Small Life Form – One

Small Life Form’s album One has been the single most unique listening experience of my life. It has no contemporaries, no peers. It is in a class all its own. This is because it is also one of the most bizarre albums I’ve ever listened to. Comprised of seven tracks, One is nothing more than an intense sonic project (in the most literal sense of the word) that took the architect, Brian John Mitchell, five years to complete.
You can’t fully understand or appreciate the album without the liner notes, taken verbatim: “The tracks on this recording are designed so they may all be listened to simultaneously while looped. The instruments used on this recording are melodica, trumpet, trombone, voice, Chinese cymbal, floor tom, vera pulsar (via radio telescope), and electronic wind organ. Recorded in real time without overdubs or multi-tracking…”
Clearly Small Life Form is a scientific project as much as it is a creative work (a work that took five years to complete). In fact, I picture Mitchell as more of a mad scientist whiling away the hours in a secluded laboratory than as an impassioned artist pouring his heart into a labor of love. But in the same way, minimalist art found inspiration in efficiently mass-produced consumer products, there are subjective undertones of sheer beauty in this work.
The most outright success is the track “Pulsar.” The liner notes indicate that it is indeed comprised of the sounds emanating from one of those deep space neutron stars as captured through a radio telescope. It sounds a bit like a warped, distant helicopter, although the scope of the frequency range exhibited is far greater than what the earthbound machine is capable of. It is the pure sound of nature at its most exotic and extreme.
The liner notes also imply that the best way to enjoy the album is by listening to different combinations of the tracks simultaneously. Unfortunately, some sort of multitrack audio program is necessary to do so, and most listeners don’t have access to one. But I do, and so after ripping the tracks off the CD and saving them as .wav files (they come as standard .cda audio files, although I feel .wavs should have been provided to simplify the process) I opened my multitrack program and anxiously loaded the .wavs. Unfortunately, each track so thoroughly covers the sonic spectrum that I couldn’t listen to more than two at once (and sometimes not even that) without intense clipping occurring. Now, I admit I don’t have the greatest sound card and speakers in all of Computerdom, but I do have a multitrack program and a lot of patience. There are very few people who have everything necessary to enjoy this album as (I believe) Mitchell intended.
Then again, I’m probably wrong. Not that the album tracks were meant to be enjoyed separately, rather that they weren’t meant to be enjoyed at all, at least in a musical sense. These seven tracks are simply an extraordinary collection of pure walls of sound, thick and full and incredibly intense, deserving of appreciation for the complex process that brought them into existence in the first place.

BUM (Bohjass Upas Militia) – Derriere…pourquoi?

Seventeen musicians, five live tracks (the shortest clocking in at just under 9 minutes), one stage on fire, and an uncredited number of dwarves and pot-smoking grandmothers howling cheers from the crowd – welcome to the BUM, or Melbourne’s Bohjass live. And dangerous. And mad.
Bohjass has never been known for their respect towards tight structure or genre – their last release, Chocolate Ice, saw them blending glips and other forms of electronica with their emphatic saxophone-led cacophony – yet Derriere, for all its insanity, is as tight as (insert your own animal/virgin/actress joke here). Recorded earlier this year at the Planet Cafe, you can hear the audience responding as saxophones are strangled (six of them), trumpets are pushed towards the heavens (three of them), and the other menagerie of mescaline-fuelled instruments squeeze and release, breathing fire and ice and all sorts of other wickedry. Who knows what hell was opened up in rehearsals, but this expanded Bohjass pulled it off on stage, and when what you’re doing can sometimes sound like 50 Mack trucks colliding, taking a willing audience with you into the inferno and bringing them out hollering for more is nothing to be sneered at.
As for the tracks themselves, “Rex-o-lube” i s my favourite. It begins with a noirish trumpet, all Mulholland Drive, and builds, slowly, monstrously, into a behemoth that stalks, seizes, and then guttles for almost 18 minutes. About 10 minutes in, you can feel the blood oozing out of the horns and I swear there’s a cow bell being anally violated. That might just be my hearing. You decide.
But you will not hear BUM on the radio, nor in the elevator on your way to work, nor in the faux-hip jazzy slut-supplier cafes that ooze their credibility like a gonorrhea river. This type of sound caters only for those intent on blocking out the sound of white trash neighbours fucking and fighting, or for those at 3 am who have run out of Camus and are tossing up whether to move onto Nietzsche or just slash their wrists. It’s music that gives sordid old cynics sitting in their sweaty summer filth hope, or at least something that resembles it, and reminds us that out there, behind the 7-11s, fake pizza stands, and window displays frothing with rabid consumerism, there is meaning and comfort to be found. Sure it’s in madness. But like Bohjass Upas Militia’s brand of jazz, the best things in life and death are free.

