Speed, Glue and Shinki -" Eve" (1971) and how I learned to stop worrying and love Japrock.

Speed, Glue and Shiki's 1971 skull-crushing debut Eve

Dinosaurs fucking: it is brutal, primitive, loud and for those who keep nasties backed up in the somber chambers of the mind: sexually stimulating. The echoes and reptile moans are shifting and widespread, but always abrasive and aggressive, unfurled from the primordial animal gene pool and moving the air molecules with monolithic grunts.

This is what Speed, Glue & Shinki sound like.

1971 saw the advent of the kamikaze Japana- sex, drugs and rock n’ rollers’  debut LP, Eve, and the supersonic obliteration of hundreds of stoned-out teens from the land of the rising sun. Overlooked or underrated this article seeks to revindicate and revitalize the geniality of this recording.

Speed, Glue & Shinki are a supergroup of sorts. Formed in 1970, the power trio amalgamated the likes of the Japanese-Chinese six-string slayer Shinki Chen, hailed as the Asian Hendrix (he wasn’t, of course), Franco-Chinese pretty-boy bassist Masayoshi Kabe (“Glue”) and Filipino drummer and speed fiend Joey “Pepe” Smith. Chen earned his bollocks playing with an assortment of bands in the 60’s , recording the interesting psych-jazz album A Social Gathering with one-shot group Foodbrain and even putting out a solo record, Shinki Chen and Friends while Kabe became the tall, dark and handsome poster boy for the faux-Beatles gritty Group Sounds band(roughly equivalent of Japanese Psych/Beat rock) Golden Sounds and Joey Smith started out as a street-lurking guitarist, playing in various Filipino local groups before switching to drums, ingesting preposterous amounts of amphetamines and getting out of dodge and into the Japanese rock and roll circuit where he met up with Co. They put another record out after Eve: a 1972 self-titled hodgepodge of a record before splitting up due to Smith’s speed-hazed mind and rampant horndog habits.

Speed, Glue and Shinki.

As you might have imagined, Speed, Glue & Shinki borrow their moniker after their weapons of choice: quaffing glue and paint for hours on end and devouring copious amounts of speed. This is the ethical axis of the record: either I’m not taking enough drugs or I’m taking too many of ‘em. The opener: “Mr. Walking Drugstore Man” is a brontosaurus-like blues stomper with Speed Smith howling “Hey Mr. walking drugstore man/ What do you have for me today/ I’ve been feeling so ugly/ I don’t know what to do/ Can you help me (sic)” over his thundering loosy-goosy drumming while Chen’s dirge-drenched guitar wails doubled under Kabe’s swinging bassline before detonating in traditional rock fashion into rolling toms and fuzz-faltering guitar. Smith slithers at the end: “You wanna buy some Speed?”, and indication of the band’s no-bullshit  bastard strut.

“Big Headed Woman” is a dirty-blues ripper that switches on with Smith’s thumping bass drums before cracking into a full-blown sludgy 12-bar standard run. The hydrocephalic tyrannosaurus lady fancies herself king of the castle, smoking all of the guy’s stuff before “balling with another man” during the evening. Kabe’s chromatic and free licks climb up fretboard before the song veers into a masturbatory psychedelic-showoff.

Can’t have your woman being the man, man. And when I say man… man, I mean. like the MAN. “Stoned Out of My Mind” is the following track, a big ol’ “fuck you” to power relations. With squares looking down at a stoned-out Smith, keeping him down, stalking his follicles and checking his package out ( “They keep staring at my long hair, and my gear too”), the track tours through a proto-Stoner grudge riffs before segueing into the the subversive “Ode to the Bad People”,  the swansong for the degenerate, decadent and marginalized thugs of society complete with monolithic pounding skins and whirlwind bass crawls and Chen’s finest moment. “M Glue” is Kabe’s own reinterpretation of an experimental piece chock full of wah- wah bass thumps and thuds with added bits of musique concrete (attempting not to throw the term around) of what seems to be a person brushing his teeth.

The band’s final blowup is “Keep It Cool”, a Zepplin bomb dedicated to a mind-stealing “beibi”. The song crashes and booms (and flutters thanks to Chen’s crybaby guitar filtered solo) before jumping suddenly near the end into an exotic minor scale run and ending abruptly, introducing the comedown of the record, “Someday We’ll All Fall Down”, an soft-spoken acoustic ballad of the imminent nuclear holocaust.

