Brinsley Schwarz - Brinsley Schwarz [1970]

I hear you, Mr. Forest Roxx, posting that live Stones from 1972 and a Black Unity/Sabbath duo (whatta combo) from 1971. I'm tagging in for April of 1970 with this early Nick Lowe band, Brinsley Schwarz. Named after their guitarist, these fellows were early purveyors of what became known as pub rock, whatever the hell that means. I guess it means you should be drinking and smoking when you cue this up. This debut album saunters out of the gate about as California sunshine as Brits git, with CSN, Grateful Dead and Incredible String Band injections, then balances and closes out with British tokes of Yes and double shots of The Band. Baywatch probably has this on French vinyl, but if this is virgin territory for him and he isn't completely down with this, I will eat some California sunshine.


Add another cube of sugar to your tea

Black Sabbath - Master of Reality & Pharoah Sanders - Black Unity

Through pure serendipity I threw on these two back to back this afternoonsy while OK got shellac'd by NC on the muted TV. Always best to watch basketball without the din of ex-jox warbling their inane horseshit over the top. Takes the art outta the game to add their half-baked lint trap observations. So, anycrap, these two records back to back as the snow melted, the Sooners got Tarheel'd. Something hit me. Whipped out my personal digital device and discovered, via the tubes -- I'll be hornswaggled -- these two records were released the same year - 1971.

Black Unity is just an genuine and beautiful record. At the same time transcendent and angry and desperate. And, just play along, I say the same for Masters of Reality - pissed, alone, a bit desperate but with an affirming belief in one's own power. Call the claim goofy or, in itself, desperate. Give it a try. There's a lot of love in each. And I got a good nose for love!

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Allmusic on Master of Reality: With Paranoid, Black Sabbath perfected the formula for their lumbering heavy metal. On Master of Reality Sabbath still were fresh and had a seemingly endless supply of crushingly heavy riffs to bludgeon their audiences into sweet, willing oblivion. If the album is a showcase for anyone, it is Tony Iommi, who keeps the album afloat with a series of slow, loud riffs, the best of which -- "Sweet Leaf" and "Children of the Grave" among them -- rank among his finest playing. Taken in tandem with the more consistent Paranoid, Master of Reality forms the core of Sabbath's canon. There are a few stray necessary tracks scattered throughout the group's other early-'70s albums, but Master of Reality is the last time they delivered a consistent album and its influence can be heard throughout the generations of heavy metal bands that followed.



Allmusic on Black Unity: By 1971, Pharoah Sanders had taken the free thing as far as he could and still live with himself. He was investigating new ways to use rhythm -- always his primary concern -- inside his music and more tonally strident ways of involving the front line in extrapolating tonal and harmonic diversions from the melodic framework of his music. To that end, he entered into a more groove-laden arrangement with himself and employed some funkier players to articulate his muse. Along with Cecil McBee and Billy Hart, who were frequent Sanders sidemen, a young Stanley Clarke fills the second bass chair, and Norman Connors fills out the second drum seat. Carlos Garnett accompanies Sanders on tenor, Joe Bonner on piano, and Hannibal Peterson on trumpet. Sanders also added a full-time percussionist in Lawrence Killian. The only cut on the album is "Black Unity," over 37 minutes of pure Afro-blue investigation into the black sounds of Latin music, African music, aborigine music, and Native American music, with a groove that was written into the standard three-chord vamp Sanders used, opening up a world of melodic and tonal possibilities while also bringing a couple of stellar talents to the fore -- Garnett being one of them and Connors being another. The heavy, hypnotic groove and a double-time tempo are controlled by dynamics and the groupings of instruments, signaled by Bonner with his stacked fifths, sevenths, and ninths. This is a solid, moving piece of work that seals the cracks in Sanders' vocabulary. His arrangement and the staggering of solos into the whole are magnificent. Here was Sanders as he saw himself in the mirror, a mass of contradictions, and the embodiments of the full fury and glory of music in one man.



HEAR Master


HEAR Black

Rolling Stones - Unreleased Decca Live Album, 1972

This has gotten copious virtual spins as of late.


I would be a fool if I didn't say this is a stand up & superlative document of the Stones. A little muddy and a little fuzzy at times but if there was a lovely, crystal clear recording of them on this '72 tour (Exile!) it just couldn't have the high grade skronk factor of this grimy artifact. Full horn section, check "Bitch."


Recorded live at Boston Gardens, July 19, 1972; at Spectrum Arena, Philadelphia, July 21, 1972; and at Tarrant County Convention Center, Texas, June 21. 1972.


Set List
01. All Down The Line
02. Brown Sugar
03. Bitch
04. Rocks Off
05. Gimme Shelter
06. Happy
07. Tumbling Dice
08. Love In Vain
09. Sweet Virginia
10. You Can't Always Get What You Want
11. Midnight Rambler (2nd show)
12. Rip This Joint
13. Jumping Jack Flash
14. Street Fighting Man


HEAR

Funkadelic - One Nation Under A Groove

You're in recovery mode. Yesterday you were subjected to the riotous antics of 15 preschoolers celebrating their cohort's 4th birthday. Now, the bouncy house is gone. The balloons are drifting aimlessly, hovering inches above the pavement - their ability to rise leached away overnight and matched only by your inability to get out of bed. Blue icing from a Cookie Monster cake has stained your patio and probably all those kids' bowel movements. You have to clean up this mess. You have to do your job. You lack the energy. You lack motivation. You need a shot in the ass.

This is your Rx.

Simply the finest funk to ever come from the Clinton menagerie. If Free Your Mind and Maggot Brain were slam dunks, then One Nation is the half-court, over the shoulder, no-lookee at the buzzer. They just make it seem so easy.

It grooves. It funks. It rocks. It beats you like a red-headed step-child til you get up off your ass and move. You don't hear this, you don't just "listen"; you absorb it like sponge until there is more of it in you than "you".

Spin it up. You've got things to do today and this is your little helper.

