From New risen Sent Wed, Jun 3rd 1998, 12:57
From New risen Sent Wed, Jun 3rd 1998, 12:57
old or new, may the artists and their music find their audience.
ALIEN RADIO STATION
Bandwidth
Silver
"Galactophonics" is a clever and useful addition to the electronica
vernacular. Credit ARS [Jeff Shorthouse and Terry Moore] with the coinage, a
neologism which sums up their outer-spacious dub web of bass tracers and free-
floating melodies brilliantly. Triangulation of the ARS sound yields reference
points in the SETI Project's sky-sweeping sensors, in the dark-matter of
Scorn, and in the drifting asteroid belts which orbit Planet Biosphere.
Tuneful low-end predominates, emitting gravity waves which trawl
extraterrestrial flotsam - errant satellite transmissions, the
cinders of dead stars, and pebbly beats. Combing the cosmos turns up such
prizes as the pearly synthpop tektites of "Mile High" and the brass-band and
cuckoo-clock wreckage of "Low Down." It must have been one hell of a galactic
party. The ARS guidance system's radio signals break up dubwise, but the
mission meets with few real obstacles. A smooth electraglide in the pitch-
black of space.
BANNLUST
Digital Tensions -> -> ->
Craft/Sabotage
Marco Fischer's music is either unfinished or presented in a partially-
destroyed state. The fabric is so deliberately perforated that _Digital
Tensions_ is a breath away from disintegrating before our very ears. The
funereal synth tones and ashen scrapes of programmed rhythm on "Pornpet"
compose a convincing Requiem for Fischer's crumbling music. Just enough
material remains to hold "ül" intact until its chattering breakbeats have
shaken the composition to pieces. Yet "ül (reprise)" rises anew, seemingly
from Beyond, to waggle its skeletal finger with ghoulish contempt. Fischer's
gray-scale melodies are so overwhelmingly doomy that the CMI hordes might
welcome him with open (cloaked) arms. The mopiness of _Digital Tensions'_
miserable underbelly makes the excitable electronics and glowing synth strains
of "Bannlust" and "Rub Ice" all the more arresting. When Dr Jack Kevorkian's
cheery prattle emerges from the ossified breakbeat grip of "Kev-man,"
suspicions that Fischer is pulling some kind of unlikely Mortiis vs. Farmers
Manual parlor-trick are confirmed. The honed electrofunk of "Mother'"s fruit-
cellar boogie-down just restates the obvious. Atomic Ground-Zero becomes a
strobe lit dancefloor on "Last Dayz," the ultimate arena for Bannlust's
uniquely nihilist interpretation of the words "danse macabre."
DARK COMEDY
Seven Days
Elypsia
The finest Detroit techno translates emotional abstracts into machine code
without losing the core of human feeling which articulates the crude
vocabulary of any language. When a rhythm's tone or the resonant quality of a
synth pad substitute for the rhyme and meter of words, the distinction between
utilitarian expression and poetry proves the measure of an artist's eloquence.
Kenny Larkin is of Detroit's highest order of poets. His phraseology pivots on
the mellifluous effect of sounds so perfectly chosen as to speak autonomously.
Words are unnecessary, perhaps even an encumbrance, when Larkin is able to
express the spatial sensations of being "In A Room;" the impassibilitiy of
"The Bar;" the enveloping comforts of "Solace;" or the insinuating persecution
gnawing at the "Paranoid" mind, all with only the shadings of applied
filtering, inflections of rhythm, or perfect melodic transmutations. Larkin's
sounds paint the equivalent of gallery walls lined with canvases, bypassing
the 3-D limitations to translate and transmit impressions of time, motion,
space, and the indefinite. The dramatic "War Of The Worlds [Dark Room Mix]"
could easily have forsaken its storyline for a quick concession to the
dancefloor; Larkin, who christened his studio/label "Art Of Dance," would
never sacrifice one to the other.