Eve is a mondo-destructive record. The production is as bare and stripped down as the band’s name, it is animalistic and barbaric: just guitar, bass and drums. And lots of it. Like a hammer to the cortex, production is blunt, dry (little to no reverb), and caustic. Levels are backbreaking and feel like they vacuumed everything that wasn’t ball-wrenching out of the formula. What you get is possibly one of the heaviest recordings since the Archduke Franz Ferdinand got shot in the face. The cover fashions three innocent Victorian girls in sailor outfits as the hard-knock brawlers and the gatefold brings the set of horribly typed interpretations of the what the lyrics should sound like (they don’t). The record throws shifts toward the fast and towards the slow, balancing both spectrums with unpredictable twists and turns into the volatile chemical X gunk that these cock-rockers are blowing out of their instruments.

More like Motherfucker, Motherfucker and Motherfucker.

Beneath the veneer of drug binging, the record stands as a challenging agent of subversion. In a time of post-American conservative rule and nascent democratic concepts were taking over from a long-standing feudal tradition, Japan was progressively turning into a functional, non-descript Pleasantville, and drugs are a serious no-no as well as any sense of breaking out. The record is not a copying of hard-rock forms; it is an evolved enfant terrible, cretin and creepy-crawling through walls of substance abused as a means of breaking out. The heat is on, and the need to break out is symptomatic of a global-ailment in an era of Cold-War politics and conservatism. Taking drugs in the band’s narrative is a symbolic ingestion of the hierarchy’s evils an affront and transformation into the Other.

Choose a terrible job, a by the rules life and 2.3 children but what happens when you don’t like the options or worse yet, don’t want to choose at all?Eve embodies the leftover psychedelic and hippy ideology of personal freedom, but incorporates the kick-down-the door narrative of hard-rock. The record is not about opening your mind but using it to fucking tear everything down with crunchy fuzz, meandering basslines and the slipperiest balls-to-the-wall drumming.

The fact that the members are natives to their respective Asian states, the shoddy English lyrics also point to an important and central idea: communication. If expression has no just outlet and rock music was meant to be an expression of individuality, what then when there’s a language barrier? It’s cry for understanding, but like the druids and magicians of old, it is not the word summoned from the hoard that rings the bell, it’s the yearning that resounds. Though you might think that a mongoloid might be slurring the lyrics during the record, the desire for freeing oneself from the paws of the proverbial “ (wo)Man” is translated through its awkwardness and difficulty. And hell, the Engrish just makes ordinarily the lascivious, degenerate and obscene activities of drug taking, woman dumping and cerebral purloining sound really really cool.

When not quaffing drugs, the band enjoy long walks on the beach.

Eve is every parent’s nightmare: a loud, snotty, not-quite-there-yet mysoginist son-of-a bitch junkie rock n’ roll bastard. Hands down one of my favorite records ever. The album is a sniffin’ and snortin’, huffin’ and puffin’ supernova cataclysm of stoned-out-of-my mind rock n’ roll that will melt the soft-centered yolk-shit that is your no-longer-safe brain. Speed, Glue & Shiki are a caricature and excess of a rock n’ roll band should be: it is too loud, too indiscriminate and too subversive, but in this over-brimming, they create such a blistering piece of barbaric rock that cannot go unheard. You might point out traces of Deep Purple or Uriah Heep in them but you cannot trace their sound. The album is a pre-societal warble of the gathering of tribes, summoning the inward tenets of rebellion against fucking everything only through the sacrifice of norms and obliterations of everyone can there be access to the original freedom. These animals were definitely born under the chaotic murmurs of the star and were probably doing bong rips during the nigh of Hiroshima & Nagasaki and collapsing into that good rising sun of destruction.

If this humble servant has not convinced you reader, maybe words from the bard, Julian Cope, might:

“Blues-based funeral dirges about scoring amphetamines ( “Mr. Walking Drugstore Man’), paranoid sludge-trudge proto-metal anthems about taking drugs to avoid straight people ( “Stoned out of My Min”), cuckolded dead marches to cheating women with invitations to them to commit suicide (‘Big Headed Woman’): welcome to the world of Speed, Glue & Shinki.” (257, Japrocksampler) “

In laymen’s terms: this is a fine goddam album. Very goddam fine indeed. Take it or Eve it baby!: Guess I'll have to stone my brain with this. 

The sad state of modern Japanese rock.

"Spooky Fools" de Campo-Formio embruja las cámaras sónicas, rompiendo cráneos con huesos de cabras.