Milton Mapes – Westernaire

The sound of the new Milton Mapes record (Milton Mapes is a band, not a guy, it turns out), Westernaire, is closest to the pop-country of The Jayhawks, and singer Greg Vanderpool’s voice has a similar reedy quality to the old Louris-Olson harmonies. Taking away from that slightly is the heavy-handedness of some of the instrumentation, especially the drums on songs like “Some to Reap,” which have a tendency to almost drown Venderpool out in a flood of crashing cymbals. The quieter songs fare much better, allowing Vanderpool to explore his quiet higher register without so much noisy competition.
My favorite songs on this album have a nice handmade quality to them, as on “A Thousand Songs About California,” which with its lilting melody earns the Would Be a Hit Single if There Were Justice in the World title. On that song, Mapes actually sounds like an indie version of Counting Crows, proving once again that when I call anything “country” you should take it with a grain of salt. Mostly, the band explores the rich possibilities of Americana from Gram Parsons by way of post-punk, and indie rock idols like Built to Spill.
Vanderpool doesn’t mind wearing his root on his sleeve, on “Palo Duro,” even lifting a quote straight from the all-purpose oracle that is Bob Dylan: “Last night I danced with a stranger / But she just reminded me you were the one,” he sings, adding, “Someone once said that much better / I think it was Dylan but it may have been Young.” Have no fear, though, the bits of hero-worship don’t detract from the quality of this album. It’s low-key and laid back, often fun, and with the appropriate doses of crying-in-one’s-beer.

Mice Parade – Obrigado Saudade

As proven in 2003 by Brokeback’s brilliant Looks at the Bird and HiM’s enlightening Many in High Places are Not Well, the positive progression of America’s premier post-rock operations has not come via ploughing further into abstract terrain but more from mining the infinite and universal power of melody. A process continued here on the latest long-player from Adam Pierce’s New York collective, Mice Parade. Although it would be silly to suggest that Obrigado Saudade is somehow the missing-link between Rubber Soul and Millions Now Living Will Never Die, it’s still fair to say that the best bits here come from keeping one foot planted firmly in the realm of robust song-like structures and one eye on the ever-changing musical horizon. Assembling a simpatico cast of musicians that includes Doug Scharin (June of 44, Directions In Music, HiM), Kristin Anna Valtysdottir (Múm, HiM), and Dylan Cristy (The Dylan Band), Pierce has sculpted a series of serene and sensuous treasures rich in texture and laden with rapturous instrumental hooks.
Kristin Anna’s crystalline vocals are again a revelation to anyone who has never had the good fortune to hear Múm’s Finally We are No One. Her whispery delivery lends a gracious presence to the Four Tet-like folktronic twists of “Two, Three, Fall” and to the winsome stripped-down acoustic strains of “Spain (Excerpt).” Elsewhere on the laid-back “Out of the Freedom World,” Doug Scharin’s jazzy drum patterns underpin some beautiful oriental guitar shimmering from previously unknown guest Chris Conti. The 11-minute groove-rhythm-ride that is “Mystery Brethren” brings in a seemingly obligatory Tortoise homage, but it’s done with such panoramic panache and cinematic flair that charges of lazy plagiarism would never stand up in court.
Although Pierce benefits from his guests’ warmth and presence, many of the best (and indeed most melodic) moments here come in the shape of near-solo recordings. The interwoven unplugged guitars, looped percussion and hazy vocals of “Focus on the Rollercoaster” suggest David Grubbs isn’t the only New York resident with his eye on the intellectual art-pop crown. The marvellous “Milton Road” is even better with its handclaps, gossamer guitar figures and balmy synth washes. Binding such acts of delight together is Pierce’s strong sense of focus that stops things drifting off into dead-end tangents.
It doesn’t all quite work out – “Guitars for Plants” is an unfinished ambient noodle, for instance – but generally speaking this is a record that richly deserves to do for its creator what the aforementioned Looks at the Bird did for Tortoise/Eleventh Dream Day bassman Doug McCombs. A carefully crafted triumph for tunes as well as experimentation.