DELPHIUM
How Can You Hide From What Never Goes Away?
Outsider Records
Delphium's colleagues are a generally misanthropic lot of antagonistic
noisemakers and pseudo-occult hucksters. Enough of that surfaces in the
caterwaul of "Left For Dead..." to keep Delphium's Jonathan on their party-
invitation lists. He breaks ranks with his peers by embracing the tenets of
dub. Undercurrents of dusk and decay run through his music, but authentic
Jamaican "duppies," the figurative ghosts of dancehall dub, attempt to chase
away the more malicious spirits. "Untitled (Again)" exorcises the spirits of
Coil's copyright attorneys quite nicely with a bit of fancy legerdemain
learned from the book of Black Ark. Shadows remain, especially such light-
gobbling expanses of obsidian ambience as "Darkheart." But the friendlier
"Setraline" - imagine C&C Music Factory reconstructed by Jack Dangers, from
memory, using only Silver Apples and Sobotnick's _Silver Apples Of The Moon_
for a sample library - is an effective countermeasure. The overcast "No Longer
Feel Pain" restages this trick, albeit less successfully, with a heap of
Rhythm & Noise albums. When dub fails, Jonathan turns to the tricks of the
techno trade, brewing up unsettling dark-minimalist concoctions ("Bellon 1,"
"Irises And Tulips," "Bleed.") "Heaven And A Hope Eternal" and its unlisted
everything-at-once chaser possess enough gambits to insure Jonathan a spook-
free studio for years to come.
DJ Q
Face the Music
Filter
On the surface, Paul Flynn is doing nothing new. The odd spoken poetic
interlude aside, _Face The Music_ is just effervescent Chicago-meets-Detroit-
via-Ibiza-by-way-of-Glascow fun. Scratch below the faultless grooves of "We
Are One" or "Space Dance," and the qualities which brought Flynn universal
acclaim shine like chrome undercarriage. DJ Q's attentions extend beyond the
rhythm, deeper than the groove, directly into the heart of his music. _Face
the Music_ is definitely not another collection of catchy but empty
prefabricated anthems for the Rave-Nation. "Paranoid Impulses," a refugee from
Planet-E's innermost docks, makes this clear. The DJ Q effect is akin to
possession, a voluntary surrender to the all-consuming ecstasy which soaks
Flynn's every note. He typically uses the circular repetitions of House to
permeate your every pore with his jubilant noise. Sun and mirror-ball sparkles
crack any gray sky wide open when the sweet narcotic syrup of "Make Your Mind
Up" and "She'll Be Gone" is flowing through your veins. There is no resisting
the booming rhythmic call of "Fila" or "Glascow's Jazz," so you might as well
not waste your energy. You'll need it for the dance. Give in, give it up, get
some funky, get down.
EMPEROR SLY
Sparking Up
Zip-Dog
Brain-frying BPMs and an early overreliance on highly irritating samples
initially make the entry into Emperor Sly's volatile mindstate a risky
endeavor. Don't be scared - this Zip-Dog's bark is worse than his bite. The
Emperor's kingdom is poised between the mallet-force Acid refractions of
Trance and Gabber, the sparkling technopolis erected by 808 State and
Plastikman, and a malignant mutation of digidub. "Blood Rising" takes in a
panoramic view of Sly's domain, and the upfront truculence found here and on
"FreedomRightNow" can be offputting at first. Soon enough
the blood thins, the headache subsides, and the prescience of Emperor Sly's
extroverted vision becomes evident. "Eyes Of A Ghost" and "Digeridogs" are
easier entry-points, easing up on the throttle for superlative examples of
club-meets-dub possibilities. The adrenalized "RamDance" spruces up a PWOG
hypnogroove with light reggae toasting and a tasteful brush of the cross-
fader. "Mandrill" finds the +8 engineers storming Studio One, and, along with
the Vocoder-laced dubhop of "Tuff To The Rootz," shows that Sly's really not
such a belligerent guy. Maybe the
harsh opening triad is a defense mechanism - or a process for weeding out lost
wayfarers from true roots-radicals.