"Spooky Fools"

Anda peligrosamente las premoniciones de guerra, arrebatando las ondas airosas desde el sur del Trópico de Cáncer y desorganizando la composición física de cada hombre y animal. Seres humanos, esto no  es la bomba atómica resucitada nuevamente en el siglo XXI, es lo nuevo de Campo-Formio.

El trío ha lanzado su tercera producción discográfica como un relámpago chillando por los vientos asquerosos del caribe. El EP Spooky Fools, lanzado bajo su propia casa disquera “Deaf Mofongo Records” continúa el canon cáustico y caótico establecido por estos cretinos, combinando ritmos sofisticados con una mugre distorsionada.

 “Duende” inicia la excursión sónica con un pseudo- principio calmado antes de tirar un cambio hacia velocidades luz con frases azucaradas que súbitamente dan paso a la violencia auditiva de la cual los chicos han sido sinónimos con.  El resto de la canción es una juego a la balanza, gravitando entre ambos extremos antes de romper el espectro con una movida hacia una tormenta de rock n’ roll con una peculiaridad nefasta. El dilema del duende, la rata perpetua, a resumidas cuentas se limita a la ultima línea de la canción: “no hay una solución al problema.”

“Orgasmo Pixelado” es, quizás, una de las composiciones mas interesantes del disco. La introducción de un principio angustoiso cubierto con la brutalidad de infidelidad que hipnotiza con un coraje musical matemático y angular se transmuta y se convierte en algo nuevo, progresando hacia   pasajes mas relajados y lustrosos y finalmente culminando con un ataque ametrallador que deja muerto todo conocimiento de oídos. Las diferentes facetas de la canción añaden varias texturas y niveles de profundidad. Es aquí donde la banda empieza a tirar redes hacia las varias esquinas de los límites auditivos: abrasivo pero todavía capaz de sutilidad. Hasta las líricas cuentan con una perspectiva peculiar y casi surreal: la negación del impulso bestial para obliterar al ser human para poder lograr trascender. Con un corte metafísico el “no te rindas mas” y “tu puedes” que aparecen, imploran la necesidad de superarse pero un contexto dolorosamente absurdo.

El segundo lado del EP se dedica más a la exploración de otros elementos viscerales. Aunque “Soundcheck” puede ser confundida por un clásico Campo-Formiano, en realidad es estudio meticuloso de distorsión y monotonía. Se concentra más, no tanto en terminar la canción o llegar a la próxima frase, sino en lo que puede hacer con la repetición. Explotando con los aullidos guturales, la presión crujiente de las cuerdas y batería, el ruido asume control por el resto del minuto, saturándose con la inundación  de feedback y fuzz. “The Xibalba Dance Proposal”, una colección de viñetas superreales,introduce un favorito de las otras producciones discográficas de la banda: el teclado Casio. La composición es parte de una pieza de baile arreglada y montada con la ayuda de Cristina Lugo titulada “Leyéndola Hasta Xibalba”, en la cual se mueve entre diferentes cámaras del inframundo Maya. La pieza fluctúa entre lo siniestro y lo oneroso, lo pegajoso y pecaminoso y bailotea entre un sueño y una pesadilla.

En términos de producción, el disco es impecable. La composición tríada funciona excelentemente con las bases del bajo, y la batería, cortesía de Ricardo Pérez y Diego Bernal respectivamente, proveyendo un apoyo amplio en los registros mas gruesos (pero todavía teniendo la habilidad y paciencia para resaltar espontáneamente) mientras el teclado y la guitarra, ejecutados por Fernando Quintero, proveen el color a las composiciones. El juego placentero de vocales entre los sicarios de las cuerdas corta muy bien el la producción, compartiendo los deberes de los  coros pegajoso con un toque furioso.

Para los maniacos coleccionista de vinilo, el disco viene en una carátula cubierta por una eyaculación  colorida, gracias al artista Javier Román, representando un doctor decrepito trotando en un maquina que perpetua la tortura de unos cibernautas al otro lado del sobre. Aunque es una alusión al Loco de la tradición del Tarot (“Spooky Fools” eh? No? Jodanse), esta bestia tiene elementos de la primera canción del disco: este duende con orejas nefastas no quiere correr mas pero los vicios lo empujan y no sabe como parar la maquina o el problema. El disco viene en una pasta anaranjada/dorada deliciosamente transparente.