Oh, and if the title track alone doesn't do the trick, you might as well just pull that sheet up over your head - you're dead anyway.

allmusic:

One Nation Under a Groove was not only Funkadelic's greatest moment, it was their most popular album, bringing them an unprecedented commercial breakthrough by going platinum and spawning a number one R&B smash in the title track. It was a landmark LP for the so-called "black rock" movement, best-typified in the statement of purpose "Who Says a Funk Band Can't Play Rock?!"; more than that, though, the whole album is full of fuzzed-out, Hendrix-style guitar licks, even when the music is clearly meant for the dancefloor. This may not have been a new concept for Funkadelic, but it's executed here with the greatest clarity and accessibility in their catalog. Furthermore, out of George Clinton's many conceptual albums (serious and otherwise), One Nation Under a Groove is the pinnacle of his political consciousness. It's unified by a refusal to acknowledge boundaries — social, sexual, or musical — and, by extension, the uptight society that created them. The tone is positive, not militant — this funk is about community, freedom, and independence, and you can hear it in every cut (even the bizarre, outrageously scatological "P.E. Squad"). The title cut is one of funk's greatest anthems, and "Groovallegiance" and the terrific "Cholly" both dovetail nicely with its concerns. The aforementioned "Who Says a Funk Band Can't Play Rock?!" is a seamless hybrid that perfectly encapsulates the band's musical agenda, while "Into You" is one of their few truly successful slow numbers. The original LP included a three-song bonus EP featuring the heavy riff rock of "Lunchmeataphobia," an unnecessary instrumental version of "P.E. Squad," and a live "Maggot Brain"; these tracks were appended to the CD reissue. In any form, One Nation Under a Groove is the best realization of Funkadelic's ambitions, and one of the best funk albums ever released.

Hear

Don Cherry - Brown Rice

This was a happy accident for me, having read about this years ago, forgotten it, remembered it again and then remisremembered it. And it was only once I again forgot about it again that I rediscovermembered it.

A lot of cyclical jams with deep verb'd Cherry trumpet alongside touches of throat-singing, desert chants and driving drum work.

Cherry has always been hit or miss with me. This one hits... in the throat, the naughty bits, in the mouth. Plus that has Charlie Haden on bass = can't miss.

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Allmusic.com: If Eternal Rhythm was Don Cherry's world fusion masterpiece of the '60s, then Brown Rice is its equivalent for the '70s. But where Eternal Rhythm set global influences in a free jazz framework, Brown Rice's core sound is substantially different, wedding Indian, African, and Arabic music to Miles Davis' electrified jazz-rock innovations. And although purists will likely react here the same way they did to post-Bitches Brew Davis, Brown Rice is a stunning success by any other standard. By turns hypnotic and exhilarating, the record sounds utterly otherworldly: the polyrhythmic grooves are deep and driving, the soloing spiritual and free, and the plentiful recording effects trippy and mysterious. The various ethnic influences lift the album's already mystical atmosphere to a whole new plane, plus Cherry adds mostly non-English vocals on three of the four tracks, whispering cryptic incantations that make the pieces resemble rituals of some alien shaman. The title cut has since become an acid jazz/rare-groove classic, filtering Charlie Haden's acoustic bass through a wah-wah pedal and melding it with psychedelic electric piano riffs, electric bongos, wordless female vocals, short snippets of tenor saxophonist Frank Lowe's free jazz screeching, and, of course, Cherry's whispers and trumpet. Closer "Degi-Degi" works a similarly mind-bending mixture, but the middle two pieces ("Malkauns" and "Chenrezig") are lengthy explorations where Cherry's languid trumpet solos echo off into infinity. Of all his world fusion efforts, Brown Rice is the most accessible entry point into Cherry's borderless ideal, jelling into a personal, unique, and seamless vision that's at once primitive and futuristic in the best possible senses of both words. While Cherry would record a great deal of fine work in the years to come, he would never quite reach this level of wild invention again. [Brown Rice's original title was Don Cherry, which was changed a year after its initial 1975 release.]



HEAR

Shocking Pinks - Shocking Pinks (2007)

I’m an Old Early New Order (and JMC) fan from way back in the day, so this Shocking Pinks record had me at GO. But I kept putting off putting it up here in the FOREST, because I wanted to avoid the inevitable lengthy apologist approach, only to find that I’ve gotten to the point now where I’m good with that. Fuck You either like or don’t. Me, we likes. And here’s my apology anyway: I say, Yeah Sure, this guy wears his influences on his sleeve, but his sleeves are really very well-tailored. (Special Thanks to Mr. Gallo for the tip on this here sweet titty treat.)

Allmusic: It's easy to hear why Nick Harte's band name was inspired by Pretty in Pink's teen angst; he can sing "fuck" and sound completely innocent, or [croon] "you make me feel bad" like it's the most romantic [fucking sentiment] ever.

Shocking Pinks' brittle, noisy production also harks back to the golden age of college rock in the late '80s and early '90s; in the best possible way, it often sounds like an ancient cassette that has spent years buried in the glove box.

In classic indie fashion, Harte balances out the rough-edged but piercing beauty of some songs [CHECK OUT "This Aching Deal", "Girl on the Northern Line", "I Want U Back", and "You Can Make Me Feel Bad"] with others that take willful tangents, such as "Yes! No!" ["Smokescreen"]

Crucially, though, it doesn't feel like Harte is mimicking his influences so much as finding his own ways of embodying them.

HEAR

Karp - Self Titled LP (1997)

Ding dong fucking with your head. True story: I woke up in a cold sweat last night – okay not so true, I was already lying awake courtesy my 15-month old son’s sprouting molars unable to get back to sleep and it was about 4 am this morning not last night – when I had the horrific realization that this pure godhead of a record DID NOT YET LIVE FOREVER IN THE FOREST!

What an extreme overbite you have. I mean extreme oversight have I committed. Or lack thereof. Lack thereof sleep anyway. This keeps me awake through the day. 8 songs 30 minutes. 1997 vintage. I love every fucking song on this record infinitely equally. Doubtless one of my all time top five favorite records in the past 20 years. EASILY. Like Metamucil. This stuff has FLOW.

Fist. I mean First, KARP stands for KILL ALL REDNECK PRICKS! We could stop right there, no? I need not say more but I will. Next. God Bless these Gentlemen. How ever fucking refreshing it is that THE HEAVY is finally employed by street poets, that it is RESURRECTED from the clutches of doltish knuckle–dragging Neanderthal yahoos who stubbornly insist that THE HEAVY is a franchise for patriotic misogyny and homophobic NRA numbskulls.

