There’s an odd constant that runs through many of my cheery memories related to Philly’s guitar-centric underground: Chris Forsyth. How many times over the past few years have I been at a great show or a friendly post-show hang and there he is, wearing a funny hat that looks good on him, or laying in the grass with a beer, or telling an animated story to mutual friends, or on stage, casually ripping on guitar. I could fill this little write-up with more admiration and appreciation for the man, but then I’d be wasting my chance to tell you about his very excellent new group, BASIC. It’s probably his most “experimental” project since Peeesseye, in that it fuses a variety of rock’s left-field loose-ends into something both weird, cohesive and new. Joining Forsyth on guitar is Mikel Patrick Avery on percussion and electronics and Nick Millevoi on baritone guitar and drum machine, and from this formation the musical ideas blast outward like a busted fire hydrant. These instrumental songs are playful and funky, frolicking in that mid ’80s dead-zone where well-established rockers of the ’70s played with slippery concepts like downtown NYC funk, ECM jazz and new-age reggae. It’s like they took the ’80s Can records, the stuff that no one listens to, and figured out how it might work for them. These songs never take themselves too seriously, but they absolutely rip while exploring the fringes of good taste, not unlike Rastakraut Pasta if it actually rocked. Don’t get me wrong though, this is by no means a “throwback” record of any kind – “New Auspicious” is as heavenly as 75 Dollar Bill, and the disjointed shuffle of rhythmic effects, riffage and electronics in “Versatile Switch” reminds me of Morgan Buckley, a style that’s more likely to be lauded by Boomkat than CREEM. BASIC mixed the future with the past for a stellar album that I can listen to today.
Broken Telepathy Broken Telepathy LP (Sophomore Lounge)
Having a hard time pinning down what makes the duo of Broken Telepathy tick, which is a good thing, or at least not a bad thing. In this era riddled with conspicuous musical intentions, it’s nice to hear something and wonder how its decisions were reached, to have your brain actually burn a few calories while processing what is happening. Hailing from the Bronx, Broken Telepathy features two members of Soft Gang (if that means anything to you), and while there are elements of synth-wave, post-punk and indie-rock happening here, Broken Telepathy don’t meld them together in the ways I’m used to hearing. There’s a distant sort of coldness to the recording, but Kaori Nakamura’s vocals are high-pitched and direct; that sort of conflict seems inherent to Broken Telepathy’s mission, where drum loops play a pivotal role. “Reasons For Excuses” is like the angriest trip-hop song ever made, and while there are plenty of moments recalling the early post-punk wake following Joy Division’s demise, a synth will arrive direct from Gary Numan’s powder room, or it’ll feel like the Ramones for a second, no wait, I meant Stereolab. What if Thomas Dolby joined 39 Clocks but they never left their basement practice space, and it was all just made out of loops anyway? It makes ya think. I don’t feel any closer to unraveling Broken Telepathy’s intentions, but they’re not called Successful Telepathy, now are they?
The Carp Knock Your Block Off LP (Total Punk)
Featuring three members of Cruelster (and, by transitive property, Perverts Again), I didn’t actually realize The Carp were a real band until Knock Your Block Off showed up. It’s hard to always tell where the gags end and reality begins with this lovable bunch of Cleveland jokesters, but I’m stoked that The Carp is an actual band, one whose sound rests comfortably within the realm these guys have created. They’re somewhere between the jittery post-punk of Knowso (whose Nate Ward is also in The Carp) and Cruelster’s couch-thrashing hardcore-punk, and it’s a great spot to land. Knock Your Block Off offers an enjoyable splitting of the difference, one where wrong-note melodies and righteously paranoid attitudes collide with hardcore energy. I love Knowso’s relentless monotony – it’s unique in a sea of sound-alikes – but The Carp offer just as much personality in a rambunctious form more likely to allow for stage diving, were The Carp ever to perform on a stage. I never doubted that all these guys are life-long friends, but you’ve gotta really like each other to be in like three or four bands together; one can be miserable enough depending on who gets on who’s nerves. When they cover A Global Threat’s “Cut Ups” with full intensity on here, it’s clear that their love of the street-punk group is as genuine as it is that they’re making fun of it, and themselves, and probably me, and you too. No one does simultaneously serious/unserious punk like these guys and Knock Your Block Off is another shining example.