Spooky Fools es, hasta ahora, lo mejor que han sacado los comandantes del rock cretino caribeño, mucho más maduro y mucho más amplio que otras producciones. El EP garantiza partir los  lóbulos cerebrales en siete partes diferentes con los ambos lados de la producción. Campo-Formio ha lanzado la bola con sus ultimas tres grabaciones, ahora lo que falta es un LP  para cementarlos como los malévolos bastardos del rock que merecen ser. Por más sofisticado y complicadas que sean las composiciones, todavía tienen la rabia de los redobles distorsionados familiares y esto solo muestra una cosa: por más que limpies y pulas un perro para una competencia, todavía permanecerá sato.

Stereolab’s almost break-up not so bad thanks to “Not Music”

“Indefinite hiatus” is a word everyone hates, universally. It’s the overture to breaking up, the “we should take it slow for now” of relationships, television and music and when Stereolab said those exact same words in 2009, everyone started fretting. Regardless of whether they are truly calling it quits or just putting a bluff, the band was “kind” enough to launch a new record as a way of saying “let’s still be friends” in an attempt to calm down us weeping fans, and it kinda works, kinda.

 Not Music is certainly a misleading name.

The Londoners and laid back lounge rockers extraordinaires Stereolab released “Not Music”, a package of unreleased songs from their 2007 album “Chemical Chords” recording sessions, Tuesday on Duophonic Records. This maybe farewell gift by the ensemble is just a little more than an anthology of esoterica by the group; it’s a whirling ditty of pop grooves and robotic rhythms.

“Everybody’s Weird Except Me” kicks off the album, a sing-sung piece pulsing with synth leads, chiming harpsichord and Tim Gane’s  guitar leads alternating with Laetitia Sadier’s entrancing and warbling croons, all of which ride upon the subtle pound of a background piano and ultra-tight mechanical drumming. What follows is an hour-long rendezvous of classic Stereolab tunes: vibrant yet relaxed, seemingly simple yet laden with the soft nuances of a pop aesthetic.

 “So Is Cardboard Clouds” is a lofty electric piece of a tasty driving nature bubbled by analog flutters that hypnotize and ensnare and their “Sun Demon” mixes in the wavering of static with frenetic sunshine melodies but it’s still unafraid of being a playful imp with the clashing of teeny-tiny internal movements. 

The band has not strayed off from their catchy, yet loose, sound which has made them a favorite among long haired listeners and which this album has remained faithful to it like Lassie is to someone stuck between a rock and a hard place. The only qualm with this replication of sound is that it is not as aurally challenging as it was in the past: surprisingly, the bossa nova rhythms found in other classic albums such as “Emperor Tomato Ketchup” and “Dots and Loops” is surprisingly toned down and made transparent (with the exception of the track “Equivalences” which is as close as the album gets to anything south of the Tropic of Capricorn) and the mangy fuzz-drenched crunch is also tamed (“Pop Molecules” getting a little bit out of the clean sounding safe-space and breaking out the feedback, but in small doses) , which might leave some fans with somewhat of a bland taste in their mouths because the vivacity of the band relied on the decadence and excess of noise and pop melody, combined with the “motorik” beats of the krautrockers of yesteryear.

Besides that, Stereolab manages to merge the cold mechanical buzz and crank of drum loops and synthesized instrumentation with the warm reception of traditional rock orchestration with a couple of interesting endeavors. “Delugeoisie” is charmer with its Steve Reich like vicious vibraphone overture to a dreamy and shimmering passage with a tinge of a muzak filtered keyboard. “Silver Sands” (mixed by pysch-rockers Emperor Machine) is one of the pieces that jumps out and sticks: a 10-minute piece buoyant with Kraftwerk heavy analog programming and super-tight percussions juggling and gravitating between NEU! Riffs and 8-bit funk, that will have everyone stomping their feet like a British disco. The album’s closer “Neon Beanbag” (off “Chemical Chords”, remixed by Atlas Sound) is the apt closer, remembering the band’s days of wilder noise and sweet drones through an 8 minute mammoth of recurring beats.

“Not Music” is certainly an album, or at least feels more like a full-fledged record rather than a collection of B-sides, and though it isn’t as visceral as their previous releases the Stereolab magic still resides on the little things, the million myriad collection of sounds and details that give each song a wider depth and sonic palette than merely just, “Oh, you know, that Stereolab song”. Hopefully, “Not Music” shouldn’t be their farewell gift, because it doesn’t feel like the bang they deserve, this albums feels more like the “until next time” record. But for now, this album pleases, and we have to take whatever we can get.

