Scuba - Triangulation

Behind Scuba and Hot Flush Recordings is a man on a mission: Paul Rose. By chumming up with Mount Kimbie, Distance, Vex’d and other immanent electronic artists, his label is beginning to represent an off shoot of Dub Step, growing that little bit closer to the sun on every new release.

Drawing from his bedrock Dub Step origins, Rose unites warbling synths with a lush atmosphere as dense and as thick as acres of untouched rainforest. Triangulation is an extension of LTJ Bukem’s slowed down drum n’ bass spiked with the gut wrenching weirdness of iTAL tEK or Modeselektor; a kind of produced lounge Dub Step comparable to certain artists signed to Planet Mu and Ninja Tune.

With an impeccable sense of space and immersive calm, it retains the mix structure of Rose’s radio appearances: a slow, blended transition from one landscape to another simulating the out of body feeling of being in an isolation tank. The control is expertly handled, the use of sampled vocals simple but unusual. Thrown about by dub echo, they ricochet off tall buildings, past vast highways and dimly lit rain soaked streets. Eventually, once these images work into the background, the 90’s house influence I was so dubious about finding comes to light.

‘Before’ puts the fore mentioned vocal sampling to stunning effect and is easily the most memorable track on the record. Additionally, it’s worth checking out ‘Three Sided Shape’ and ‘So You Think You’re Special’, though I think you’ll want to listen and drop out to Triangulation in its entirety.

It all ends on ‘Lights Out’, an exhaled release of beautiful spirited vocals floating among the clouds would grace any early morning bong session. Scuba’s style might seem familiar to fans of IDM and modern techno but Triangulation’s tuneful facets advance his career and set him aside from the rest. The only criticism I can muster is about the creepy copyright tactics: a demonic overdubbed voice (probably Rose himself) reminds you on each track that this particular copy is a ‘promo copy’, and don’t you forget it. It’s a little unnecessary if not insulting. I mean, what else are we going to spend our dole on?

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

Shabby Rogue - By Hook and By Crook

Being accommodating and hard working musicians, Shabby Rogue try and be all bands for everyone by lending their hand to a host of styles. Their second outing By Hook And By Crook spreads on a thicker layer of Romantic Folk cliché and ticks off every box on the rustic charm checklist: weathered wilds, Bohemian living, the wandering outsider and of course, hard liquor; which sounds good…

As track after track turns into tick after tock, Shabby Rogue become grey and inconsequential and the record, an impassionate assortment of oddity. The songs all reflect a hobo chic with foot stomping rhythms and classic 60’s guitar. During ‘Old Man’ the lead singer (they all share vocal spots) despairingly lurches into the bland heartache of American Rock and ‘Tales From the City’ is dangerously close to a ditched Kasabian number.

The record is not without a few left field moments: The unexpected shift in gear towards the end of ‘Jack in a Box’, the complex song-in-song structure of ‘Reason’ serve as tantalising fragments of possibility. These happenings are few and far between.

Even the distorted Folk-Punk fusion – or hillbilly punk, I haven’t quite decided – of ‘My Life As A Secret Agent’, a feverish injection of The Troggs style Rock n’ Roll is forcibly jabbed into the middle of a comparatively demure and conventional album (Chosen as their debut single, ‘My Life…’ received some airtime on national radio, ushered in by an ever present demand for authentic retro.)

Alas, the dusty roads that Shabby Rogue walk along have been flattened by the feet of many before. A no-bollocks-approach to recording may have evolved in the studio but (they vaguely admit this themselves) constricting funds, time restrictions and “substance abuse” hindered their final product. The low fi violence and raw live realism they were aiming for is definitely missing and while some bands benefit from slap dash studio work, Shabby Rogue need a better starting point to capture their respected live set on tape.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

Viv Albertine - Flesh EP

According to Natasha Walter’s book published last month, we are witnessing a devious and modernised return of sexism and misogyny. Slight doom heralding it may be but perhaps with Viv Albertine from the iconic Punk band The Slits going solo, we can at least be reminded of a time when it was cool to deem yourself a feminist without the extreme Valarie Solanis implications.

Flat and band mate to Sid Vicious, film maker, ceramic sculptor, “only interested in love and sex as subjects”, her style may seem a little dated. Calling her debut Flesh for example and including a carefully positioned nude picture of herself on the CD, her groin in place of the middle hole so you have to slide your finger in when picking it up – these are laughable Punk’isms that I doubt will shock any member of my own fucked up generation. We take Punk humour as intended and are well over girls in Rock bands (at least I hope so… Christ).