Yay. I mean, YEA, my brothers and sisters, KARP has rendered THE LOUD for GOOD. Obv. There are caveats. This LP must be engaged with liberal volume and hypnotic body rocking. It is most therapeutic in this mode.

Look: In layman’s terms. These guys are Pure Genius (they know it too. They even have a track titled “J is for Genius”). They are PHAT. They are heavy. They are simple. They are groovy. I cry everytime I recall how I never got a chance to see them live. I knew young folks back in Santa Cruz who swore by KARP’s basement shows. Back in the 90’s, they would roll up and down the Left Coast, playing any and everywhere, setting up their rock to cast the demons out, playing harder and louder and HEAVIER than anyone in the Pacific Coast Rim radius (and that includes you, pouty Japanese Noise Boys).

Purrfect opener “Bacon Industry” quotes the great Joe Walsh (listen for “my maserati does 185”). The refrain is “I’ve got no pulse.” Perhaps my favorite of the equally infinite favorites (i.e., if I could only play one song of this record before I died) would be the second track “Forget the Minions” (“they’re on their own”). Breathtaking. I doubt you can make them out on your own, but the lyrics (which come with the CD!) are superb stream of subconscious mantras.

PS: listen close for the hidden Slayer parody that closes out this SELF TITLED LP. Priceless.


Allmusic says: "Dark," "ultra-cynical" and "heavy" have been the some of the adjectives used to describe the Tumwater, WA's Karp. First calling attention to themselves in '94 with their first full-length Mustache Wild on K Records, Karp laid it on thick by flaunting their fascination with the Melvins and Black Sabbath. The following year Suplex was released with the same tone and mood of their debut, but this time with more of a humorous bite in a sarcastic, middle-finger-in-the-air attitude. Whether it's dressing up as wrestlers or songs that rip on Hollywood, math and even pay tribute to 70's roller derby, it's evident that this three piece find it hard to take themselves very seriously. Following a tour of Japan, many singles on various labels and a split with New Jersey's Rye Coalition, (Karp clocking in a twelve-minute ditty called "Keep your Hands Off My Cake") their Self Titled LP was released in late 1997. Continuing on with their comic book-like nihilism and guitars kept down to A chord, it would be Karp's most acclaimed, but unfortunately, their final release.

Karp bowed out of existence with this monster of a record, arguably the best influence Iron Maiden has ever had on any other band ever (the worthy-of-worship song titles are all the band's own, though). From the balls-out opening riff on the brilliant "Bacon Industry" to the closing, throat-shredding mania on "J Is for Genius," this quite literally self-titled record simply does not and will not let up. The vocals sounds even more raw and raunchy than before — this is hard rock that lives up to the name — and the temptation to pump one's fist is almost impossible to resist. The trio's ear for sassy, snarling, hip-grinding hooks gives everything a sandpaper-rough edge to hang onto, explaining why the stomp and sway of "Forget the Minions" and "Octoberfleshed" are so damn worthy of being cranked up all the way to 11.

HEAR

Thai Orchestra

So let's take a saunter down to Thailand for Spring Break. No not for the top notch sexual tourism (that's for the French & Germans) or the killer pho, but some old school Gamelan meets Dead groove Buddha Orchestra stomp. I know, I know you've all heard the Cambodia Rocks compilations and be thinking the Asian aping acid rock schtick is worn thin -- this ain't that, kemosabe. This is true hybrid trad rural Thai clang and bang blendered with meandering riffs... as if Jackie O Motherfucker was time-machined (v.) to the fields outside of Phucket circa the Nixon era.


I don't advocate smoking marijuana because it's illegal in the United States. But if you know a friend that you've tried and tried again to get him into rehab for his weed problem and the programs don't take and you've decided to just straight up enable his demonic lifestyle, make sure you make this poor soul a copy of this to listen to while he fulfills that evil affliction.


Lastly, I have zero info on this. No players. No recording date. Zero. I kinda like it that way.


HEAR

Bertrand Burgalat - The Sssound of Mmmusic (2000)

Is that a full sentence? The groove here is RIGHT groovy. In a very continental way.

Laid back Backstory: I bought this album once, brand new, back in two thousand, based on a well-written review (thank you mojo!) and my own inclinations at the time for slick French pop. I was thoroughly satisified and loved the record heartily for four years.

But then me and my ever-favorite-ex (the Wallonian) Izzy broke up and she chose to keep this keepsake for herself (on that note, eM says that her ever-favorite-ex W. has a superrare Ella she expects she’ll never see the likes of again – and these, my friends, are truly the nasty hidden costs of breakups, si?).

So last week, after an equally long period of mourning, I elected to find it again (thank you internets!) and see anew if all the missing was worth the lost kissing. Or if all the without was pour naught. The jury’s in and the answer is: without a doubt. Mucho clout!

Indeed, you see. My friend Bertrand has worked with one too many hipsters to name, and that’s not our game so we’ll leave them be. But here, out on his own debut outing, man (homme), does this guy have far too many fun ideas to keep in the can, let alone his pants. Arrangements anyone? Yes yes yes (oui oui oui), sure he’s stealing from everyone (esp Serge -- which is like so pot/kettle/black that you best just get back already), and he’s doing it right there in full view of anyone who cares to hear. Voyeurism was never this much fun.

So lie back and think of England.

Or better yet, pretend yr on the beach at a Corsican rave.

Let the waves roll over you...

HEAR

Kyuss - Blues For The Red Sun & Welcome to Sky Valley

It was after getting my wick wet with QOTSA that I sought more. QOTSA being a starter drug, so to speak. And here was the origin, the germ... the sausage of so-called Stoner Rock. This is thick and rich and comes from the California desert, caked in gunk, rez in the pipe. Sky Valley is def my favorite due the limited vocals and the chunkiness of the guitar, the concept jams, the trip. However, Blues just rips you a new one... pleasantly, politely.

Seriously bro, don't wuss out on this...