The Apes – Baltimore – The Ottobar, MD – 2003-12-18

“Who else here thinks that skate-punk is dead?” Mudhoney’s lead guitarist Steve Turner queried the sweaty, salty clot of Baltimorians that lay sprawled before him. “Then consider this a skate dirge,” he added, streaking his fingers down the neck of his red Fender, eliciting a filthy shriek of rock n’ roll. The crowd’s response was almost Pavlovian, as they pogoed, thrashed and moshed like it was 1991 all over again. “This is better than 1991,” vocalist/guitarist/grunge guru Mark Arm said with a smirk. “You guys are beautiful. Absolutely lovely.” Strange words coming from a man who wrote the blistering punk/grunge anthem, “Touch Me, I’m Sick,” but not at all out of place. Arm and his fellow Mudhoneyians are a little older, yes, and a little wiser, but no less inclined to give you a burning ass-wedgie of totemic rock n’ roll. Yes indeed, folks, while skinny, malnourished and sad may be all the rage now (The Stills, I’m looking at you), and New York City’s overly-sanitized streets still spoken of in unnecessarily hushed tones of reverence, who’s to say dirty, fat, and covered in beer and blood can’t find their niche or their coveted corner of the market to spit on and pummel mercilessly with sneering punk and twisted 70s licks? Whose to say Seattle is now only known as the city where that stupid Real World kid slapped the other stupid Real World kid? Mudhoney’s back in town, baby, and they’re very upset with you.

Openers The Apes brought their own brand of ballistic Stooge-rock all the way from DC, and they weren’t afraid to whirl it around their heads like a two-day old corpse. Amanda Kleinman’s bristling, cacophonous organs swirled around assorted heads like a screaming Magi, while Erick Jackson seemed to reach into everyone’s chest, Temple of Doom-style, and de-heart them with clangorous, simian bass. Jeff Schmid’s windmill arms pounded out a terrifying beat, and vocalist Paul Weil pranced and danced like an epileptic marionette, relaying tales from the heart of Sugar Mountain. The band confidently cruised through material from 2003’s Oddeyesee, and tossed in a few newbies from the as-of-yet-unreleased EP, Tapestry Mastery. “Aboard the Ark” and the new “Tapestry” were of particular note, blanketing the audience with dense and conflagrant rock, and oldies like “Lightning” from The Fugue and the Fog cudgeled everyone senseless. By the end of their set, you could see kids wandering around aimlessly, shaking their shaggy mops in an attempt to understand what had just happened, or for that matter to discern where the fuck they were.

After being beaten by The Apes senselessly and without moral conviction, the crowd of sweaty, masochistic Marylanders appeared primed and ready for round two. And as the bell sounded and Mudhoney descended on the stage, everyone’s personal safety was effectively rendered null and void. The band refused to take sides in the mangled Koosh ball of arms and fists and whipping hair that erupted on the floor. Tearing through tracks such as “Flat Out Fucked” and the aforementioned “Touch Me, I’m Sick” (which resulted in fists, devil horns, middle fingers, and other standard rock show gestures being pumped in the air in chorus-punctuation), the Seattle Stallions raked their fingernails across their guitars and displayed a blatant disregard for the well-being of eardrums. Not that the crowd, a humorous and heterogeneous amalgamation of ruddy cheeked neophytes with uncertain mustaches and grizzled grungsters with torn jean jackets and Mother Love Bone patches, seemed to mind much, as the air in that place was rife with the smell of teen spirit. Suffice to say, you don’t see much crowd surfing at any Interpol shows these days. And so what if the new underground has lost its sense of double vision, its bloodlust, or respect for the flannel-clad, burger-flipping adolescent buried deep within us all? As long as Mudhoney sees fit to remind us that a night at the rock n’ roll club needn’t end with an exchange of blog URLs and a solitary walk home with nothing to warm our throbbing genitals but our humming iPod.