Stefan Christensen In Time LP (C/Site Recordings)
New Haven’s Stefan Christensen is a man of many masks, each subsequent record revealing further insight along side tantalizing mystery into his process. More than anything, it seems like he’s never short on inspiration, chasing fresh ideas through whatever strange paths they might take, from the warmth of melodic guitar chords to the abrasion of static-y feedback deconstructions. It’s rare and exciting, the way that a record under the name Stefan Christensen can behave in a multitude of ways, and his newest, In Time, opens yet another door, this one particularly gracious and inviting. The focus on In Time is set on uplifting and moody electric guitar riffs that repeat like mantras, and I’m glad he shared it with us. The album’s opening riff in “84 Days” could easily belong to Collective Soul at first glance, but in Christensen’s hands it’s wielded in a manner you’d expect from a New Zealand-raised Dylan Carlson. One could connect the sonic dots to Lungfish and the sun-bleached guitars of Steven R. Smith, so patient and meditative are these songs. “Foreign Outlaw” breaks from the guitar-centricity, much of which Christensen sings without musical accompaniment (and a memorable moment from his live set I caught earlier this year), but the heart behind it remains the same. I’ll admit, I love Christensen at his least accessible, crackling sparks of noise from his lonesome guitar for seemingly nobody, but the different direction of In Time is a joy, as comforting and nourishing as a room full of friends.
Coffin Prick Side Splits LP (Sophomore Lounge)
Throw it back to the Y2K era with Side Splits, an album of remixes made by artists mostly not known as remixers, all taking on tracks from Coffin Prick’s 2023 album, Laughing. I enjoy Laughing quite a bit, completely content with its original form, but the list of remixers here is certainly intriguing: Beau Wanzer, Tim Kinsella, Battles… even Melt Banana and Shit & Shine appear. Coffin Prick’s original tracks were difficult to categorize, kind of woozy late-night post-punk pop with a swish of glam aspirations, and the majority of contributors here dismantle that vibe to their own ends. There are plenty of melodic stems to work with: Battles finagles theirs into a glitchy stomp, whereas Melt Banana flip the whole thing into a cybernetic Epi-Fat pop-punk track, as is their unpredictable wont. Unsurprisingly, Shit & Shine take it in the direction of Earth 2‘s majestic guitar drones, and Beau Wanzer does a good job of putting his trademark stamp on it, a fat wriggly drum-machine groove sure to leave a wet trail behind it. A fun exercise for all, though it can make for an incongruous listen – Gel Set’s take on “Surfs Up” feels like a typical GSL indie-dance remix throwaway versus some new eureka moment. It’s nice when others play with Coffin Prick, but more original Coffin Prick material is much higher on the list of demands I’ve asked my office coordinator to send to Sophomore Lounge.
Disarm Existence Demo 1985 LP (Beach Impediment / No Idols)
The bottomless spring of previously-unreleased Virginia hardcore has another new offering, the 1985 demo from Virginia Beach’s Disarm. If there’s a bad record where one of the band members is pictured doing a handplant on a vert ramp, I’ve yet to encounter it, and Existence Demo 1985 keeps the streak alive. Pair that with Bryan Stahel’s sticker-covered bass-guitar and it’s logically impossible that this record could suck! Recorded in the transitional year of 1985, Disarm veer closer to the early ’80s than the late; their sound is moshy, rugged and anxious in a way that recalls the A7 / Rat Cage years of NYHC, with an understandable tinge of metallic crossover. (As discussed in the extensive liner notes, they pursued a crossover sound following this demo, of which no recordings exist – at least until Beach Impediment goes full-on National Treasure and finds them.) In the excellent flyer montage insert, I can picture them warming up the Virginia Beach hardcore miscreants for headliners like Corrosion Of Conformity, The Faction and Christ On Parade, and spray-painting their band name on denim vests and skate decks… it’s chicken soup for the hardcore soul. No matter how much I’d like to kid myself otherwise, hardcore-punk is best performed by the youth, of which Disarm most certainly were. The band actually broke up because drummer Mike Crescini pursued his skateboarding career instead, taking him to far-away regions with deeper bowls and gnarlier ledges. A more perfect ending for a short-lived obscure hardcore band in the ’80s could not be written.