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Allmusic.com on Blues: With Josh Homme's guitar tuned down two whole steps to C, and plugged into a bass amp for maximum distortion, stoner metal pioneers Kyuss achieve a major milestone in heavy music with their second album, 1992's Blues for the Red Sun. Producer Chris Goss masterfully captures the band's unique heavy/light formula, which becomes apparent as soon as the gentle but sinister intro melody gives way to the chugging main riff in the opener, "Thumb." This segues immediately into the galloping "Green Machine," which pummels forward inexorably and even features that rarest rock & roll moment: a bass solo. "Thong Song" alternates rumbling guitar explosions with almost complete silence, and "Mondo Generator" plays like an extended acid trip. The slow build of the epic "Freedom Run" and the driving "Allen's Wrench" are also highlights, and though the album is heavy on instrumentals, these actually provide a seamless transition from song to song.


Allmusic.com on Welcome: After creating a classic with their second album, Blues for the Red Sun, desert metal gods Kyuss faced the unenviable task of delivering the goods once again for a new label, Elektra Records. And they almost pulled it off with 1994's stellar Welcome to Sky Valley. The album's 13 songs are divided into three "suites" which fully display the band's impressive creative range, from furious metal to psychedelic grooves, and anything in between. The first and most consistent of these suites starts with the huge guitar riff of "Gardenia" (which resembles molten lava flowing down the side of a volcano), continues into the moody space jam instrumental "Asteroid," and culminates in the strangely titled yet superbly diverse "Supa Scoopa and Mighty Scoop." Other highlights include the solid thrashing of "100 Degrees," the prog rock instrumental "Whitewater," and the rather mellow (by Kyuss standards) "Demon Cleaner." But no song exemplifies the Kyuss sound as well as the aptly titled "Odyssey," which opens suite number three and provides a veritable blueprint of the band's unique combination of ingredients. The track begins with a cryptic melody, explodes into a ferocious riff, glides into a psychedelic bridge, then returns to full-throttle for its conclusion.



HEAR Blues


HEAR Welcome

Fluxus Anthology

If it's too hard to eat, throw it out the window

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Fluxus Anthology: a collection of music and sound events

A collection of music and sound events edited by Maurizio Nannucci with full integrity towards the ideology and spirit of Fluxus, one of the most radical and experimental art movements of the last century. Featuring tracks by Walter Marchetti, Juan Hidalgo, La Monte Young, Ben Vautier, Wolf Vostell, Milan Knisak, Robert Filliou, Alison Knowles, Emmett Williams, John Cage, Joseph Beuys, Yoko Ono, Dick Higgins, Philip Corner, Eric Andersen, Robert Watts, Nam June Paik and Ken Friedman. Contains also written excerpt by George Brecht, Ben Vautier, Emmett Williams, Henry Flynt and Dick Higgins plus the expanded arts diagram with an introduction. Strictly limited edition of 600 copies, gatefold sleeve, 180 gram CLEAR vinyl.

Walter Marchetti: Per la sete dell’orecchio (1976) 2:13
Juan Hidalgo: Tamaran (1974) 3:50
La Monte Young: Dream house (1973) 3:34
Ben Vautier: Some ideas for Fluxus (1989) 1:34
Wolf Vostell: Elektronischer dé-coll/age. Happening Raum (1968) 3:00
Milan Knizak: Broken music composition (1979) 3:26
Robert Filliou: Imitating the sound of the birds (1979) 0:55
Alison Knowles: Natural assemblage. Le vrai courbeau (1984) 5:05
Emmett Williams: Duet (1968) 1:50
John Cage: Radio Music (1956) 4:32
Joseph Beuys: Sonne statt Reagan (1982) 3:03
Yoko Ono: Toilette Piece (1971) 0:30
Dick Higgins: B.B. finally dreams about life, B.B.’s you play it (1962) 1:35
Philip Corner: Car passing at night, country road in Maine (1988) 1:35
Eric Andersen: The untacti[c]s of music (1968) 2:32
Robert Watts: Interview (1963) 1:25
Nam June Paik: My jubilee ist unverhemmet (1977) 5:15
Ken Friedman: Orchestra requiem variations (1967) 3:00

HEAR

Kool Keith - Black Elvis

The Sun Ra of Hip Hop more like it... bizarre & brilliant and the original crunk . KK broods, gets miffed, disses haters, expresses a healthy paranoia of robots. In short a perfect package.

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Allmusic.com: After killing off his Dr. Octagon alias and resurrecting himself as an intergalactic Little Richard named Black Elvis (coiffured appropriately), Kool Keith returned in 1999 with his much-anticipated debut for Ruffhouse. Compared to the scatological bombast sprayed all over his First Come, First Served LP (released as Dr. Dooom on his own Funky Ass label earlier that year), Black Elvis/Lost in Space is remarkably tame. And despite jettisoning cohorts the Automator and DJ QBert, the results sound surprisingly similar to the Dr. Octagon album: sparse 808 beats, a few bizarre, faintly menacing organ lines for hooks, and a sample or two the likes of which have never been heard on a Dr. Dre record (like the odd banjo pickings on "Livin' Astro"). Also cropping up are a few of Keith's patented psychedelic nightmares (reminiscent of "Blue Flowers" and "Earth People"), including "Lost in Space," "Rockets on the Battlefield," and "I'm Seein' Robots." For "Supergalactic Lover," Keith injects a bit of stuttered Timbaland funk into the mix, though this tale of sexual prowess is appropriately schizoid. If Black Elvis/Lost in Space doesn't make quite the splash of 1996's Dr. Octagon, it's mostly because there's a distinct sense that Kool Keith is retreading familiar (through incredibly fun) territory. One thing's for sure, DJ QBert's scratching is definitely missed.


HEAR

The Dictators - Go Girl Crazy!

Fuck yeah. Before the p-word (punk) got slathered all over this n that side of the Atlantic there twere some chaps with some body odor, some issues and a little aggression and an arsenal of talent. Part Kiss. Part Stooges. All balls.

Did I say, "Fuck yeah?" Oh yeah I did!