FREQ 63
Robotique
Oblique Soundscapes (vol. 6)/Noise Museum
Batchas' second contribution to the Oblique Soundcapes series, following their
recent "Genetic" 12", wires a heart - hopefully an artificial model - to a
malevolent pacemaker. "Commande Sequentielle" uses the unfixed pulses of
Panasonic's _Vakio_ to incite an arrhythmia in the 'motorik' heartbeat shared
by Neu! and Kraftwerk. The strained cardiac compressions are amplified on
"Autoguidage" and "Electro Transmetteur," creating profoundly immersive
soundtracks which swallow conversation and ambient sound like yawning ocean-
floor rifts. "Stator Analogue" (credited to Mental Showdowns) detoxifies the
system and restores a normal sinus rhythm to the heart. The pulse is pumped up
to tachycardic levels on "Cycle Variable," a Maurizio-like deep techno pace
incompatible with life but very complementary to a minimalist DJ's set. A
funky syncopation infuses "Thyristor Asynchrone" without slowing the beat, but
a heart can only stand so much. "Esclave Mécanique" flatlines while the dead
organ's "life" flashes
before it. Technical narration issues down the metal corridors of the
laboratory where it was conceived, and it finds peace at last as its spirit
heads toward the [ceiling] lights.
HOODLUM PRIEST
Hoodlum Priest
Iris Light
Although his congregation is drawn from the ranks of Apollo 440, the Hoodlum
Priest's left-of-center sensibilities keep his toes on the proper side of the
commercial line. Vocals tip the scales in favor of uncomfortable slickness on
"Naked Time," but atypical rhythms - a very attractive composite of scratchy
Hiphop and industrial iciness - imbue the music with welcome compositional
rawness. The Egyptian strains which waft across "You Know Who I Am," are a
fabulous intuitive touch, ultimately softening HP's acrid breakbeats into a
percolating bed of Eastern percussion. A hint of Black Grape party-funk creeps
into the sinister and infectious "Slow And Low," a minor-keyed slink through
the Gravediggaz' ghetto sepulchre and into the B-52's hangar. "Addicts" mines
similar ground, with much darker intentions, pulling a stirring anthem from
the unlikely combination of transient operatics, pungent beats, and caustic
lashings of guitar. Hoodlum Priest does it yet again on the closing "We Walk
The Earth," a forbidding stretch of Purgatory funhouse hallway whose velvet
drapes part to reveal preternatural visions both Celstial and Infernal.
MANDROID
Electro Freaks Rehab Clinic
Breakin' Records
Did you trade your boombox and cardboard mat for smart-drinks and a Discman?
Bad move. Electric Boogaloo lives, foo'! Prepare for the sharpest vintage-1983
flashbacks this side of Saturday afternoon Tron reruns. Adrian D. Rataj will
have you body-poppin' like a Soulsonic freak. Mandroid isn't interested in
retro trippin' [though any similarities to "Planet Rock" and Melle Mel are
purely intentional.] He has keyed into the secret of electro-futurism, the
simple fact that the way of the past is the way of the future. "Analogue
Addict"ion and Electro Fever are gifts of insight, not diseases. Run towards
the call of the Vocoder, not away from it; embrace the clipped stacatto of
Mandroid's neuron-friendly hyperfunk and the robotic love call of the Korg's
mod-wheel. Video arcades now fit on top of your television or on a CD-ROM.
Odes to mechanical hedonism and "fresh" electro-pimpology no longer jibe with
the 'gat-toting braggadocio of the city streets. But the doors of Mandroid's
_Clinic_ are open 24/7. Technicians are standing by, ready to drop old-school
beat science on '90s-weary ears. Drop in, even if just to jam on Rataj's old
piano or wrap your fingers around a joystick for a stand-up round of pre-ERA
_Pac-Man_ or _Space Invaders_.