At the end of the show, during the last of the three-song encore, High Priest Mark Arm, having cast aside his holy ax, rollicked and swayed his subservient parishioners with wild-eyed, ecclesiastical proclamations. Sweat dripping off the tip of his beak-like nose, Arm conjured up an army of banshees from the deep pit of his diaphragm, as his lanky red hair whipped around his face like fire. The man sang and performed as if he hadn’t been doing this for 20 years, and as if he were entirely certain that he was heading no nostalgia act, but a band in the full bloom of relevance.

Stereo Total – Oh Ah / Monokini

First of all, it must be noted that for whatever reason, Franco-German electropunk duo Stereo Total thought it would be a really good idea to cover the seminal KC and the Sunshine Band song, “Get Down Tonight,” on their 1996 debut LP Oh Ah. Normally, I’m all for covers – I think it showcases a band’s roots, its influences, and, in some cases, it can be a way to honor a particularly notable inspiration. 1970s punk bands took an instant liking to the Kingsmens’ “Louie Louie,” an indication that many of them recognized their early 50s and 60s garage roots. On the other hand, acknowledging schlockmeisters such as KC and his interracial circus of future car commercial hit makers is just as socially awkward as actually donning the sequin jumpsuit and prancing around in it. Moreover, Stereo Total does nothing to improve on the already cavity-causing disco hit, despite paring down the beat and adding Francois Cactus’ sultry, German spy-sounding vocals. However, the duo also chooses to cover Salt-N-Peppa’s “Push It” in a delightfully lo-fi and trashy move. The beat is heavy on the high-hat, and Brezel Goring’s guitars sound bored and over-sexed (that and the whole track is less than minute, never allowing the cheesiness of the song to actually set in).
Ultimately, that is exactly from where Stereo Total’s charm derives: the melding of unselfconscious trashiness with the blasé, stereotypically over-sexed Euro attitude. Goring and Cactus give the impression that they recorded all 20 tracks of Oh Ah and all 19 tracks of Monokini while on one weekend-long coke binge. And it’s hard not to respect them for that. Oh Ah‘s gritty, spare production smacks of smoke-filled basements, flickering red lights, and sly, heavily-masscaraed glances from across the bar. Concurrently, Monokini is a carbonated, synth-driven sex romp on the French Riviera, complete with Monsieur Hulot falling all over the place and your girlfriend insisting that its all right to sunbathe naked – “it’s customary.”
Critically speaking – because let’s face it, we ain’t trying to sell you anything here (we’re just trying to prepare you for that next loft party/make-out party where invariably some one will ask you what you’ve been listening to lately, and it’s then that’ll you’ll lift your eyes to the pipe-choked ceiling and whisper a silent prayer to DOA for allowing you to spout off a thick line about Franco-German electropunk and look like a true asshole to everyone around you…an asshole that they will all silently remain in awe of…but I digress) – Stereo Total, while having the fun, buoyant, unrestrained element of their genre down pat, is also seriously lacking a congruent ascetic. Oh Ah, while being shabbily glamorous, wears a bit thin around “A L’Amour Comme a La Guerre,” which sounds exactly like “Comme un Garcon” which sounds suspiciously like “Avec Ma Valise,” and so on. It’s the incessant repetition of the Euro-punkabilly formula that makes you think that these guys might be a one-trick pony. Similarly, I spent a modicum of time searching through the haystack of songs on Monokini looking for that needle to stand out and maybe draw a little blood to little avail. Stereo Total seems content sticking to fuzzy synth/spare production/electro-pop that, while utterly charming and perfect for your next martini party, makes you feel after a certain point like you may have been in Urban Outfitters a bit too long.
That said, “C’Est La Mort” from Oh Ah is the most infectious, skin-crawlingly addictive song I may have heard…ever. A spare drumbeat, a slide whistle, a cadre of “backup singers” whose only purpose is to go “Ah! Ah! Ah!” when necessary, Boring’s expert sound manipulation, and Cactus’ sexy, girlish vocals all add up to the kind of song that’ll make you dance like a fucking Peanuts character. “Une baguette, du chocolat / Un café au lait, un coca-cola,” Cactus purrs, apparently going down a laundry list of shit she wants you to buy her before she even considers your ragged ass. And hell, after hearing her sing like a Lollita popping out of a cake, she can have all of that. She can even bum as many of my Gauloises as she wants.