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Allmusic.com: Formed in 1974, N.Y.C.'s Dictators were one of the finest and most influential proto-punk bands to walk the earth. Alternately reveling in and satirizing the wanton excesses of a rock & roll lifestyle and lowbrow culture (e.g., wrestling, TV, fast food), the Dictators, whose worldview was defined by bassist/keyboardist and former fanzine publisher (Teenage Wasteland Gazette) Andy (occasionally Adny) Shernoff and renegade rock critic/theorist Richard Meltzer, played loud, fast rock & roll fueled by a love of '60s American garage rock, British Invasion pop, and the sonic onslaught of the Who. Driven by the guitar barrage of Scott "Top Ten" Kempner and Ross "the Boss" Funichello and fronted by indefatigable ex-roadie and wrestler Handsome Dick Manitoba (aka Richard Blum), it seemed that nothing stood in the way of the Dictators and mega-popularity. But that's not what happened. There were complications with record companies, personnel changes (one-time bassist Mark Mendoza left for Twisted Sister; original drummer Stu Boy King was replaced by Richie Teeter), radio hated them, critical response was lukewarm, and lots of audiences didn't get the jokes; supporters remained loyal and vociferous (especially Meltzer), but it didn't turn into anything tangible. Ironically, what didn't help at all was the rise of the New York punk scene, which only diverted attention away from them and onto bands they influenced (e.g., the Ramones). They did manage to release three fine albums, but after 1978's Bloodbrothers was greeted with public apathy, the group's members began moving in different directions. Kempner put together the Del-Lords and the Little Kings and recorded as a solo act. Ross the Boss spent a few years in the goofy, macho heavy metal band Manowar and later joined Shernoff and Manitoba in the punk/metal combo Manitoba's Wild Kingdom. And Shernoff worked as a producer. However, as Shernoff put it, "the Dictators never broke up. Sure there were occasional gaps of a few years between some shows (we had lives to lead) but deep in our hearts and souls we always knew we were Dictators. We couldn't escape it even when we tried." With this in mind, the band got together to play a handful of shows in 1980, one of which was recorded for the cassette-only album Fuck 'Em If They Can't Take A Joke, which was later reissued as New York, New York. The band hit the road again in 1991, and began heading out on a semi-regular basis after that. In 2001, the Dictators made their abandoned retirement official and recorded a new album, D.F.F.D., which ranked with the band's finest work in the studio. More touring followed, and a live album recorded at two shows in support of D.F.F.D., Viva Dictators!, came out in 2005.



HEAR

Dome - 3

Spooky, angular, danceable with a sprinkling of jazz, defiance, thump, sex, chutzpah. If undepressed robots did dance music in a world free of artificiality, cancer and filled with fatty foods.


Quite a favorite. Even my baby digs it. I see her wee head a noddin'.


Dome 3 was released in 1981. The London post punk band consisted of Graham Lewis and Bruce Gilbert, both of Wire. They released four albums between 1980 and 1984 without releasing a single. The side project ended when Wire re-formed in 1985.

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Wireviews: This compilation collects the second pair of Dome releases: Dome 3 and Will You Speak This Word: Dome 4.

Dome 3 is more musically structured than previous Dome work, often borrowing rhythms and sounds from other cultures and mixing them with abstract noise. The idea of cut-up vocals is taken to the extreme until all that's left is fragments of words, ramblings, nonsense and vocal noises. It begins well with the hypnotic rhythms of Jasz and Ar-Gu, but substance is sometimes lacking. Although there are standout tracks, such as Na-drm and the incredible Roos-an, this is probably the weakest of all the Dome LPs.

Wikipedia: Gilbert and Lewis were both members of Wire, and formed Dome during Wire's 1980–1984 hiatus. Over their first three albums, Wire's music had progressed from rapid-fire punk rock to moody, ambitious post-punk, and Dome continued the experimentation, often abandoning traditional song structures in favor of found sounds, melodic fragments and what critics Steven Grand and David Sheridan describe as "lurching mechanical noises infrequently keeping a vague beat."[1]

Between 1980 and 1981 they recorded three LPs; Dome One, Dome 2, and Dome 3, all on their own Dome Records label.

As well as releasing Dome albums, Gilbert & Lewis also produced and released records by Desmond Simmons (who plays on Colin Newman's solo albums A-Z and Not To) and AC Marias on the Dome label.

The 3R4 LP was released in 1980, followed by the Kluba Cupol EP and Ends With The Sea 7", all on the 4AD Records label. In 1982 they released MZUI (Waterloo Gallery), an LP of recordings make at Waterloo Gallery with Russell Mills.

In 1983 the duo teamed up with Dome collaborator Angela Conway (aka AC Marias) to release the Whilst Climbing Thieves Vie For Attention LP under the name P'O. In that year they also released the Or So It Seems LP under the name Duet Emmo (an anagram of 'Dome' and 'Mute'), with Daniel Miller, head of Mute Records and released Dome 4: Will You Speak This Word on the Uniton label.

Wire reformed in 1984, although Dome continued to perform and record occasionally. Yclept, a collection of their later work was released on WMO in 1998.

HEAR

Country Dick Montana - The Devil Lied To Me

Yesterday got me reminiscing about the Late Great Country Dick Montana. The man was a legend who's been unjustly ignored.

Born Daniel McLain, in 1955, Country Dick was a record store owner, president of the Kinks Preservation Society and a seminal figure in the early SoCal punk scene as the drummer for The Penetrators. When they came apart he, like many others from the scene, eased towards a country feel forming with former Shames guitarist, Jerry Raney, Country Dick and the Snuggle Bunnies, which later became the Beat Farmers.

They recorded their first album for $4000 and though the they were praised in the US, they got their greatest attention in Europe where they were favorably compared to the Beatles. An endless battle with their label, Curb, made their lives miserable even as their popularity grew through the 80's.


Dick lived life to its fullest, never missing a chance to party, carouse and wreak mischief. At one point he got himself ordained in order to perform non-traditional marriage ceremonies. Legend has it that Dick officiated a wedding for a couple at their request and then was invited to party with the couple after. When the groom became incapacitated by the heavy drinking, leaving the bride unfullfilled on her wedding night, Country Dick took his matrimonial responsibilities to the full service level. The groom was reportedly grateful for Dick's generosity.

Despite his persona, Dick was a very private man, keeping his personal life distinct from his public. When he was diagnosed with thyroid cancer in the early 90's few knew. His own doctor was kept in the dark because when Dick suspected he was ill, he choose a different doctor from the phone book at random, reportedly deciding on the physician because the doc had the word "bar" in his name.

Though successfully treated for the disease Dick was not long for this world. In 1995, during the third song of a Beat Farmers set in Whistler Canada, he dropped dead from a heart attack. It went virtually ignored in the mainstream media. He was 40 years old.

This album was his only solo project, finished shortly before his death. Featuring an all-star guest list including Rosie Flores, Dave Alvin, John Doe, Katy Moffatt and Mojo Nixon, it's a rollicking example of Dick's spirit, loaded with swagger, bravado and, of course, his booming bass voice.

Country Dick once said there's only three kinds of songs in the world: drinkin songs, fuckin songs, and killin songs. The man mastered them all.

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Let's Active - Cypress/Afoot

I moved in with my girlfriend in the early 80's. She had a quirky pop sensibility. She played quirky pop songs in the mornings as we drank coffee and got ready to go to our jobs. I got used to it. You do that when you're in love - put up with crap you would never suffer otherwise. So mostly I tolerated the songs. Except...

Afoot hooked me after a week. I couldn't get those damned melodies out of my head. I couldn't get those choruses to stop hanging in the air. Damn, that was one brilliant record.

In retrospect, it still is. Maybe the finest collection of quirky pop to ever come out. An EP in which not one song fails - not one weak link. It is a masterpiece.

Lets Active followed up Afoot with Cypress which though I appreciated it I never got as hooked. It was darker, more moody; not giddy. It holds up and I think I like it more now than then. In any case, they are both worth your time, or if you heard them then they're worth a return.

Unjustly out of print, both recordings were compiled as one and re-released a few years back, but that too went out of print. A damned shame. Mitch Easter was more important to 80's pop than anyone realizes and just as important an influence on the 90's indie Twee pop movement.

Give the guy some props.

allmusic:

Though difficult to find (it was seemingly in print for about 15 minutes), this CD combining Let's Active's first two releases, plus a pair of rarities, is essential for all fans of the Southern pop underground of the '80s. Mitch Easter, Sarah Romweber, and Faye Hunter blended psychedelia, bubblegum, and jangly guitars in a way that sounded alternately mysteriously dark and joyously giddy. The 1983 EP is more the latter. Even the lost-love songs like "Every Word Means No" and "Make Up With Me" are too adorable to resist. Easter gets extra coolness points for deliberately mispronouncing the word "anathema" to make it fit the meter in the former song, one of the year's finest singles. All six songs are brilliantly catchy, with more ear-grabbing hooks and production tricks per song than most entire albums, and the entire EP is simply flawless, particularly the ghostly, atmospheric "Edge of the World" and "Leader of Men." Cypress, from 1984, is the darker of the two records, with a thicker and even more psychedelic haze obscuring even the handful of relatively upbeat tracks. Even the catchiest songs here, like the single "Waters Part," have a draggy, druggy feel, and a sort of dispirited ennui hangs over the album as a whole. (It's not surprising that Romweber and Hunter left the band not very long after the album's release.) Still, it's an amazingly engaging record, almost like a Southern new wave version of Joy Division's Unknown Pleasures. On this disc, combined with the sunnier pop pleasures of Afoot, Cypress is that much more powerful and disquieting. This disc adds the previously unreleased "Two Yous" and "Grey Scale," previously only available on the U.K. vinyl pressing of Cypress.

Hear Afoot

Hear Cypress

The Pleasure Barons - Live In Las Vegas

It's Wednesday. You're humping your way through another soul-killing week. There is no glamour in your life... there is no life in your life. Friday night seems so far away. What's the point?

You, my friend, are in dire need of a change - a charge to get you through to the end of your miserable week. You, my desperate soul, need some Country Dick.

The Pleasure Barons were a one-off party thrown by the late Country Dick Montana, Dave Alvin and Mojo Nixon. Backed by a fierce roots band and fueled no doubt by too much liquor, they blew up Vegas one loud night in 1993. The resulting live record will save your miserable soul from the dregs you must wade through just to survive.

A combination of originals and covers, the songs rock and sleaze appropriately. Even though Mojo Nixon is, well, Mojo Nixon (shrug) and Dave Alvin takes it a just a little too seriously at times, the whole is tasty like a $5.99 buffet at the Nugget. The show actually belongs to Country Dick. This is his party and the other two are along for the ride. His cover of Take A Letter Maria, best described as "enthusiastic", is all you'll need to put a shine on your otherwise shitty, mundane existence.

Come on, live the good life.
As Country Dick says in the liner notes:
"Get on yer knees and grovel like the tapeworm you wish you were good enough to come back as and let the truth fly from yer weak, pitiful mouth - The Barons Rule!"

allmusic:

The type of entertaining, take-it-as-it-comes one-off that musicians who aren't afraid of appearing unserious excel at, the Pleasure Barons brought together three kindred souls: Mojo Nixon, Country Dick Montana, Dave Alvin, and various compatriots. Indeed; recorded in front of an audience happily along for the giddy ride, Live in Las Vegas gives the trio a chance to play around with their familiar styles in a flashy show biz way, not to mention indulging in some apt and hilarious covers. The backing band strikes the right balance between the principals' rootsy rave-ups and just enough Glitter-Gulch-glitz, and from there it all just flows from one number to the next. Nixon mostly concentrates on his own songs, delivering up the likes of "Debbie Gibson is Pregnant" and "Louisiana Lip Lock" with aplomb, but a take of "Elvis Is Everywhere" has never been more perfectly appropriate, while his freakout through Jerry Reed's "Amos Moses" even more so. Alvin has the soberest (of sorts) selection, though his take on "Gangster of Love" makes for a fierce highpoint. Perhaps unsurprisingly. in the end Montana rules the roost, his alcoholic suaveness perfectly suited for a demonstration of same. Besides penning the entertainingly combative liner notes, Montana more than anyone else probably took the ethos of partying hard to its logical extreme. He delivers mind-boggling, lyrically tweaked covers of "Take a Letter, Maria," "Who Do You Love," "Jackson," and most logically of all, "The Definitive Tom Jones Medley," which takes "It's Not Unusual," "Delilah," and "What's New Pussycat?" to a sublime level of hypercheese. Montana himself is pictured in the liner notes shaking hands with Tom Jones (aka the Creator), personally (blessing) the ceremony, and it's that kind of affectionate embrace of all that is Vegas which makes this album worth one hundred showings of Swingers.

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Johnny Thunders - So Alone

Power chord boss chunky musings of a bony romantic. Post Dolls Thunders whips out the nonstop straight crunch to bend hearts, strings, diet pills, smack jus to find a quicker way to kick ass.


The less I know about Thunders the more I like him (but I can say that for most, um, everyone). Icon for the Sid Vicious sect, Thunders went balls out, putting the cherry on junkie chic in the classic Keef mold. Hey and listen to the vocal line of, "Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory." Where do you think Richard Hell got his particular feel for melody?


Definitely Thunders never got or never gets better than this.

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allmusic: Following the drug-fueled implosion of the Heartbreakers, Johnny Thunders bounced back with his first solo outing, So Alone. Featuring a veritable who's who of '70s punk and hard rock -- Chrissie Hynde, Phil Lynott, Peter Perrett, Steve Marriott, Paul Cook, and Steve Jones, among others -- the record was a testament to what the former New York Dolls guitarist could accomplish with a little focus. Much like Thunders' best work with the Dolls and Heartbreakers, So Alone is a gloriously sloppy amalgam of R&B, doo wop, and three-chord rock & roll. Despite the inevitable excesses that plagued every Thunders recording session, Steve Lillywhite's solid engineering job and a superb set of songs hold everything together. A cover of the Chantays' classic instrumental "Pipeline" leads things off, and is a teasing reminder of what a great guitarist Thunders could be when he put his mind to it. The record's indisputable masterpiece is "You Can't Put Your Arms Round a Memory," a wrenching, surprisingly literate ballad in which Thunders seems to acknowledge that his junkie lifestyle has doomed him to the abyss. Songs like "Leave Me Alone," "Hurtin'," and the chilling title track continue the theme of life inside the heroin balloon. Fortunately, all this back-alley gloom is leavened by some memorably animated moments. "London Boys" is a scathing reply to the Sex Pistols' indictment of the New York punk scene, "New York." The funky "Daddy Rolling Stone" features the inimitable Lynott on background vocals, while the rave-ups "Great Big Kiss" and "(She's So) Untouchable" are terrific examples of Thunders' raunchy take on classic R&B. Sadly, Johnny Thunders never followed up on the promise of his solo debut. His subsequent records were a frustrating mix of drug-addled mediocrity and downright laziness. But for one brief moment, he seemed to put it all together. That moment is So Alone.


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Don Cherry - Mu (The Complete Session)

Like a little fire in your day? Like to to know what it means to be free of convention? Want to sit in the wake of greatness?

Mr Cherry will help you out.

One of the defining moments in Free Jazz, though despite all the fuss, Cherry was more of a romantic than you've been led to believe.

Be bold. Be fearless. Be free.

allmusic:

An outstanding work in the free jazz and avant-garde jazz idiom, the Mu sessions are among the most beautiful improvised duets recorded during the height of the free jazz movement. Recorded in France in 1969 and originally released on the BYG Actuel imprint, Mu remained an obscure collector's item for three decades until its reissue in two parts during the '90s. With Don Cherry on pocket trumpet, piano, Indian flute, bamboo flute, voice, bells, and percussion and Ed Blackwell on drums, percussion, and bells, the pair created one of the most telepathic improvisations on record, matched only by John Coltrane and Rashied Ali on the album Interstellar Space. From simple playful themes, Cherry develops a complex interplay with his partner that results in irrational mood changes and rhythm shifts, moving from ecstatic bird-call flurries through to fragile blues and nursery rhyme patterns. An African-inspired pulse groove follows the rapid-fire introduction, after which flurries of Cherry's pocket trumpet soar ecstatically into the air. More than three decades later, Mu is one of the few records that one can say sounds free, playful, candid, and revolutionary, an utterly arresting masterpiece that is a milestone in Don Cherry and Ed Blackwell's careers — not to mention the free jazz movement in its entirety. Essentially, the recording represents such fire, passion, and energy that it can certainly reach listeners far beyond the avant-garde jazz academy.

When Cherry hits his ringing, clarion passages, he projects a purity of sound that few other trumpeters could match. Blackwell matches him sound for sound, with rolling West African-derived rhythms, Basin Street marches, and the most overtly musical tone of any drummer this side of Max Roach. The Mu sessions have long held legendary status and it's not difficult to hear why. Highly recommended.


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Hear pt2

Eric Satie - Socrate

It's Sunday morning. You've got a pot of dark roast fresh in the french press, maybe a couple of eggs or pancakes working for you and your squeeze. The hard floor is cold on your bare feet, but the sunshine streaming in the kitchen window promises the day will get better. Your routine is your routine on Sundays. The only choice left is whether some Marley or some easy Coltrane will soundtrack the morning.

Ease up, break the routine... try this.

'Trois Gymnopedies' has been force fed to us all of our lives and as a result the name Satie has become synonomous with stale syrup. Not so with this; not so with Socrate.

It's blessings are many. It's beauty sublime. It's solemnity appropriate. And even if the coffee sucks, the eggs burn, the sun never shines, and your squeeze gave you back your key, this will make up for all of it.

My Sunday mornings have blissed with it for 18 years. Your Sundays should be so good.

from NME upon its release:

Satie's 'Trois Gymnopedies' are so well known to the general public that even a twerp like Gary Numan has given their timeless melodies a mauling. Rather less popular is his long cantata 'Socrates'. This wonderful piece, at the same time serene and passionate and whose fragrant modal tunes and mechanical rhymes predate Glass and Reich by the best part of a century, forms the centrepiece of this collection of Satie's vocal music. Terrific.


And for all you hipsters out there who may think Satie just a little quaint, take note of these lyrics from the small song called Spleen*:

In an old square where the ocean
Of bad weather sits on its behind
On a sad bench with rain eyes
Is it a plump
Blond little bitch
You are missing
In this cabaret of uselessness
Which is our life?

*translated from the french

Hear pt1

Hear pt2

Pete Townshend - Who Came First (1972)

The Who were my first favorite band. This was 1982 and I was 12. Sure, I'll admit that it was "Athena" and "Eminence Front" that lured me in at first (It’s Hard was the record in the stores at the time), but then I buttressed that crush with a Greatest Hits cassette and I was off and running. Subsititute, Tommy, Pictures of Lily, Who’s Next, Fuuuuck! Within a year I had bought all their albums, read all the books about them (which at that point consisted primarily of Barnes’ Maximum Rock-n-Roll and Marsh’s Before I Get Old), plastered my room with marquee and Quadrophenia posters, adorned my coat with buttons. Dreamt about purple hearts. Imagined I was some fucking mod.

Every time local radio station WLUP (sometimes WMET, too) had a call-in poll ("Vote for the better band! Who vs. Zeppelin", etc.), I was glued to the phone, redialing and redialing. Once I remember DJ Patti Hayes picking up the phone as I breathlessly intoned, "THE WHO!" She started laughing: "kid, is this you again?"

By the time I was habitually trolling Wax Trax Records in 1986, I was well past my Who infatuation and on to darker things. (though my HS band still threw down a fine garage punk version of Can’t Explain). I was on to Joy Division and the Minutemen and Black Flag and Husker Du. But when I saw that cut-out LP Track Records Label original vinyl of Pete’s first solo album, I just about jazzed my pants. I knew what it was and I wanted it bad. I still have that vinyl, albeit augmented by the 1992 RYKO CD reissue on offer here.

It’s a great first solo album. Pete, first-generation stadium rockstar, stands there in his trademark jumpsuit on an infinite field of eggs, awkward and fragile and pure and alone, and more than a little defiant with his arms akimbo. He recorded this in his home studio (30 years before that was all the rage), playing all the instruments all by himself (though with a little help from Ronnie Lane on the lovely little "Evolution"). Some of these tunes ("Pure And Easy", "Let’s See Action", "The Seeker") later made it onto Who albums, but I will aver that the versions here blow those later full-blown band versions right out of the holy water.

Half of this album is a tribute to Pete’s recently deceased spiritual mentor of the time, Meher Baba (who maintained a strict silence from 1925 until his death in 1969), and half of it are tracks he resurrected from his recently abandoned Lifehouse project (the legendary unrealized behemoth that led to his first, if not his last, nervous breakdown – Pete’s Smile). There’s a lot of love and infinity and good vibrations here, but don’t hold that against it. Because there’s a lot here to love.

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Max Roach - We Insist! Max Roach's Freedom Now Suite

Lately the socialist blood's been boiling. Not sure what's the catalyst. Not the stimulus package (not enough money). Not taxing the rich (more! more! more!). Perhaps a little first hand rogering by the painfully inequitable, merciless and sorely in need of bleach American medical system? And I have insurance, ha! ...that might be it.


Or maybe it's a feeling that FINALLY this country's about to regain it's reputation and DO THE RIGHT THING for the first time in almost 30 years (sorry Bill - you corn-holed your legacy with PRWORA ...which I spent manymany years fighting the disasterous effects of and can never forgive you for). Something feels right out there... for once.


So to indulge the feeling, here's a radical statement from the late Max Roach who I can't help but think would be tickled pink that the Prez is knocking it purple.

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Allmusic: This is a classic. At a time when the civil rights movement was starting to heat up, drummer Max Roach performed and recorded a seven-part suite dealing with black history (particularly slavery) and racism. "Driva' Man" has a powerful statement by veteran tenor Coleman Hawkins and there is valuable solo space elsewhere for trumpeter Booker Little and trombonist Julian Priester, but it is the overall performance of Abbey Lincoln that is most notable. Formerly a nightclub singer, Lincoln really came into her own under Roach's tutelage and she is a strong force throughout this intense set. On "Tryptich: Prayer/Protest/Peace," Lincoln is heard in duets with the drummer and her wrenching screams of rage are quite memorable. This timeless protest record is a gem.


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Chrome - Half Machine Lip Moves

It was a cold cold winter day in Chicago Il a decade+ ago. Slush slush slush was the name of the days and I think it was Bay and collective who took me to some food joint with LPs in the back. There I picked this up not really knowing what I'd laid hands on, but having heard the mythology and the murmurs of raves I knew I would not be defeated. And I was victorious. Glorious victorious.

Twisted and gasping and cold, this Chrome record goes down as their best in my newly-completed, soon to hit the B&N shelves, tome, "Best Chrome Records Ever" (with a forward by Bill O'Reilly and Chrissie Hynde).


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Allmusic.com: With Lambdin out and Spain barely there at all, everything rapidly became a Edge/Creed show in the realm of Chrome by the time of Half Machine Lip Moves. The basic tropes having been established -- aggressive but cryptic performance and production, jump cuts between and in songs, judicious use of sampling and production craziness and an overall air of looming science fiction apocalypse and doom -- all Edge and Creed had to do was perfect it. Starting with the fragmented assault of "TV as Eyes," which rapidly descends into heavily treated conversational snippets from TV and deep, droning keyboards, Half Machine sounds like a weird broadcast from thousand of miles away where rock is treated as an exotic musical form. Creed fully gets to shine here, his pitched-up/pitched-down guitars as good an example of psychedelic assault as anything. Sprawled all over the beeps and murmurs of the songs, not to mention Edge's still self-created drumming and Iggyish vocal interjections, it makes everything sound utterly disturbed. If not as obsessed with tempo shifts and full oddity as, say, Faust, Half Machine is still pretty close to that band's level of Krautrock playfulness and explosion. Two of the relative saner numbers are practically power-pop, at least in Chrome terms. "March of the Chrome Police (A Cold Clamey Bombing)" has Edge sneering an actual vocal hook over a brisk beat, even while Creed gets progressively more fried on the guitar and rumbling echoed laughter and barks erupt in the mix. "You've Been Duplicated," meanwhile, also has something of a vocal hook, only buried under so many levels of distortion that it might as well be a malfunctioning keyboard being played among the clattering percussion and other sounds. A suitably strange cover shot of a fully head-bandaged mannequin seemingly floating in space completes the package.


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