PADDINGTON BREAKS
Smart But Casual EP(12")
iLL
What's on "Daytime TV?" A steroid-enhanced Barney the Dinosaur stomps through
the sandbox with a rumble in his purple belly and tender young preschoolers in
mind. Yawn. Next channel. A "clinical scientician" suggests combating "The
Doledrums" by soaking in a scalding bath of sulfuric Acid. Stupid paid
advertisements. CSPAN... they're dropping pianos from the rafters on
"Biztalk," and the NAFTA debate is being played out as a conversation between
a congress of well-tuned claviers. Talk turns to the wages of the "Debt"
epidemic, and a furious mob is soon pounding fists against the City Hall
doors, demanding a solution. Frightened politicians take to the highways in
armored vehicles, but a glance in the rearview reminds that "Red Cars Move In
Packs." Sure enough, an army of red cars is plowing forward like a torrent of
Christmas Island crabs. Policemen whistle and wave, making futile efforts to
control the advancing tide of radios, radicals, and radials. They're crushed
under treads like grapes. Has the city gone mad? A spectacular pile-up
barricades the streets, stretching for miles, people crawling from the
confusion of overturned cars and leaping flames to espy Jean-Luc Godard and
his Panaflex taking in the sights from an overhead crane.
POMASSL
Trail Error
Laton/Mego
Techno has been cut dead! The mortal weapon, by the killer's own nomenclature,
is the "Gamma Knife." None could have seen the attack coming. F. Pomassl was
an unlikely assassin who infiltrated the inner-circle of electronica in the
camouflage of a fresh-faced techno revisionist. He played his game with
calculating malice, biding time while creeping within striking distance of his
quarry's unshielded heart. Trail Error is the studied and unerring glance with
which Pomassl has skewered the organ. The systematic collapse will be felt
forever as the profound impact of Pomassl's blow sends paralytic waves through
Techno's cooling corpse. While the principles of particle physics which
operate the Gamma Knife will be the subject of endless debate, this much is
certain: Pomassl's ingenious weapon strikes at the very core of Techno,
inciting an anaphylactic chain-reaction, sequentially shutting down the
system's essential functions. Rhythm is the first casualty. Electro-
neurotoxins decompose the matrices which define beat and meter,
flatlining synthesized pulses into buzzing streams. The death of melody
follows, neutralization by enzymes which devour tone color and pitch, leaving
only bioelectronic residue. Techno's post-mortem pathology is agonizing -
inexorable and painful to witness. Should Pomassl be canonized or reviled for
his crime? Two words: La Bouche.
SZÉKI KURVA
The Sound Of Dead Goats EP
Iris Light
You just can't keep a good cultural insurgence down. Széki Kurva have stirred
up another batch of Hungarian insanity. Subtitled the
"FairgroundMusicFromHellMix," the jaunty "Beermonsters Are Go!" finds the
merry Magyars jabbering in at least ten languages over a lunatic blend of
Liszt(?) and carousel cut-ups - all to the maddening 200bpm pulsations of a
hidden bass. A tame opener, but the London Hungarian Massive hasn't lost its
bite. Mama unknots her babushka and lets her hair down for the "Goat Dance," a
sing-song stomp peppered with Cypress Hill samples and gnashing guitars. It's
no wonder that SK wear their badge of MACOS membership proudly. Don't look for
them to show up on an American major-label any time soon, although rumor has
it that Warner GM _has_ shown interest. Is that Ricardo Montalban's irrascible
Khan on "Hunter Killer?" Even a Space Seed has to be a little intimidated by
the ensuing onslaught of thud n' bass and razored stun guitar [from NIN's
"Wish?!"] You'd be advised to apologize when SK ask "Did You Spill My
Goulash?" Anyone who'd envision this mess of Julie Andrews' yodels, animated
Hungarian elves, Slavic folksong, blackout noise, and cutesy samba simply
can't be trusted.