Menomena – I am the Fun Blame Monster

I Am the Fun Blame Monster…or an anagram for “The First Menomena Album”? Album art…or flipbook? Beat-heavy glitch pop…or fiendish plot to reinvent pop music as we know it? Hmmm. Portland’s Menomena have definitely made a splash in the kiddy pool that is the indie-rock world, which is relevant because everyone knows there’s no splashing allowed. From the above mentioned facts to the revelation that Menomena-mastermind Brent Knopf designed a loop-based software called “Deeler” specifically to arrange I Am the Fun Blame Monster‘s tracks, this band has released one of the most surprising, challenging, and important albums of the year – and I can say that because the year is pretty much over.
Never mind the hype, you say, what the fuck do these Nor’western fruitcakes sound like? Well, let me break it down for you…get it? Break it down? It’s funny because that’s exactly what Menomena are doing on Blame Monster, breaking down pop music’s essential elements and highlighting the parts that make our heads nod, our toes tap inside our shoes, and our asses jiggle and shake. Don’t get me wrong – this isn’t dance music, nor is it dancepunk or IDM. “Caught Coughing,” the opening track, is replete with a start-stop, snare-heavy hip-hop beats, maracas, and pianos that echo in and out of focus. And here is where I become irrelevant, because there is nothing I can say or write that will adequately summarize Menomena’s brilliance. They are just…amazing. Chin up though, old man, and soldier on. Just do your best, but damn it all if it isn’t trying.
Now sit back and let me tell you the story of “The Late Great Libido,” Blame Monster‘s stand-out track. It all begins with Knopf’s forlorn wail, “Four score and seven years to go” and our man’s hesitant piano work, lush and pretty as a prom date. Suddenly, someone invites some mean old saxophone in, and it starts breaking up the joint, real disrespectful like. But before things can get out of hand, there is a pause, and knackered Knopf chimes in, “Now I wait to much for me / Longer still or so it seems.” He taps out some toy piano, backs it up with a glitched-out beat, and then all hell breaks loose and the sax soars back in, thirsting for blood. Snares are being murdered in the background, Knopf’s moan echoes off into obscurity, the real piano and the toy piano lock horns in a battle for dominance, and someone with a guitar steps in and begins to thrash like his fingers bled notes. And goddamnit if it doesn’t sound fucking gorgeous.
Suffice to say, this is one of the best albums I’ve heard all year, and I’m going to stop writing now so I can go back and listen some more. Bye.

No Through Road – Monkey on a Rock

No Through Road is a solo outing by some Australian gent who goes by the name of Matt Banham. The output on his solo debut is a confused and muddled grouping of the lo-fi, the tortured, the loud, and unfortunately sometimes the boring.
What I’m most thankful for when listening to this disc is that the first track is not entirely indicative of the output for the rest of the CD. The opener is called “Long Slow Song,” and lest this be some sort of false advertising, this is a long slow song – 10 minutes and 15 seconds to be exact. Whatever compelled him to create a song like this and then to make it the opener, the attention grabber, the flagship track to his CD is anyone’s guess. It’s like an overmedicated acoustic lullaby that takes about four minutes before ambient background noise makes it the least bit tolerable. If Banham renames the song “long boring slow and pointless song,” he just might win a prize for most literal song title ever.
For what its worth, Monkey on a Rock does pick itself up a bit as time wears on. Even the second track has its redeeming qualities and is beefed up by an electric guitar and a full band. It’s title, “How to Make You Cum,” is apparently either some metaphor or to be taken literally as Banham ends the song with the sullen, “I’ve forgotten how to make you cum / is that the reason why you’ve gone?” Other lyrical dubs and wincers come off in “Class Dismissed (Beautiful World)” with the bombshell: “It’s a fucking beautiful world / And you’re a fucking beautiful girl.” While this may induce some sort of head slap from the listener for pure inanity, just know that often what Banham lacks in lyrical ability he makes up for with pure emotion. His squealing off-key delivery is sometimes equivalent to Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes. His throat ripping screams, if anything, demand attention.
Thankfully No Through Road switches up styles enough to avoid inducing prolonged severe boredom. “Everything That’s Wrong with Me and More” is a rollicking lo-fi indie-pop tune that, despite poor lyrics, is pretty decent. However, any advances made by the few decent tunes on this disc are undermined by lengthy and meandering songs like the 10-minute second electric guitar squealing of “It’s So Cold.” Bandham’s shattering vocals are gripping and truly affecting, and you wish that they could find a proper outlet in the songwriting. If that ever were to happen, he could sufficiently induce chills throughout any listener’s spine. As it is right now, though, this is too mixed and uneven to deserve much attention