Not your average love songs in Belle and Sebastian’s new release

Let’s face it, selling records is hard: the temptation of free music, online streaming, and bootlegs is simply overwhelming. So what does indie magnate Belle and Sebastian do to continue their comeback streak, they write about love.

The Scottish septet has laid down their knitting kits, woken up from their naps since 2006’s stellar “The Life Persuit” and put out another memorable chamber pop sonic fun fest with “Belle and Sebastian Write About Love”, released on Rough Trade records  Tuesday this side of the Atlantic. This time around, songwriting and arranging duties are distributed democratically among the ensemble, but die hard fans fear not, used-to-be sole songwriter Stuart Murdoch is still cranking out his own brand of sugary-sweet tunes alongside his mates and a few welcomed voices.

The whole sound kick starts with the appropriate and ironic “I Didn’t See It Coming”, initiating the whole experience with an eerie oscillating analog flutter before engaging in the familiar tambourine/drum/piano sequence, segueing into classic B and S. “Come on Sister” follows with a danceable synth motif, but don’t be fooled by the delectable sounds, the trials and tribulations of a decadent lifestyle pop up with it’s haunting and heartbreaking, yet sweetly sung, “Don’t touch me/ If you touch me/ You’ll never go back” and “Tell me about your men/ And your hopes”. What ensues is staple Belle and Sebastian tracks made memorable by their trademark emotional depth masked under the wave of reverb drenched hooks and swings.

The album’s production is aurally more polished and thicker than their previous fares. One can say the sonic aesthetic has been ameliorated to comply with the modern sensibilities and have gravitated away from their famous sound of quiet acoustics with soft-spoken crooning lulls. Instruments are electrified, it’s not piano and dampened percussions most of the time, it’s electric guitar and organ. While being a clearly louder album, the band still has time for its musical roots of gentle plucking and mal d’amour driven lyrics with ditties such as “Read the Blessed Pages” with its honest inquiry (“Did I do my best dear? /That’s all you asked) as well as the aptly titled “Calculating Bimbo” (“A lack of understanding/ you took for being lazy”.) and “Sunday’s Pretty Icons” (“Every love you’ve ever forgotten/ And every person you’ve ever despised/ Is forgotten).

Though the band does not necessarily have a radical new sound, the various voices and styles in the record (courtesy of the other six members) do give it a feeling of variety. “I Want the World to Stop” features escalating voices and walls of shimmering guitars, swooshing violins and motorik drumming. The album’s most memorable moment is arguably “I’m Not Living in the Real World”, a saccharine, poignant look at the naïveté of having a job, schooling and overall living. The ghost-like organ, the guitar sonic assault, phantasmal whistles and buoyant singing come together in pop exuberance, mocking and na-na-na-ing  Fridays and feelings (“Think about happiness/Thinking about sorrow/Don’t think about sorrow/ Thinking about sorrow”).

This is just gratuitous hipster porn.

The group also gets a little help from their friends with some of the tracks. Folk idol Norah Jones pops up to sing back up and a couple of lines in the track “Little Lou, Ugly Jack, Prophet John” and Carey Mullingan (of “An Education” and “Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps” fame) puts on her singing mitts for the albums’ title track, a soul groove with a pound of  Doors-inspired organ.

 Tender pop goodness oozes out of every corner of the record, with lush melodies floating up and down the spectrum. The harmonic thickness is undeniable, and will keep most eager go-getters dancing. If there should be a qualm about this album it should be the slower compositions. Ironically, what has come to define and epitomize the band’s sounds, laid back and mellow tunes,  can sometimes drag on for too long and languor under its own weight. 

While not terribly daring and adventurous, “Belle and Sebastian Write About Love” is definitely a solid album and the band still manages to maintain their emotional. and sonic integrity, providing sweet instances and insights into life as we know it. It’s definitely not “If You’re Feeling” or “The Boy With the Arab Strap”, but it’s a listen that burrows itself deeper after every listen Not just any love songs, these are funny, poignant, critical, and more importantly, honest.

Deerhunter poaches the edges of psych-pop with "Halcyon Digest"

Hunters: adventurers, providers of the ancient world, not necessarily denizens associated with beauty and the ghostly but synonymous with adventuring, something which the Dixie boys of Deerhunter have got it down to the T with their new release.

Halcyon Digest

The Atlanta quartet released their fourth record “Halcyon Digest” Tuesday on 4AD records, following-up on 2008’s majestic “Microcastle”. Now the million dollar question is, do they deliver? Yes, one-day shipping included. The southern band definitely has a breakthrough album on their hands.