1/TAU
Hikuioto
1/Tau
Berliner B.D. Hegenbart's fascination with the music and sounds of modern
Japan makes _Hikuioto_ an astonishing creation caught idiosyncratically
between Berlin and Tokyo. More than half of _Hikuioto_ is consumed by
"Musicforcicadas" and it's prequel, "Sultriness." The latter offsets soothing
nature sounds and voices, lacy raga-form synthetics, and warmly crackling
electronics with rhythmic sputters and razor-edged noise bullets which zip
through the ether. The only possible comparison is Nonplace Urban Field, but
Hegenbart is less intent on danceable stability.
"Musicforcicadas" integrates the female Japanese voices explicity into
Hegenbart's quavering textures by ingeniously extrapolating rhythmic loops and
melodic phrases from individual syllables. It's an absolutely magical
experience which holds you enraptured for 26 minutes. Shorter tracks such as
"Grounded," "Homeless," and "Pond" apply patently German treatments to
Japanese and English voices and create cogitative concréte miniatures, often
gilded with gossamer melodies. "Tripel" and "Folded" display a freely melodic
sensibility typical of the Zero Gravity label within the context of
Microstoria's pastel tone-webs. The nervously pattering breakbeats of "Gun"
would have sounded fine elsewhere, but the track is routine and a shade
disappointing compared with the rest of the marvelous_Hikuioto_. Hegenbart's
hand-crafted (and handmade) soft-cardboard packaging strikes an ideal note of
Eastern artistic personality.
VISOR
VISOR
Tom
Jens Massel, Jörg Follert, and Tom Steinle, the collective forces behind the
rising Karaoke Kalk label, share _Visor_'s six tracks. Those familiar with the
musicians' exemplary twelve-inch output as Saucer (Follert), Kandis (Massel),
and Motel (Follert and Massel) may be startled to find no evidence of their
records' astute beatcraft on this disk. Follert's "Inbox" is a lyrical
dialogue between harp, piano, and reversed bass-synth, a marvel of dramatic
restraint worthy of recent Biosphere or Roedelius' _Selbstportrait_ series.
Saucer's palette of uncommon jazz chords imparts a surface irridescence to the
Cubist melodic delineations of "By Car." Vinyl-esque crackles lend Massel's
yearning "Passing Landscapes" the feel of a worn Debussy record. Low piano
notes bow like willow branches toward some invisible plane of reflective calm.
The primitive electronics on Steinle's "Night Interludes" evince a pristine
sense of Stockhausian romance, liquid-mercury tones penetrated erotically by
weighted silences. "Airport" adds a refulgent five-tone piano figure. Massel's
closing tone-painting, "Alaska," luxuriates in heavy marbled swirls of
quicksilver and creamy ivory, casting impressions of the Aurora Borealis in
gleaming metallic bas-relief. A wondrous artifact, and unfortunately one which
too few will hear due to its homegrown origins.
V/VM vs THE THIRD EYE FOUNDATION 12"
Fat Cat
Not quite. This twelve-inch is split between the mischievous Mancunians and
the irrepressible Matt Elliot. There is unfortunately no interaction,
antagonistic or otherwise. Elliot's remix of Bristol's KS Kollective is
another rumpled feather in his well-adorned cap. Stumbling breakbeats,
thoroughly non-conducive to any movement other than a puzzled shrug, tear into
"There's No End In Sight" like the teeth of a berserk rototiller. All
agitation and aggression ceases, just as inexplicably, at the halfway mark.