Latitude Blue – Searching for Perfect EP

I could have a 10-minute conversation with a fellow music junky and throw about terms like post-emo indie, slowcore shoegaze, tripped-out post-rock, etc., and the casual observer would think we were speaking a foreign language. You can call this melodic post-emo indie, as the band does, but what the fuck does that actually mean? I’ve been guilty of using similar tags in the past, but melodic post-emo indie is where I draw the line, especially when complicated wordy terms are thrown around unnecessarily. You can simply call Latitude Blue rock, and you can simply call it pretty good.
This is a debut that is not entirely flawless, but it is strong indeed. First, the production is glossed over and sharp. This could be a negative or a positive determinant on preference, but considering the group’s big sound and tight musicianship, I’ll chalk it up as an advantage. Each instrument is mixed well, and the overall output is cohesive. The sound is culled from a litany of influences, both on this side of the pound and Latitude blue’s native England. I swear I hear some influence of the band Cracker or Buffalo Tom on “In the Morning,” but this seems to be an isolated incident. Overall we get flashes of The Stone Roses and Echo and the Bunnymen from the Brits, and coping that authentic American sound are traces of Jets to Brazil and the Foo Fighters.
On the four cuts on this debut EP, the group shows some promise, as with the dark and brooding double attack of “1961″ and “I’ll Be Fine.” You really can’t get any more rock than “I’ll Be Fine” and to call it emo or anything of that ilk would truly be a misnomer. It features dark and swirling guitars, crashing drums, and disaffected vocals with a prevailing sense of British rock gloom. “In the Morning” begins with a Stone Roses dancey rock riff and takes a stab at a more upbeat tune that actually employs a plethora or major chords.
This is a solid debut from a band that, if they are able to fine tune a few things and capitalize on potential, we will be hearing more from in the future.

Bobby Birdman – Heart Caves

Armed with a computer-generated orchestra and one of the most soothing voices ever, Bobby Birdman* has kicked out one hell of an EP. While some may find Heart Caves a tad “experimental,” there can be no disputing its catchiness**. From brooding laments to swinging odes, Mr. Birdman can do it all, which should come as no surprise to fans of his previous work.
“Feat So Bold” and “Then it Begins” both find Birdman singing in that distinctive laid-back style of his over lazy, hypnotic beats and weird breathing noises. Then “I Will Come Again” kicks in, all hyper and bouncy, pushing the listener in a completely different direction than the previous tracks. “Gone Beyond” is a beautiful song, complete with glee club style harmonies. “Let My Burden Be” is the most straightforward of all the tracks, relying for the most part on layered vocals and melancholy lyrics to take things down a notch. Said vocals are then totally deconstructed in the last track, “Ultra Shape,” and placed under and around various samples and synth noises, making for four eerie minutes.
All of this style shifting creates a strange sonic space without making Heart Caves seem all over the place. If anything, the stylistic jumps help to emphasize the narrative found in the lyrics. Careful listening to Heart Caves with headphones is a must.
* Bobby Birdman is Rob Kieswetter. ** Some believe that “experimental’ is the antithesis to “catchy,” but I do not.

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