Throughout the four track EP, there are remnants of what Viv originally brought to The Slits back in 1977 (an influence still felt today in all-girl bands such as Vivian Girls) and it’s especially apparent in the chorus line of ‘Never Come’. Her oh-so-British accent, sarcastic in its cute politeness, hasn’t changed much after 25 years. Neither have her themes of nihilistic romance and sexual freedom. The tone of her song writing is different; more nostalgic and with a faint hint of sorrow.

Overall, her EP is modestly arranged, soft but gutsy with varied attention to harmony and instrumentation (use of violin, rock organ and glockenspiel). ‘If Love’ beams with pleasure, like a kid with a balloon and ‘The False Heart’, despite it's clunky piano riff, sees Viv’s voice on great form, diminishing into a lovely silver whisper. But the best has to be the sneering ‘I Don't Believe/In Love’ featuring scraping guitar and general nihilism among the lyrics.

Of course there will be a group of people who’ll buy it out of blind dedication, novelty or nostalgia and I suppose it is the sort of music you’d hear at a Derek Jarman art exhibition surrounded by 40 year olds wearing black and complaining about the "apathetic youth of today". But unlike many other aging Punks, Viv Albertine is more in tune with the grace and wisdom that comes with age. This is not the solo career of some has-been shouting “I’ve still got it” while trying to reconnect with the kids. Flesh shows her fans something personal and reflective; delicate, fragile and human.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

So So Modern - Crude Futures

Just days away from the UK, So So Modern prove they’ve not come all the way from New Zealand on an expansive world tour for nothing. Their debut Crude Futures is a powerful and frenzied ride and to think I didn’t even see it coming.

Let me explain: Here I was, a couple weeks ago, putting in work for an elaborate piece on ‘anti-music’, not realising that during all this time of preparation via myspace I’d been in fact following a band called Crude Futures from Brooklyn, spluttering over their insane tape experimentations and eye raping graphics; so foul, so abhorrent, the page is like a level of hell reserved for people in advertising.

Anyway it was all quickly forgotten at the first listen of So So Modern’s Crude Futures. Instantly satisfying, their espousal of recent familiarities, such as the school yard yelling of Animal Collective, the trendy guitar minimalism of Foals and the particalised electronics of Battles, suggest a well oiled machine instead of a band. Abrupt use of syncopation and odd time signatures would turn any dancer into a retard tripping up on his own shoelaces. They also cite mathematical theology and atomic vocabulary as influences – I doubt categorising them as Math-rock will come as much of a shock.

The review would feel incomplete without a mention of their live show, especially since it’s integral to the bands focus. I can only visualise the tension and electric energy of a So So Modern gig; no amount of youtube watching will suffice. Their performance of ‘Loose Threads and Theremins’ (unfortunately not included on the debut) is psychotic and disorientating, a hardcore vibe difficult to describe in words. Not even the band get it right: “we are a four-person collective interested in creating a more fun and meaningful future through performance and music”. More business statement than a rousing ideology, it doesn’t even come close.

Most of Crude Futures stays on an intense delirium which gives the release a somewhat lopsided feel. ‘Dusk and Children’ is their failed attempt at coming down – slow and ponderous at the beginning, even this track can’t keep its head hung down for long. Truly, their best moments are their most exhausting. ‘The Worst is Yet to Come’ contains more E numbers than a lick n' dip and ‘Dendrons’ puts it’s foot down with intricate phrase and weighty distortion. The hazy chords that open ‘Be Anywhere’, the complex yet thoughtful guitar melody of ‘Island Hopping/Channel Crossing’, the interstellar jamming of ‘Berlin’ are some of the record’s highlights.

On the war path from start to finish, So So Modern beg for not a second of your patience. Their cultivation of a shared experience between band and audience give them an edge over similar trends, and while Crude Futures may not be a profoundly unique debut, a doubling of exquisite musicianship and sheer gal will get them righteous attention.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

Nedry - Condors

It’s not surprising that it’s taken this long for Dub Step to be adopted by the arty crowd. The scene is an obstinate one, made up of dedicated zealots and purists; people who would rather put a bullet through their own head than see it corrupted by the fools at Radio 1. The popular London trio Nedry is so far the finest example of this Art Dub hybrid seemingly hailing from an alternative universe where Brighton based Natasha Khan was swept up the local Dub Step scene.