Endon Fall Of Spring LP (Thrill Jockey)
I tip my hat to any ensemble who (d)evolves their sound from premeditated rock music to improvised noise. Audiences love structure, and asking yours to follow you on your journey from music that makes space for dancing, singing (screaming) along and hooks to merciless spur-of-the-moment chaos is a bold if not self-destructive move. Tokyo’s Endon have always been mutating, both from the size and shape of their collective to the sounds they produce; whereas prior records featured guitars, drums and songs (albeit in crushingly noisy forms), Fall Of Spring is a desolate, frightening soundscape of ruthless, discordant electronics. After the tragic passing of band member Etsuo Nagura, brother of vocalist Taichi Nagura, in 2020, Endon is now a trio, with Nagura on vocals alongside Taro Aiko and Koki Miyabe on electronics. Remnants of classic Japanese noise styles are evident, from the room-clearing shocks of piercing feedback to the continuous churn of heavy distortion, but Endon insist on pushing the form, in pursuit of harsh, provocative sounds that haven’t already existed. There’s an astringent, digital edge to the sounds that contrasts nicely with the uncomfortably human howls of Nagura, the production ensuring that the sound explodes outward no matter how dusty your stylus has become. There’s a shared sensibility to the PAN label, Persher and the more avant-garde side of harsh electronic noise at play here, perhaps more so than the lo-fi psycho-killer transgressions found on a Hospital Productions cassette. Album closer “Escalation” might be my favorite, as there is some semblance of violent melody lashing out, like a cyborg soldier’s frenzied commands on the battlefield, but the whole thing is a thrilling and sustained catharsis. You could break a sweat listening to Fall Of Spring and you’re not even the one twiddling the knobs!
Etelin Patio User Manual LP (Beacon Sound)
Patio User Manual opens with the sounds of bird-song, analog clacking and the mooing of one lonesome cow, and if you insist on excusing yourself from the rest of this review due to the sheer over-saturation of this particular style, I understand. However, those of us who still have open hearts and minds for blissful amalgamations of featherweight electronics and site-recordings of the plant and animal kingdoms, Etelin’s got a fresh platter here for you. It’s the work of one Alex Cobb, a Cincinnati resident who runs the great Soda Gong label and intermingles with the small scene of likeminded artists primarily released on the Last Resort label, to give some context as to the artistic community of which Cobb is involved. His take on that same general lower-case electronica / domestic-ambient approach falls on the softer, more overtly digital side, plush blankets of glitch to tuck up to your chin as you drift between worlds, free of jarring cuts or harsh tones. For my tastes, I appreciate Etelin’s approach, reminiscent of Mille Plateaux’s chamomile-flavored releases, and one of my personal faves of the genre, Kid606’s Soccergirl EP, which was released on one of those three-inch CDs where the outer two inches are clear plastic. Does it get much more low-key, turn-of-the-century IDM than that? If I dip my head into the two minutes of “Electrical Sailing” I can almost peer back into that magical shred of time after Woodstock ’99 and before 9/11.
Genius Of Time The Genius Of Time Vocal Series Vol. 2 12″ (Aniara Recordings)
There’s no denying the earth-shaking power of Swedish producers infatuated by huge pop music hooks. It’s like a drug to them, obsessively tinkering with the formula until their next dance-pop track has reached some golden ratio poised to liberate our ears once and for all. This mindset even filters down to the Swedes you haven’t really heard of, like Alexander Berg (aka Dorisburg) and Nils Krogh, working together off and on as Genius Of Time. “Closer” might not be a perfect dance track but it’s sure on the cusp, utilizing only the finest ingredients: a Blawan-esque shuffle, tender bass chords, a scene-stealing vocal hook and a snippet of uplifting house strings right when you least expect it. Vaguely emotional and smooth as silk, it’s almost a cheap-shot in its tech-house effectiveness, and I can’t get it out of my head. Once I stopped looping “Closer”, I found myself enjoying “Fumana Chord”, which takes a similar BPM and populist EDM approach, dusting up the edges enough to keep it interesting while also, you know, completely ready to soundtrack the next commercial for Hyundai’s IONIQ line of luxury EVs. I started pining for “Closer” though, I’ll be honest, and Genius Of Time clearly saw that coming, as “Closer (Reprise)” closes the EP, an ambient washing of the original, like the ghost of a loved one passing through the room while the loved one is right there too, feverishly dancing.
Help Courage LP (Three One G)
Nice to see the pendulum in noisy dude-rock swinging away from the misanthropic, mysterious and vaguely threatening to something more vulnerable and sincere and in search of less toxic psychic terrain. Help seems like one of these bands in the latter category, a Portland trio that will support you on your path to seeking a therapist and trying to dig into the actual source of your misery rather than just like, posting grainy black-and-white pictures of decommissioned prison walls without any accompanying text. They’re even doing some progressive yoga on the cover, a tower of thinking-pose with perfect form, relying on each other in more ways than one. Their music seems to fit the vibe to a tee, pairing the aggro, post-hardcore, drum-centric pounding of METZ with melodic punk not unlike Paint It Black and Touché Amoré. The guitars are pretty polished, as is the whole presentation – this is a group with no less than fifteen different shirt designs shown on their Bandcamp page – but it never feels too slick, more like they’re simply making every effort they can to get maybe one or two inches above the endless herd of other bands hoping to catch your eye. I’m not going to check their Instagram to see if they posted a sincere unboxing video of Courage, but to be honest I wouldn’t hold it against them if they did. Someone’s gotta teach the problematic twenty-something hardcore guys to stop worshiping Swans and start working on their own faults – at least Help are way less corny than Idles about it.