If “Microcastle” shifted towards the lyrical and acoustic, “Halcyon Digest” shifts towards full-blown pop Valhalla, grazing through auras of experimental melodies but still grounded solidly in indie rock sensibilities. Tracks are sunny-side-up psychedelic songs that will have listeners mesmerized under the spell of shining, fuzzed-out walls of sound.

Brian Cox’s songwriting and airy singing have definitely morphed towards crafting dense pop pieces that jump at you, and like the little cretins they are, don’t let go, crawl under your skin, and have you coming back for more. The sound is thicker this time around; the guitars, courtesy of Cox and Lockett Pundt, are louder and more overdriven, autoharps and pianos pop in and out at times and Moses Archuleta’s drums and Joushua Fauver’s bass provide sufficient low-end blasts to keep the pieces solid yet lofty. Electronic sequences and even a sax solo blow expected passages away with spontaneous harmonic interventions.

The record kicks off with “Earthquake”, a haunting piece of reversed drum loops and reverb stuffed vocals and ethereal string plucking but quickly shifts into second gear with “Don’t Cry”, a ballad-esque ditty filled with crunchy guitars and sugary melodies, akin to the bubblegum-pop of yesteryear but with a slightly darker and more mysterious edge, whether it be because of a slightly-hidden synth or the phantasmal backup croons, these danceable numbers harbor a hidden world of hypnotizing melancholy cast against the bright façade of  upbeat rhythms.

Elder Deerhunter fans will find the staple spacey acoustic tracks that have epitomized the band’s sound in songs such as “Sailing”, a tender ditty washed with the flutter of recorded crashing waves à la Neu!. While keeping shoegaze enthusiast happy with shimmering strings and textures, the record treads into more daring grounds incorporating a myriad of mystical sounds in their single “Helicopter”, a breathy piece composed of autoharps, reggae like loops and a mantle of reverb that will reel you in and then consider whether to let you go or not. The closer “He Would Have Laughed”, a nostalgic remembrance, showcases the facets of the Deerhunter sonic arsenal: visceral, tender, anguished and continuously expanding.

The singing is superb, ubiquitous and terrifying. Cox bellows tender melodies but his lyrics cast a long silhouette as in “Revival” where the exalting of a divine presence (“I’m Saved, I’m Saved”) is beset by the loss and feeling of being lost in corporeal world (“Freedom, silence, always/ This darkness). In the pastoral paean that is “Basement Scene,” (ironically), Cox croons the urgent “I don’t wanna get old, no” only to be mysteriously subverted later on to the “I wanna get old” and closes with the vexing “In the bluffs they know my name.”  

The hooks and swings of the record are almost unbelievable, floating from every corner of every song; they are unconventional and long-lasting. Exhilarating, fun and magical with the flourishes of classic rock and comfy harmonies, there are graces of beauty and grooves to be found every time. The musical and lyrical denseness of the record begs and demands various listens and thankfully for those eager listeners, it doesn’t seem to be much of a burden.  

Even if you trace the influences to classics such as The Jesus and Mary Chain and folk heroes such as Van Morrison, Deerhunter still astounds with its own brand of clouded indie-pop, solid and ethereal, laid back but unafraid to flaunt their punk sensibilities.

The beauty of the record lies in its eccentricity and eclectic mix of solid compositions. Gravitating between the joyous, exuberant, sensual, celebratory, mourning and haunting, “Halcyon Digest” is certainly more than a record or a compilation of songs, it is a palette of great artistic and melodic might and surefire candidate for one of the best records of the year and the band’s best effort yet. In a sea of gritty, grimy, lo-fi rock n’ roll, Deerhunter stands out because of its clear-cutting pop tones backed up by massive gusts of electric and acoustic instrumentation. It’s like having ice cream for the first time, you’d swear you’ve had it before, but it feels new and exciting and you certainly enjoy the taste of it, almost heavenly.

MAGIC MOTHERFUCKER

Fantasmes’ “Sidetracked” haunting local fairgrounds with ghost pop.

Fantasmes (French, noun)- a returning or haunting memory or image, it also happens to be the name of the local band that has put out one of the most intriguing sonic endeavors this year.

Brainchild of songwriter Mario Negrón, with the help of Darío Morales-Collazo and Juan A. Arroyo, Fantasmes followed-up their debut album “The Reveller” with the release of their EP “Sidetracked”, released last Thursday on Last Bummer records, alongside the heralds of other-worldly beckonings and shimmery string strumming.