The argument as to whether or not the genre has suffered from increasing exposure is an argument I’m steering clear of, mainly out of fear. I know some long-time orthodox followers who would have my balls for listening to this kind of ‘betrayal’. So let’s keep it quiet shall we?

Anyway from where I’m standing, it’s a win-some-loose-some situation. Softening the mood and adopting more recognisable structure and instrumentation may stifle the unpredictability and danger of Dub Step – taking it out of the club is like ripping the heart from a wild animal. On the other hand, what we gain is emotional depth and, just as evolution has been proven key to survival, a longer life span. This takes us back to Nedry. A little like Bjork’s silky whispers in Vespertine (2001), Ayu Okakita’s voice cries out over the grimy and alien synths provided by knob gnomes Matt Parker and Chris Amblin. It’s these contrasts of sparkle and grime, man and machine that is Nedry’s most formidable weapon.

Proving much in the first two tracks (‘A42’ and ‘Apples & Pears’), Condors' perfect flow screams at me for a detailed analysis: in the awesomely named ‘Squid Cat Battle’ they borrow from the 90’s electro of Garbage, then ‘Scattered’ kicks it away with a violent riff over a sprinting break beat. ‘Condors’ brings in some Math-rock guitar duels while ‘Swan Ocean’ drifts along like water in a Hokusai painting. The gloaming texture of ‘Where The Dead Birds Go’ signals an end instilling in the album’s briefness a yearning for more. Their pipeline tour of Japan (a country already at one with the future) sheds a light on their ambitions.

Nedry may be more accessible than pure cut Dub Step but the characteristic skin crawling nastiness has lost none of its potency. Just don’t expect to skank to it, that’s all. For me, Condors is a sort of futuristic prophecy depicting the slow choke of dehumanisation, coming down as soft and as cold as snowfall – as well as, on a more universal note, substantial evidence of Dub Step’s versatility.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

Erland And The Carnival – Erland And The Carnival:

I think it’s safe to say this record is exactly what comes from a bunch of middle class guys “making a folk album”, unable to keep their wrists from jangling out an Arctic Monkeys’esque riff every minute or so. Ultimately, Erland and The Carnival are no more folk than Bob Dylan is. But who cares? Not me. A single play revealed only a small portion of its charms. Later on, it changed into something very different: an anatomical splicing of NY Jazz’ swinging body to 13th Floor Elevator’s head full of acid.

If any of you get off on literary references, my advice is not to listen to this record in public to avoid embarrassment. The band salute an assortment of frightfully British Britons, such as William Blake and Vaughan Williams, and use their artistic licence to adapt the high brow material. Tricks like this generally appeal to the kind of dicks who congratulate and fondle themselves while reading poetry at a Costa and want to be seen doing it. There’s none of that here. Erland and The Carnival’s loving inclusion of the old world is seamless, effective and very unpretentious.

Without the support of Simon Tong (the busybody ex-guitarist from The Verve, now following closely in Damon Albarn’s shadow) and the superior drumming talents of David Nock, this lounge indie concoction might be easily shelved and forgotten. This is not to say that Mr. Erland Cooper, a baritone songwriter with his own tale, would be unable stand up on his own. I mean that without them, the record would be missing a huge chunk of its allure. ‘My Name Is Carnival’, with its stumbling rhythms, trippy guitar slides topped with Cooper’s lazy jazz crooning, is a personal favourite – as is the impossibly catchy ‘One Morning Fair’.

The rest of the album is on more of an even plateau and slips into the background. The atmosphere that’s left behind, of familiar Romanticism crossed with modern London, is none-the-less enticing. Erland and The Carnival is Britain’s answer to the hipster Folk of Fleet Foxes; only smarter, more daring, rougher, denser, better. Its breezy and cool headed effortlessness could only be the work of true professionals.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

The Black Angels (and Wolfmother) at Brixton Academy: 21/01/10

So how do you accurately recreate that 60’s vibe in an anal and corporate controlled society? Answer: You can’t. Even the hypnotic life affirming experience that is The Black Angels was not enough to shake off the cold and inhuman atmosphere of a gig in Hitler’s crows nest.

To get in and out of the O2 run Brixton Academy, even for a smoke, you have to get through a chain of SS goons, or ‘stewards’ as they call themselves. And they’re everywhere you turn, standing around like the miserable voyeurs they are; at every door, along the balconies, looking over your shoulder while you take a piss. The entire building is locked down like a military installation and with good reason, because Brixton is a tough side of town. Why not? Scrutinise and intimidate the kids until they feel low down and criminal. None of us can be trusted.