The two-faced remix segues abruptly into a twinkling stretch of
Popul Vuh-esque acoustic guitar and synth-loop meanderings, as if to flip the
bird at any idiots who might have been getting off on the earlier full-bodied
techstep rinse-out. Hehehe. V/VM's chuckling audio gremlins borrow a title
from an especially goofy personal ad and proceed to choke their comely
electronics with temperamental hiss, industrial contaminants, erratic beats,
garrottes of feedback, and corroded synth figures. Part II is as melodically
straightaway as this bunch gets, indistinguishable from Skam or Rephlex
offerings if not for the outrageous distortion which floods the music at odd
intervals. Not nearly as subversive as V/VM's infamous "Whine & Missing-Toe"
Christmas seven-inch, but a vivid, valid, and memorable artifact all the same.
MATT WINCH
Cook County Hospital: Volume 1
Craft/Sabotage
Matt Winch appears to be angling for a gig scoring episodes of E.R.or those
"pharmaceutical interaction and contraindication" scrolls on early-AM Lifetime
TV. His hardcore obsession with disease makes Dr. Octagon's wordplay seem like
harmless juvenilia. Colorado-based Winch's album, while short, packs more
visceral intensity than most can stomach. "Sickle Cell Crisis," plaited with
retching coughs and anemic pleas for help, is unshakably grimy, morbid and
terrifying death-trip electro. There's no relief in this uncomfortable
excursion, but a percolating beat keeps it addictive. As unsavory as a
"Urinary Tract Infection" might sound, Winch's cocktail of Cheap-style minimal
techno and druggy ambience makes you want to forgo the cranberry juice just
for the pleasure of the experience. "Transient Ischemia Attack" paradoxically
kicks your cardiovascular system into high gear with its throbbing pulse,
patterned EKG blips, and subtle symphonics. Winch's moody arrangements on "Pap
Smear" make masterful use of pizzicato
strings, piano and sorrowful horns and are grimly majestic enough to invite
gynecological fantasies in the XY "chromosomally impaired."
TORU YAMANAKA
A Boy Is Sleeping
Foil
Yamanaka is a founding member of the multimedia performance group, Dumb Type.
His album is filled with electronic confections very much in keeping with the
DT style. "Happy Days" and "How Could You Do A Thing Like That To Me" are
shaped silently by involuted electronics. Before you realize what's happening,
Yamanaka's unassuming lounge-pop has been transformed into knotty futuristic
electro-jazz _and_ restored to its base form without so much as a crinkle out
of place. The feats worked with _Nutcracker_ themes on "Rotary-Press Machine
#1" are even
more delightful. Electronic acrobatics stretch gooey melodies like brittle
caramel, twisting them around a giddy construction of interlaced samples. The
music which Yamanaka creates is never hard on the ears, but there's always
much more happening than a casual listen would detect. Three treatments of
"Diamond Hour" mix dainty piano with multiplying layers of electronics to
entirely different effect, creating Sakamoto stardust soundtracks full of
wonder and bliss. The magical "River-Buzz" and "Rain" coax similar blooms and
twinkles out of harsher sounds. Accordion and voice launch "Motion#1" on its
pinwheeling trajectories, while the title track is set into gyroscopic motion
by a fundamental melody and kept spinning by a whirlwind of synth-strings.
Pure fantasia!
various:
3RD BASE
Base
A valuable peek at the Austrian and German underground, taking care to
showcase talents which have somehow escaped wider notice. Sabotage/Laton's
Alois Huber and Mego's Rehberg & Bauer are familiar from their relatively
high-profile activities. 3rd Base divulges that they're in fine company back
home. Aural ScreenShots appear twice. "Pace" recalls the thoroughly scrambled
drum n' bass meted out by Farmers Manual or Bisk. A.S.S. also collaborate
[live] with James Plotkin on "Ridin' A Train," a magnificent, nearly beatless,
piece rich with organic shadings and powerful melodic progressions. The Mego-
ites' contribution, a remix of "Clones" [by Fuckhead, one member of which is
also in A.S.S.], is predictably jiggered and also quite short. The Smiling
Buddhas' warm [if a little eerie] sound-effect laden electronica sprouts
acerbic bass notes like unfiled fangs. Martha Hurry's "Matta" is appropriately
speedy jungle with plentiful obligatory Austrian quirks [here it's a chopped-
up violin]. Huber remixes a WIPEOUT track and turns in a very strong, very
dark example of death-voiced techstep. Schlund present dismembered Euro-
strangeness replete with melting voices and shredding feedback. Concentrated
ambience is pitted against a battering low-end by The K - almost Chain
Reaction-style. Swamp Swallow offer a subtler variation on similar bass/blip
theory.