Eschewing the modern machine-gun gatling assaults of modern furious and frenzied rock n’ rollers, Fantasmes combines the dream-pop flavors of the late 80’s/early 90’s and Beatles inspired melodies with folk sensibilities and a twist of trippy garage rock.

The record kicks off with the aptly titled “Banquo’s Ghost”, an ethereal overture filled with walls of delayed guitar goodness and soft and lofty drumming. What follows is a psych-fueled drive through sequences of airy and breathing tracks that will have your head afloat thanks to the help of reverb-drenched vocals, low-end bass thumps and hallowed soundscapes.

Just because the band’s sensibilities gravitate towards a quieter and somewhat more lyrical aesthetic, the album does have sport some intense, yet subtle moments. Tracks grow and expand, as though organisms on their own right, masking climactic moments of haunt under waves of echoes.

Sidetracked manages to balance very well the fluctuations between structure and free-form growth, mixing even-handedly amorphous textures and concrete rhythms. Much like its aural ethos, the eclectic mix of acoustic guitars and pianos go hand-in-hand along with flanging synths and ambient tones, carrying phantasmal hooks with pomp and wonder. The album also makes space for the surreal with the sound collage that is “The Majestic Cytherea”, chock full of nightmarish backward utterances and lo-fi programmed drum loops.

The record wraps-up with the sugary, yet quite eerie, “On Bridge’s End”, complete with a faux countdown and slap-back harpsichord which segues into “Magpie” a more moved and ghostly ditty stuffed with feed-backing, fuzzed-out guitar pummels, driving it all home, and exiting with “AM to Static” a quaint ambient electronic drone, nostalgic of something not fully remembered.

One thing is certain for the album, it requires time. The tracks don’t jump at you or command a sense of urgency on the first listen; it waits among the shadows of its own analog wash and creeps unto you slowly. Though most tracks might feel identical, they all have their moments, which can only be appreciated with further listens.

The album, as a whole, works as both a remembrance and a reverie. A gift that perhaps one would try to trace its source only to find it has no origin. The shades of past pop endeavors do shine, but rarely can the listener point out a distinguishable root. It harkens to some half-remembered past with spectral fondness.

“Sidetracked” is a peculiar kind of experience crafted by our own brand of backyard musicians. The soft-spoken manner of this listen might not be everyone’s cup of tea, and it’s length (clocking at a little over 30 mins.) might frustrate listeners, the albums is visceral yet solid, shaping a rewarding listen to all those willing lend an ear.  Though the album is not quite a classic, Fantasmes has certainly built an ancestral and eerie sound-house, the only thing left is too see if they can haunt it with their next release.

“Sidetracked” is available in digital format at a “name-you-own” price at www.fantasmes.bandcamp.com. For more info on Fantasmes, visit their Facebook and Myspace pages.

Steve Reich’s Double Sextet/2x5 lofty and alive with the mechanics of wonder.

Challenging, adventurous and minimal tend to not follow each other in any given sentence, but they sure describe Steve Reich’s musical library. The New York City composer of such extraordinary sonic feats as Piano Phase and Music for 18 Musicians has finally recorded his 2009 Pulitzer Prize-winning piece Double Sextet alongside the recent 2x5, released Tuesday on Nonesuch records.

Double Sextet is a mutating harmonic power drive that shifts through the composer’s famed polyrhythms with extreme prejudice. Scored for doubled up piano, vibraphone, cello, violin, flute and clarinet, classical ensemble eight blackbird ( who also commissioned the piece) stepped up to the challenge of executing the demanding phrases for the instruments and their doppelgängers.

This tightrope balancing act performs as a Swiss watch, showing its gears throughout as well as polishing its adornments. The foundation chords of the piece are constantly heard throughout its clockwork, but the pianos’ melodic repetition highlights the nuances of the other instruments, drawing attention to the color of clarinet blows and violin attacks that breathe life into its mechanics. The composition transforms the daring percussion phrases into harmonic meditations, opening the listener to the reality of the piece and its seemingly hidden complexity. Like a new revelation, the sonata-form breakdown of its movements (divided in: I. Fast, II. Slow and III. Fast) showcase the push-pull system of its dynamics, evolving with its myriad of interlocking keys and string. The operating repertoire is alive with the beauty of the being at the moment, climbing towards loftier ground while growing with the colors of its reality.