Hits World Of Dirt LP (Paisley Shirt)
The second vinyl full-length from Oakland’s Hits, World Of Dirt further reveals the group’s appealing duality: twee indie-pop on the surface with a restless experimentalism bubbling underneath. The group is a vehicle for singer/guitarist Jen Weisberg’s songs, which land somewhere between the DIY pop of The Petticoats and the charismatic fuzz of The Breeders. Max Nordile plays bass in Hits and is on his best behavior here, though each side of the album ends with different versions of something called “Future Tense”, loose improvisations that stumble and squeak without any adherence to the tenets of song-form. That sense of combustibility is never too far away, even on a passive pop strum like “Thorn By My Side”, the Vivian Girls-ish jangle overloaded by an unexpected gaggle of droning horns, because why not. These strange choices are never to the songs’ detriment; Hits like to deliver their predictable chords in a manner as nearly unpredictable as Violent Change. Rules are respectfully broken throughout World Of Dirt, though the timeless guitar pop leads you through to safety, assured and sweet.
Holy Tongue Meets Shackleton The Tumbling Psychic Joy Of Now LP (AD 93)
Feared to have been lost on the way back to his home planet, Shackleton’s collaboration with percussive-dub trio Holy Tongue zaps us back to a fresh rinse of the signature sound he developed over the first decade of his impressive career. Fans of sticky-humid dub effects and third-eye-induced polyrhythms have a hearty feast awaiting them in The Tumbling Psychic Joy Of Now, wherein Shackleton takes the helm as producer of Holy Tongue’s raw material. I was always hopeful that a collaboration between Shackleton and Valentina Magaletti was inevitable, they being two crucial conduits of high-end contemporary rhythm, and this album does the opposite of disappoint. These tracks are built for maximum torque, with unyielding percussive patter and richly developed atmospheres, the sort of music you’d expect to cause those alien eggs they found buried under a pyramid to finally hatch. It’s all top-notch, but I would first direct you to “The Other Side Of The Bridge”, which calms things down just enough for the horns to whip up a jazzy romp as heady as it is hedonistic. I know they already made a Where The Wild Things Are movie – maybe they even made more than one – but it kills me that they didn’t wait for Shackleton and Holy Tongue to link up and conjure the perfect soundtrack in the process.
Hyper Gal After Image LP (Skin Graft)
Osaka’s Hyper Gal find a fitting home on Chicago’s Skin Graft Records, the storied imprint that has always welcomed musical saboteurs in from the cold. They also arguably introduced Melt Banana to an American audience, and while similarities to Hyper Gal are no deeper than surface-level, I’d like to think that the imprint remains a trusty conduit for genre-defying music across the globe. Hyper Gal are a duo, Koharu Ishida on vocals and “noise” and Kurumi Kadoya on drums, and they’ve got a peppy take on crusty-yet-experimental pop, an artsy-fartsiness somewhere between Japanther and No Age. The live drums and vocals are natural and familiar, whereas the melodies appear to be distorted, half-busted synths, like something you’d find in James Ferraro’s garage under an inflatable dolphin. Ishida will chant along with the beat while her synths or noises or whatever seem to interact mostly with themselves, not contributing to the flow so much as dissonantly avoiding it. I’m all for that – why play some regular-ass song that will immediately make sense to everyone? – though, in recorded form, After Image isn’t really sticking inside of my skull. It feels like music meant to be experienced live, if that’s not too trite – surely the guitar(?) solo in “GHOST” would be best received by blasting the listener backward off their feet in a crowded little club.
Kings Of High Speed False Start Dub / High Speed Dubbin’ 7″ (Leisure Group)
Brooklyn DJ / producer / co-owner of the Razor-N-Tape label JKriv lays down two slices of heavy-lidded dub for new sub-label Leisure Group, and it’s been the perfect sonic aperitif for these final summer evenings. “False Start Dub” glides on a tweaky loop of digital brass, like migratory geese stopping for a spliff. The arpeggiated synths offer a more cosmic sensation, the plane’s wheels tucking into its undercarriage for a smooth sunset departure. Don’t let the title fool you – “High Speed Dubbin'” remains fully reclined, like a cloud-soft version of the earliest dubstep that came from Coki and Mala. No bass wobbles, only trippy, swinging melody. While still chill as a penguin, “High Speed Dubbin'” creeps with a sense of intrigue, its warbling chords conjuring the tension of a romantic scandal that has yet to be revealed, only hinted at. This isn’t typical dub, nor does it try to be, and while it probably wouldn’t feel out of place as the soundtrack to one of those Tiktok videos where a rich kid shows off his fancy apartment or morning matcha routine, Kings Of High Speed’s elevated caliber is obvious no matter how gaudy your taste level.
Läuten Der Seele Die Reise Zur Monsalwäsche LP (Hands In The Dark)
I know at least a couple noise dudes who’ve either ironically or sincerely pursued Christianity in the past few years, and if a typical mass sounded like Die Reise Zur Monsalwäsche, I’d be right there with them! Christian Schoppik’s Läuten Der Seele project is one of those current-day obscurities where I don’t think I personally know anyone who is a fan but the records all quickly sell out and immediately go for seventy-five bucks or more on the secondary market, an increasingly common fiscal circumstance in our increasingly annoying world. It’s a lot of coin, but I’ve yet to encounter a Läuten Der Seele record that wasn’t worth its weight in frankincense, all of them conjuring various ancient European cultural histories in thrilling, dizzying ways. Die Reise Zur Monsalwäsche leans heavier on classical church choir sounds, presumably ganked from formal orchestral recordings before they’re manipulated/collaged/dubbed/sampled into these two side-long pieces. The technique might be similar to People Like Us or even Nurse With Wound, but the results here are majestic and refined… if God ever got into the remix game, it’d probably sound closer to these blissfully massaged collages than the original source material in all its inherent stuffiness. What if Läuten Der Seele was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?
Loidis One Day 2xLP (Incienso)
Brian Leeds AKA Huerco S. AKA Pendant AKA Loidis is a man of exquisite timing. He seems to know precisely what the underground electronic/dance music audience wants before the audience itself knows; Huerco S.’s For Those Of You Who Have Never (And Also Those Who Have) became a bonafide ambient classic within moments of its release back in 2016, and Pendant’s 2021 release To All Sides They Will Stretch Out Their Hands brought forward a reinvention of brain-scrambling electronica-fog. And now in the risen temps of the summer of 2024, Loidis delivers a sumptuous suite of understated tech-house grooves, twinkling like moonlight on a backyard pool after dark. His tones are waterlogged and dubby, but energized with pulsing rhythms and low-key melodies, always on the move. If it’s liquid house, it’s most certainly carbonated. No one would accuse this sound of being “new” – any number of Basic Channel, Luomo, Jeff Mills, Galcher Lustwerk or Pole cuts could be sonically linked to what Loidis is offering, alongside countless others – but Leeds didn’t invent tranquil ambient music either, he simply sculpts his sonic muses into their most delectable form. The effect is like tasting a homemade five-ingredient chocolate cake after years of pre-packaged Little Debbies, the simplicity and lack of unnecessary additives leading to an immediately heightened experience. I don’t know what I’ll need to hear from Leeds next, but I trust that he will deliver it.
Lolina Unrecognisable LP (Relaxin)
Lolina winds up on my year-end best-of lists religiously, yet none of her records ever sound much like each other, a testament to the success of her boundless creativity. The final installment of a mixed-media trilogy (part one: online graphic novel, part two: live improvised performance), Unrecognisable is really great, and it too sounds nothing like Fast Fashion, or Who Is Experimental Music?, or The Smoke. Compared to those others, Unrecognisable is actually pretty easy to parse, a suite of low-key electro-pop vignettes that often features verses and choruses, two aspects of song-form I know better than to demand or expect from Lolina. Actually, if there’s someone that I’m reminded of here the most, it’s… Kool Keith?! Many of the beats here could charitably fall under the “horror-core” hip-hop sub-genre, and there’s a morose chill to the production that feels very Kool Keith-esque. Lolina speaks/sings her choruses and kinda raps her verses, often quite dead-pan, and frequently interacts with pitch-shifted versions of herself, usually in the lower-register claimed by boogeymen and the demonically possessed. Much like Kool Keith, if you pull all the threads of Unrecognisable apart and study them, it’s evident that Lolina is responding to very real circumstances and societal issues with a lush and fully-functional narrative, but is doing so in a fantastical, funny, creepy, wholly original way.