various:
ALT. FREQUENCIES 2: DISCO MOONLIGHT
Worm Interface
The spirit of the polyester scourge is one of many ghosts haunting Worm
Interface's second pile-up of eccentrics. Freeform wriggles through puddles of
filthy electro-funk (or "fyonk") and comes out stinking of sweet, sweaty
rhythm. Mirror-balls are set spinning by Dunderhead's bleeped-up Warehouse
hustle. Farmers Manual hit with a taste of Vienna-style dancehall, sharp
snares and electro-incursions diverting a low-end slalom through a fiendish
training course. Plasma Lamp blurt and fart around divertingly beneath a
craning Skam-form melody. The biggest surprise is
Tom Jenkinson's "System4v.7," a stretch of inky blackness which roils and
rumbles like Lull or Aube, with nary a hint of the trademark Squarepusher
insignia. Hopefully Jenkinson has gotten this out of his system and will
return forthwith to torturing his drum machine. Milky Boy fills the broken
breakbeat quota nicely, in expected Bovinyl 'pusher-clone fashion, once
"Toilet Seat" starts ripping and popping like a grease fire. Departure's
"Baraki" isn't a bad mutation, a technoid breakscape whose chiming melodicism
and tidal washes make up for lapses into lazy programming. Rook Valard's
friable breaks on "Stochast" feel pallid without melody, but fuse Valard's
piece with David Kristian's rhythmically flat but tunefully exquisite
"Celesta." Then you'll really have something.
various:
AVANTGARDISM 2: ONE GIANT BLEEP FOR MANKIND
Law & Auder
Compilations once had something to say. Now, as the unmappable landscape of
pseduo-scenes and false movements transforms artists into islands, they serve
as stopgaps. Collections, especially the double-disk tomes de rigueur in
electronic music, offer a one-way broadcast channel through which fans can be
alerted that an artist is slaving away in the studio, possibly between albums
or aliases, and hasn't forsaken his adoring public. Tracks tossed out as sops
for the masses sustain interest and offer a peek at the artists' current
fascinations. They're
essentially trifles, hors d'oeuvres before the repast yet to come. The variety
offered by such a smorgasbord is appealing but generally unsatisfying. With
bountiful selections on display, there's something to please all tastes but
too much of an assortment to make for a satiating meal. Picking through the
familiar/reliable names on Avantgardism 2 (Plug, Witchman, T-Power, Bedouin
Ascent, Freeform, David Kristian, Muslimgauze) turns up a fair share of
unexpected delights from relative-unknowns, including - but not limited to:
[Martin] Wheel[er]'s twitchy breakbeat techno; Fluid's stomping hulk of a
tribal/ethnic trainwreck; another enigmatic teaser from Black Dog Kevin
Downie; Bowling Green's weirded-out freakstepper; the unusual electronic
backdrop of Fructose's "Bleached Bone;" Koru's Sino-African exoticism; Dan
Gulberry's slap-happy and bass-heavy "Casual Man."
various
IM SUMPF. Musik Zu Gut Für Diese Welt.
Höllering/Mego
Record execs have only one skill, a remarkable athletic ability to jump aboard
a moving bandwagon. Other than that they're not worth their fatcat salaries.
They toss unsolicited demo tapes into the round-file without so much as a
listen. Imagine the genius which is being overlooked with each heartless flick
of an A&R person's wrist! What if there was a radio station which gave the
rejected and disposed victims of executive indifference a chance to storm the
airwaves? Enter Austria's FM4. Here the huddled and overlooked masses receive
a fair shake, whether they're inept polka bands or promising Säkhö wanna-bes.