There is also a cosmic feel to the ethos of the work. Instruments part from their germinating origin and proceed to motor in their own harmonic systems but eventually synch up in the wider scope of the larger mechanics, as though by some slow hand or the winds and woods themselves.

Reich also ventures into exercising his rock idiom in, 2x5, commissioned and preformed by contemporary classical group Bang on a Can. Separating itself from the rhythmic complexity of the first part of the record, Reich explores classical compositions in the rock n’ roll context. Scored for a double set of two guitars, bass, drums and piano, the piece combines the intricacy of Reich’s harmonic endeavors and the aural ambiance of rock.

Though the electrified tonalities of the instruments should provide a Spector-like wall of sound, the piece does not sound as thick, or melodically dense, as its also-doubled-up counterpart.  Interesting at its best, the piece might have listeners bobbing to one of its many rhythms but it's still cast among the shadows of its predecessor.

The elder musical statesman continues to push the aural boundaries of music, branching towards new ground with his rock voicings but still reshaping the tonal nodes of modern classical with vibrant pulses and his unique musical language. Minimalist/post-minimalist/totalist or whatever you fancy, Reich is at the top of his game, Double Sextet is definitely one of the composer’s most achieving, demanding and intrepid pieces. Enigmatic, beautiful, and at times wondrous, Double Sextet/ 2x5 is an aural whirlwind, imperial in its own right and majestic in its rhythmic execution.

Interpol’s new album stalks darker ground.

A specter is haunting record stores, the specter of Interpol’s new release. New York City indie veterans Interpol released their fourth, self-titled album Tuesday on Matador records, ameliorating fans thirsting for a follow-up to 2007’s Our Love to Admire, with a few interesting sonic endeavors. .

Interpol

Interpol grazes themes touching the misgivings of fractured relationships, obsession and despair that give way to introspection. Singer Paul Banks once again delivers with his bass bellows and tenor croons that have come to shape and define the sound of the quartet throughout the past years.

The post-punk quartet renew their aural vows with Banks and Daniel Kessler’s famous inter-locking synched up guitars, Sam Fogarino’s syncopated drums and driving bass lines, courtesy of Carlos Dengler who recently left the band.

 This album is noticeably darker in composition than previous recordings. Minor tonalities and Banks deep voice instigate a somber mood that intrigues and hypnotizes listeners with its organic quality. Backing piano notes and rolls cement suspense alongside the eerie reverb-drenched strings. The record’s cover sporting the band’s pulverized name logo cast against a black and bleak background helps set the mood for the music to come.

Though the melodic coloring of their compositions still solid, the band has shifted toward a different song structuring. Their staple adventurous arrangements and intricate, if not eclectic, harmonic progressions have been eschewed in favor of more expansive compositions which breathe and grow rather than progress towards an end. Though these tracks are laden with gestating rhythms, some of the songs tend to lack a certain flavor that makes the expansion worthwhile, and the lack of more exciting instrumentation outside the traditional rock ensemble doesn’t help either.

Without the challenging arrangements of previous albums, the albums flows more relaxed. Though at times the band seems to have a tad of difficulty easing into an easier pace, the overall production balances ethereal voicings with nimble bass thumps and tight percussion very well.

Don’t be fooled, some tracks more than makeup for these discrepancies. “Lights” polices through a building progression with extreme prejudice thanks to the help of alternating echoing guitars and a foreboding, dirge-like motif that appears at times to carry the spectral croons  of Banks’ “That’s why I hold you dear”. The last tracks “All of  the Ways” ghosts through with an obsessive if not controlling speaker and “The Undoing” closes the record with the haunting premonitions of the end of a love, switching between Spanish and English .“I was on my way/ Chasing my damage” is Banks’ agon, a battle at ends with himself where the quest of self-destruction is the only way to undo the otherwise unsolvable face off.

Old-school Interpol fans fret not, the single “Barricade” will keep diehards happy with their more traditional up-beat drumming, danceable guitar riffs and bass raffs as well as their renowned sing-a-long anthemic chorus that break the tense-ridden verses of other staple Interpol songs.

Interpol have crafted yet another good album, with a more menacing sound while still preserving their classic style, keeping fans appeased while bringing something to the mix. Though the records trips over itself at times and can feel a little directionless without their tight and complex arrangements, the record pulls through with catchy hooks and hypnotic compositions. Interpol does not disappoint, and their new twists will keep the fans at bay for the time being.

 Originally published in the Puerto Rico Daily Sun, Sep. 11, 2010: magic motherfucker.