The Sewerheads Diary Of A Priest / Man Of Infinite Sorrow 7″ (Office Boy)
The first time I ventured to Pittsburgh like two decades ago, it was for punk reasons of course, and on said trip I witnessed the majesty of Jerry’s (RIP) and encountered the enthusiastic Eli Kasan. I think he was in Mary Celeste at the time, but you might know him from Iron Lung recording artists Kim Phuc, or Sub Pop recording artists The Gotobeds. The styles may change, but there’s always been a sense that he really cares, that bands aren’t hobbies to kill the time but meaningful soul-bearing ventures thought-out to the smallest detail, even if it’s only going to be a bar full of mostly friends that ever witness it. The Sewerheads is his newest group, kicking things off with the untimely yet applaudable move of a self-released seven-inch single. It’s interesting stuff, a “mature” post-punk sound whose kindness shouldn’t be mistaken for weakness. “Diary Of A Priest” is a ghostly serenade guided by the electric violin of Shani Banerjee. You can’t deny the Dirty Three feel conjured by Banerjee, but the music hits closer to something else, like Rowland S. Howard stumbling into Lungfish. “Man Of Infinite Sorrow” pushes and pulls with a drunken-carnival feel akin to Marching Church, or I guess current-day Iceage as well as they’ve gotten more and more Bad Seeds-inspired. Banerjee shreds on the violin like we all wish we could, and the band locks in, not only on this cool b-side song, but a curious sound full of potential.
SIKM Now I Must Comply 12″ (Beach Impediment)
Gonna trust that the discerning folks at Beach Impediment did their due diligence on Atlanta’s SIKM, as modern Oi (much like classic Oi) has no shortage of awful right-wing idiots masquerading as free-thinkers. I’m assuming SIKM’s gotta be on the side of the, uh, “good guys”, so when they sing “light up the torches / turn up in force / bring out the hatred / we’re at your door” in “We Won’t Behave”, I’m going to give the benefit of the doubt that they mean that in an anti-white-power sorta way. Their music itself isn’t limp and cheesy in the ways that appeal to racist losers; rather, SIKM’s songs maintain a level of energy and grit befitting hardcore-punk, somewhere in the league of Slapshot’s Step On It, early Blitz and Rixe, whose Maxime Smadja actually recorded and produced Now I Must Comply in Paris, faraway from SIKM’s southern US home. I thought flying to different countries to record music was reserved for stars like The Bee-Gees and New Order, not a DIY band with a Beach Impediment record deal, but it’s nearly 2025 and anything is apparently possible. Against all odds, The Exploited still exist, so why shouldn’t SIKM cross the globe in search of the thickest UK82 sound they can find?
SnPLO Seven Hundred And Fifty Loops 12″ (Pin)
No style of music thrives through indifferent anonymity like techno. I’m not sure I’d really want to check out a rock band with undisclosed identities, but techno folks who pick some random moniker that offers no real detail as to who they are? Gimme it all day long. SnPLO is the duo of PLO Man (previously reviewed in these pages) and someone else who goes by Snp 500. I think PLO Man is German, and Snp 500’s label Doo is based in Montreal, so who really knows where they live and how they got together, and I guess now that I’m sitting here ruminating on it, who really cares either. The music they deliver on this new twelve-inch is gloriously anonymous as well, bustling sheets of techno that end in locked grooves more times than not. Though not the full seven hundred and fifty loops promised by the title, I prefer it this way, SnPLO cutting into rich hardware-driven grooves that shift in nearly imperceptible ways. Across these unwavering patterns, various filters and mix levels are adjusted only slightly, with shimmery dub effects that wash past like the landscape as viewed from a moving vehicle. You can focus on something else and kind of ignore the changes, or stare directly into your speaker cones to uncover its secret, shifting sonic features, or find a nice in-between zone, like cranking it while washing the dishes. Lose yourself in these grooves, and before you realize it, you’re standing in front of a stack of sparkling pots and pans.
Spirit Of The Beehive You’ll Have To Lose Something LP (Saddle Creek)
If you’ve ever felt ripped off by songs that have one, two, maybe three separate ideas happening within them, be sure to check out Spirit Of The Beehive’s You’ll Have To Lose Something, which seems to cram at least a couple hundred different things into each two- to three-minute track. Phew! This trio broke up and got back together, and somewhere in that interpersonal journey discovered the joy of sampling, no longer confined to the music that can come from their amps and now armed with the entire spectrum of recorded sound at their disposal. On one hand, I’d say that just because you can doesn’t mean you should, but I sloughed off that conservative attitude pretty quickly as I settled into You’ll Have To Lose Something. These tracks ricochet from cut-up samples to basically every musical genre officially recognized by Spotify, from crunchy grunge-gaze to trip-hop, slow-core emo-pop, lo-fi R&B, sample-tronica, ’80s new-age schmaltz and domestic noise. If you need your brain to be able to control the music it’s hearing, always one step ahead of what is about to happen, this record will stress you out, but if you can give in to this deep bowl of sonic spaghetti and enjoy its innumerable moments of blissful confusion, accepting that some of its most savory moments are often its most fleeting, there’s a good chance you’ll never want to let it go.
34 Trolley Relaxation EP 12″ (Feel The Four)
No guesswork necessary as to the inspiration behind the new project from Jarrett Dougherty, best known for his career as Screaming Females’ drummer. The sticker on the sleeve plainly states “Early 1980s NYC-style Post-Punk Mutant Disco” as well as “for fans of: ESG, Tom Tom Club, Liquid Liquid, Dinosaur L” in case you weren’t putting the pieces together. I see this as a move to tempt an interested audience that would’ve otherwise thumbed past this twelve-inch in the record bins, and I appreciate anyone who still treats record shops as a primary node of musical connection between artist and prospective listener. The sticker ain’t lying, either – each of these tracks pairs simple-yet-effective bass-lines with steady disco-punk drums, neither of which stray off course at any point; if 34 Trolley is at all no-wave inspired, it’s certainly not taking cues from Mars and DNA. The bass and drums provide a sturdy if rudimentary foundation, upon which guitars, vibes, horns, and most notably, the lead vocals of ex-bandmate Marissa Paternoster and Brittany Luna (of ska-punk sensations Catbite) provide splashes of personality, though the additional elements are generally deployed one at a time, never all at once. If the sticker had more room, they could also mention that fans of Tussle’s first few records or that great Chandra twelve-inch might also want to take a peep, but that’s what this review is for now isn’t it?
Ulla & Perila Jazz Plates 2xLP (Paralaxe Editions)
Having previously collaborated long-distance, Jazz Plates finds two of my favorite electro-experimentalists collaborating in person. I’m enchanted by Ulla’s still-warm collaboration with Ultrafog from earlier this year, and I’m jonesing hard for a new one from Pmxper, Perila’s collaboration with Pavel Milyakov, so Jazz Plates entered my electronic shopping cart with an abundance of good graces. No doubt, it’s cool – they stretch their limbs wide across these two discs, unburdened by time-sensitivity or narrative. Vocals are persistent and as wordless as the piano, which stumbles through day-drunk motifs as one-off percussive hits, gauzy horns and a bevy of non-musical sounds appear. It doesn’t seem like a whole lot was really pre-planned here, but that probably would’ve spoiled the mood, one of aimless exploration. If there are elements that bear similarities to Charalambides, Félicia Atkinson and Ssabæ here, which I posit that there are, it’s not by design; I get the impression that both Ulla and Perila aren’t prone to outside interference in pursuit of their elusive, blurry muse, so much as the great and simple act of Just Seeing What Happens. For my money, I prefer Ulla and Perila’s more grounded material, stuff that feels a smidge more thought-out than of-the-moment, but I’m not going to regret it when I pull Jazz Plates out again in a year and find myself blissfully transported to whatever isolated barn / luxury loft / abandoned subway station they recorded it in, quietly petting a cat as they shuffle through their gear on the floor.
Uniform American Standard LP (Sacred Bones)
Some ten years, eight full-lengths, countless tours and many well-received collaborations under their belt, Brooklyn’s Uniform have earned the right to coast if they want to. Churn out some more music that sounds like Uniform, print up some new black t-shirts with white ink designs, and their core audience will remain happily satiated for the foreseeable future. I wouldn’t blame them if they entered this cruise-control phase of their existence, but instead I offer them the most sincere of kudos for not doing that, instead pushing into deeper, dirtier and uncharted extreme-music territory on what most will surely agree is their finest moment (at least so far!), American Standard. Currently boasting two percussionists and a bassist along with the core unit of Ben Greenberg (guitar, production) and Michael Berdan (vocals, synths), this is an absolute beast of an album, four distinct-yet-complimentary cuts of forward-minded industrial/sludge/noise. The title track delivers the first bold move, encompassing the A-side in over twenty minutes of thrilling, pounding industrial metal, heavier than lead and come to think of it, kinda like Led Zeppelin when that chugging, chiming choral motif locks in too. “This Is Not A Prayer” goes heavier on the percussion, like a couple of helicopters emergency landing on Iron Monkey’s stoner-sludge as Berdan continues to squawk like one of those breeds of vultures who evolved featherless faces so they can more easily dig into bloody carcasses. “Clemency” rules too, not far from the meanest Boris material yet enhanced with the sort of eerie soundscaping that might appeal to a Ghostemane fan. I don’t know what else to say, honestly – American Standard actively seeks out ass to beat from start to finish, and I haven’t even touched on the personal poignancy of Berdan’s lyrics, as the music gives me so much to rave about. In a word: recommended!
Franck Vigroux Grand Bal LP (Aesthetical)
Not enough room in the building for this gigantic new record from French electro-brutalist Franck Vigroux. He’s always had a penchant for unrelenting sonic architecture, wide swaths of heavy sound that seem to shake with excessive electricity, and he continues to push himself forward with Grand Bal. I wasn’t sure what to make of the cover art, in all its Hollywood neon Italians Do It Better slickness, but one sniff of opener “Loïc” knocked me on my can immediately. It’s a shrieking industrial-techno shocker, perfect for the trailer of one of those new horror movies based around modern-day plastic surgery, Gucci models sitting blankly in a sterilized room with their entrails in their laps. And this is before the black-metal pterodactyl vocals really kick in! Mercifully, not all of Grand Bal is this overtly aggressive, but even at its more pensive, creeping moments (like the epic build of “Lightnin'”) the album is fully juiced and menacing, the sound of the final boss that you thought you defeated bursting through the wall even bigger, stronger and more disgustingly deformed. If there was a daring enough rapper out there to drop some rhymes over the first half of “68”, it’d be the biggest track of the year, but that rapper would probably have to be 6’11”, 375 pounds and have one forearm cybernetically replaced with a crossbow in order for it to work. Humanity’s evolution hasn’t yet caught up to the thrilling power of Franck Vigroux’s electronic music.
Weak Signal Fine LP (12XU)
Laid-back NYC fuzz purveyors Weak Signal continue their fruitful relationship with 12XU care of Fine, their fourth full-length and second for the label. Weak Signal reek of that distinctly New York form of hip, something that’s harder to find these days as authentic New York City culture continues to shrink, raisin-like, in the face of big-money homogenization. Their songs are simple and disarmingly straightforward, yet the list of involved parties reads like a who’s who of the people too cool to be featured in Meet Me In The Bathroom: Hot Chip’s Alexis Taylor, Gang Gang Dance’s Doug Shaw and Cass McCombs all contribute (and there’s probably someone from Endless Boogie lurking in the rehearsal space, rolling something up for everyone to smoke later). Guitarist/vocalist Mike Bones slowly enunciates his drawl over four-on-the-floor drumming and thick syrupy two-chord riffs, sounding extra heavy when mute-picking and purified when he lets the guitar ring out. Bones has one of those great indie “singer without a singer’s voice” styles, sincere while cracking a smirk, and as he’s consistently backed up by bassist Sasha Vine and drummer Tran Huynh on secondary vocals, the whole thing hits like timeless guitar pop on just the right amount of downers. Sleepy but attentive, unadorned but sophisticated, Fine exudes the metropolitan cool that you won’t find in an officially-licensed Ramones baby onesie.
The evening started unexpectedly early: the Mortiis show was pushed up from a typical eight o’clock start time to five-thirty at Kungfu Necktie, a well-established sore-thumb in the embarrassingly “up-and-coming” Fishtown neighborhood of Philadelphia. My heart went out to the archaic ghoul – all of us performers know how annoying a last-minute schedule change can be – as I received my second surprise of the night. Sitting down for pre-show cocktails at an attractive new bar less than a block away, my girlfriend and I realized, after ordering our drinks, that the entire cocktail menu was crafted from non-alcoholic spirits. Whoops! A full list of cocktails under fifteen bucks should’ve been the giveaway in this part of town, no matter that the descriptions still featured words like “gin” and “bourbon”. A modest suggestion: they should cutely modify the names of fake spirits the same way they do it for vegan meat substitutes. Had I seen V’dka and not-tequi-LAH listed, I swear I would’ve figured it out sooner.
The Kungfu Necktie show’s unexpected early arrival proved to be fortuitous, as I quickly snaked my way through the crowd without anyone’s eyeshadow smudging my shirt while Mortiis plucked his final somber notes. Mary Jane Dunphe was set to headline her own show a couple miles down the road at Foto Club, a veritable island of punk rock ill repute far from the city’s more favored social enclaves. It’s an indoor-outdoor “private” club well equipped for all bacchanalian purposes, from drum n’ bass DJ nights to egg-punk fests to anything that starts with the term “after hours”. Punk bands record their seven-inches there now, too! I’m not saying with certainty that you could find a poorly lit corner of the compound around 4:00 AM, pass out and wake up the next morning to discover that you’re the new DJ or janitor, but I’m not ruling it out, either. 
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