Send the fine DJs at FM4 a DAT and they _will_ play it, giving the world to
hear the spools of magnetic tape which never made it past the exec's desk.
There are the exciting finds: f.o.-n., a genuine Panasonic Jr.; Scud, the
hitherto unknown love-child of Steven Stapleton and Stefan Jaworzyn; the
jerky,
murky, "gonna be huge in Tokyo!" electropop stylings of Gelee Royale, Hey, and
Redhaus; the John Fahey-goes-Hawaiian sound of Mäkare. There are the "file
under: consider" submissions: Licht's post-(pre?) Rock, Birdy's painfully
voiced jungle/skiffle/metal hybrid, Scheffenbichler's sincere Euromantic
balladry. Then there's the Tangoboys...
various
PICKNICK MIT HERMANN!
Rhiz
The ultimate time-capsule relic of Austria's exceptional musical climate. 19
tracks, 19 acts, recorded live during a Viennese park festival in the summer
of 1997. Styles vary radically. The 'difficult' artists are represented by
Farmers Manual, Hecker, and Rehberg&Bauer's expectedly discombobulated
electronics and by the exceedingly weird NWW-ish toyscapes of Bernd
Oberlinninger and Helmut Heiland. Pausenfuller approach their electronics with
a sunnier touch. In the absence of favorite sons Kruder & Dorfmeister, Bask
and The Smiling Buddhas deputize
for the quirky dance contingent. Curd Duca even lays the Wagner aside for a
stab at electro-disco-sambafunk, leaving intermission-organ duties to Fritz
Ostermayer. Fritz Fitzke's spastic voiceplay and hot buttered jazz add to a
refreshingly overstuffed Hiphop truffle. Fennesz' beautiful sampled-guitar
mistreatment steals another show. Epy and Dieb 13 hurl breakbeats like a
deadly hail of shuriken. Lest you think Pomassl's devious anti-techno noise
and the Danube-blue drones of Swamp Swallow, Franz Reisecker, Hecker, and
Alois Huber's (very uncharacteristic) are the chosen face of Austrian
electronic music, Musikkreis MS20 roll out a wonky Moogy-blues cover of
"Summertime." it could have been the consummate "you had to be there..."
moment. Instead it reveals the Austrians for the brainy party animals that
they really are.
various
VEDIC PRESENTS: RHYTHMIC INTELLIGENCE
Sub Rosa
Indian electronic music proliferates, but it seems to have lost the spark
which made the initial synthesis so breathtaking. Vedic resumes the original
quest for _Rhythmic Intelligence_, explaining it as the "conquering of modern
ignorance by ancient wisdom." An opening raga chases away the lingering taints
of the present and urges a "return to rhythm." Bedouin Ascent's revised
"Ancient Ocean" extolls the three pillars of his unique techno creed: Art,
Science, and Ritual. The electronics on this deliriously beautiful piece are
at first almost invisible, but they and the Indian instrumentation eventually
embrace like reunited sisters. Vedic's second and third ragas add programmed
breakbeats and Ansuman Biswas' perfectly centered tablas. Biswas' "Shift"
merits its centerpiece status, a trip every bit as entrancing as Talvin
Singh's Calcutta Cyber Café and even more intricately composed. The Future
Sound of India gets a darkstep kick from Earthtribe and Euphonic and a mighty
bass infusion from the Asian Dub Foundation.
Lelonek's "Rashanki" is a real olio - sitars, tablas, House piano, Black Dog
beats, Deep Forest voices, and Good Looking drum n' bass - all simmered to
perfection. The voice of India today, brought to you by a Belgian label. True
melting-pot music.
goodnight, IDM-L
goodnight, "Intelligent Dance Music"
god bless, all.
:n*r: