Dixon – Temporary Secretary Compilation

The promotion accompanying this record rants on in huge detail of how the internet is destroying the mix tape; that track streaming and quick availability cheapens the ‘art’. But what they forget is that the mix tape’s purpose is not to glorify the DJ but to showcase the bands.

The Temporary Secretary Compilation mixed by Dixon is like Warp Records transported back to happy 70’s disco and the CD cover cloaks it in sparse and functional Factory Records chic. As mixes go, it’s pretty stylish.

The flow is very much like a dream, of a club night long ago. Tracks spill over into each other, blending seamlessly together like oil rainbows, forming a single, extended event. It sets its aim for the subconscious; there are moments that spark your attention, but for the most part the mix is best enjoyed while your mind is off doing something else. Given its chilled pace, Dixon makes no qualms about this.

As you’d expect from any compilation, there are better features than others, unless that compilation happens to be ‘Rn’B anthems 2009’ or something, in which case it’ll all be shit. Dixon’s inclusion of international artists displays an excellent ear and ranges from the beautiful, pulsing opener ‘Ongou’ by Icasol, the siren calls of Fever Ray from Sweden, the Netherlands stoner rock trio The Machine and ending with Tokyo Black Star, a union of NY and Tokyo electronics. Under the professional hand of Dixon, it welds together for a timeless, placeless feel.

Ideally, a good mix tape is about the shared love of music and Temporary Secretary Compilation unearths a few artists worth investigating further. The record balances Dixon’s “distinct mark” with a sense of curiosity and discovery. Without the later, a mix tape is merely two dimensional and no amount of promotional bullshitting will elevate a DJ’s position. As always: the music comes first and egos come second.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Hazy Recollections and Eardrum Torture

When attending a gig, we like to feel that we’re in control of what we hear and that the artists are performing for us. Of course, not all bands intend to simply entertain. Some invite you to experience something unusual, unexpected and some push your patience even further, subjecting you to some seriously uncomfortable shit. I’ve been to gigs where it’s all out war between the band and the crowd over who will buckle first. Damn right. They just don’t know what’s good for them. Sometimes you need to be offended to be educated.

I recall an evening at the Bullingdon in Oxford, at the beginning of this empty and pointless decade (it was when the pub supported acts of all kinds rather than targeting the blues and folk audience to compete with the nearby Ex-Zodiac O2 Academy). On this memorable night a few local artists were touting their wears. The venue got busier and we, two friends from my halls of residence, got drunker. Snake Bite, the students drink of choice, was being consumed at a fatal rate. It’s the drink you grow to hate and, by the end of the first year, just looking at a pint of its swirling purple madness makes you gag. Ugh! Terrible stuff, but such was University; the days when the future was inviting. Optimism ruled and everything felt on an upward trajectory. It couldn’t last.

Nearing closing time, the pack was getting restless. A combination of sugary alcohol and low key music was boiling their blood. I imagine they were impatient for the cheesy, late night club disco. The fragility of the atmosphere was practically moist in its lusting for what was to come, a band called Holiday Stabbings.

And this was it: two guys with long, greasy hair crouching on the floor like Homo Sapiens fed an electric guitar and a mic'ed cymbal through a vast array of pedals and sound manipulators. By layering drones and whirling sounds from these two instruments, their improvisations were long, painful and, of course, highly pretentious. Tip-toeing around the pedals as best they could, they paced back and forth, tweaking a knob here, adjusting a control there – almost as if they were obeying the whim of a super machine, its anatomy gruesomely sprawled out on the stage.
I was hooked but it seemed I was the only one. “This is fucking awful” said one guy in front, sneering with arrogance. He was the kind of unimaginative twat who gathers all his stylistic accessories from The Matrix.
A few dirty posh girls behind him grimaced in agreement but kept silent. They knew deep down that to raise a fuss would be to fuck with the wrong scene. They were listening to pure mortality being pumped into their ears and no amount of sobbing under the covers in the early hours would make it all go away.

Someone else from the crowd placed a bit of paper on the stage with something written on it and one of the band held it to his face deep under his hair. Disgusted by words to this day I’ll never know, he threw it hilariously away like an angry child would an unwanted toy. So far so weird. Maybe we were being punished for our complacency; we shouldn’t have left our guard down. It reminded me of the headache inducing, now legendary Jesus and The Mary Chain gigs of the 80’s. Holiday Stabbings over-serious, misanthropic bravado was laughable though strangely captivating. Presumably be known to them at the time, this droning, mechanically distorted, tonal death-bringing style was being simultaneously cultivated by many other groups: Sunn O))), OM and Euthedral who is also from Oxford. It’s pretty safe to say that Holiday Stabbings did not go down well. The general public would once again learn to accept being tortured.

Several months later I would set up my own band with the two friends who joined me for the evening. I can’t speak directly for them but the evening inspired me. I realised that in order to make real music you have to ignore the masses, take risks and make enemies. Do it for yourself. With their myspace deleted and no trace of articles or contacts anywhere, I guess Holiday Stabbings were doomed to be despised and lost behind the sofa of history. When you think of the thousands, millions of bands who have fallen victim to the same fate, it’s hard not to feel a sense of melancholy. But yeah yeah, such is life and even the almighty Internet cannot preserve everything. Nothing ever lasts forever.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

N.A.M.B. – BMAN

Hailing from Italy, N.A.M.B. have been deliberately cryptic online about the meaning behind their initials. Is this to enforce open interpretation on us or is it simply a dastardly promotional tool? Yeah, I know: yawn! Let’s get down to how they sound.

Way back in 2002, The Flaming Lips made a compilation of their first three studio albums called ‘Finally The Punk Rockers Are Taking Acid’. Interestingly, N.A.M.B have been compared to The Flaming Lips (debatable in my opinion) but in context, a more accurate version of that title would be 'Finally The Punk Rockers Have Gotten Into The Beatles'. N.A.M.B. are what would ensue if the band from Liverpool rose out of the 80’s instead of Chuck Barry Rock n’ Roll. A dangerous statement I am aware but the two are similar only in creative approach. Perhaps a link to Supergrass or suggestions of psychedelic Punk would be safer to claim.

BMAN is an ambitious, Rock-of-all-types record with intentions of international recognition - an eighteen track labour of love chocked full of driving guitar, unusual changes in mood and structure, echoing textures and surprising effects, contrast and unity. What remains consistent throughout is their humour and ‘throw it all in’ ethic. Earning his position at the front, Davide Tomat (guitar/vocals) has a rich tone and a powerful delivery achieving David Bowie style singing acrobatics. Some tracks of note are the uncannily drunk ‘Musichetta In Pausa Sigaretta’ and the cloud gazing ‘Hate My Telephone’.

So, despite my premature reservations, N.A.M.B are not wise guys, banishing abbreviations and trying to be clever. This, their Big Second Album, is a push forward for them, a proud accomplishment; but let it roll around in your head for a few days and the record becomes more like a prog misadventure by Feeder. So much for The Beatles. Still, with this much crammed in, it’s bound to appeal to a great many tastes.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Edward Williams - Life On Earth Soundtrack

Initially aired in 1979, the soundtrack to the David Attenburough nature programme Life On Earth has taken this long to be brought out of the dusty BBC archives. The seasoned composer Edward Williams (1921) paints, through music, the alien beauty and magic of our natural world. Let me tell you, they don’t make art music like this anymore, even under the Classical title. Contemporary TV composers aim towards film bombasity ignoring the smaller, delicate ensemble. William’s eccentricity and instrumental range is impressive and it’s emergence into general distribution is artistic justice in action.

There are many familiarities in the record and like most soundtracks, it attempts to evoke mood – in this case, our curiosity and wonderment with nature. It’s the type of earth worship and eerie atmosphere Igor Stravinsky presented in Rite of Spring at the first half of the 20th Century. William’s meandering melody lines also reference the modulation techniques of Prokofiev. A hazy embellishing of harp and flute adds a dreamy Debussy Impressionism while particular atonal textures suggest influences from Varese, Ligheti or Stockhausen. These incidental passages predict William’s later trials in electronic music. In swings and glides, hops and gallops his music pays a thoughtful homage to our planets weird and colourful eco system.

Calling William’s music “jolly good” (all the words you need), Attenburough also helped towards the release of the record. In addition, for those of you overwhelmed by the vast history of Classical music and uncertain as to where to begin, this release is an accessible doorway past the elitist guardians who so often ruin the simple, universal enjoyment of the genre. What’s that? You don’t like Classical music? Listen, I had to resurrect the rotting corpse of my Classical training for this review! Stop being a pussy and download some Beethoven or something.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)