As press, I was given a pass to the VIP bar (a clever gimmick) reserved for the bands and their friends. Their plan: to coax the journalists into it and away from where all the real action is. From way up there with your four pound bottle of beer, looking out through the wide plastic windows, you can see just about everything and it transforms the gig into a spectator sport. The arena was packed and the floor bobbed and waved in a sea of human heads. There was beer flying overhead and baying for the headline, for Wolfmother’s arrival. I wasn’t fussed. I was there for The Black Angels after all.

On tour with the matriarch, all the way from Austin, Texas, The Black Angels caught my ear with their powerful 2006 album Passover. Pitchfork deemed the release “for the nostalgic […] and the monumentally stoned” which was apt, because at the time, I was both. An unholy union between Black Sabbath and The Velvet Underground, the band’s reverberating drones and mysticism are anchored to earth by the terrific weight of foot stomping Americana and echoing doom: “We can’t live, but we’re too afraid to die”.

On this evening, The Black Angels’ impenetrable sense of dread was shattered by a temperate reaction. The poor and heavily distorted mix didn’t help matters, being unable to give their layered style much needed space. Worst hit, were tracks such as ‘The First Vietnamese War’, a salute to time past and a parallel of our own hopeless war. What I gathered from overheard and one on one conversation displayed a similar frustration, though the residing opinion was one of nodding respect and interest and their subdued performance only heightened the intrigue. They had made an impression.

The O2 does controlled and organised fun like no one else. Its commodification of music seems to be in direct contradiction to Rock’s free spirit and left me with an empty gig experience. Irritably drunk, I left just as Wolfmother’s grip on the crowd was beginning to wane. I will be seeing The Black Angels again, most definitely, just not at any O2 arena. Among many other things we’ve lost, Brixton Academy should be returned to the people.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

Loaf Record's 'Domestic Pop' compilation

Like any newcomer anxious to separate themselves from a daunting universe of internet spun studios, Loaf Records from London have selected and released this little compilation promoting their most valued assets. The record is certainly a weird one and they’re just a little too conscious of how weird it is. Sometimes it’s just downright annoying.

‘Fax Me’ by Supertalented, the second to last track is one such musical mistake. This bit of obnoxious twee sets a new standard for empty headedness; all I have to do is state a line from the lyrics and sit back down: “Text me, why don’t you text me”. Powerful stuff guys. Fortunately, this is the lowest point in the release but made worse by occurring right at the end. In fact, the whole compilation has little or no arrangement, jarring and without flow, a run of Nickelodeon cartoons back to back.

A sub label of Lo Records, Loaf Records is proud of its own style of garage electronics. Their music is a soundtrack for a generation raised on video games and PC lifestyle – a sort of Bleep Pop employing cute robotics, stripped down Autechre oddity coupled with your standard twee vocals.

Two bands worthy of note introduce Domestic Pop: Câlvin’s cheeky electronic mocking in ‘Money Poney’ and Cursor Miner’s ‘Never Been Seen’ which, in technique, borrows its punchy, sliced guitar sampling from Beck. Going further artistically, the lengthy, stream-of-consciousness structure of Oen Sujet’s ‘Bird and Binocular’ lurches forward as if under influence of black coffee and hash. The rest of the compilation starts to loose its mind, and not in the Van Gogh genius sort of way but the awkward, cringe inducing kind of way. Despite the record’s good humour and ambitions for individuality, their claim “We’ve grown up” doesn’t ring true. Not yet at least.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

God's Little Eskimo - In Play in Borely Rectory

Multi instrumentalism is a powerful tool to many a lonely composer, but it is still a tool and may or may not be put to good use. Would anyone in this age of plenty know, or care, whether a burst of brass for example was the result of a fifty piece band or a heavily edited keyboard patch? Does hard work, sweat and blood really matter?

God’s Little Eskimo (or God’s Little Inuit, if you’re being politically correct) is a solo project of the illusive Jonny Eskimo, a self declared ‘one manned band’ as well as a keen illustrator.

So yeah, he’s multi talented, blah blah what’s in it for us? Well, you selfish, superficial jackass, nothing for the impatient or mass consumptive. If the record were to take physical form, it would be a laboured piece of arts and crafts; like a wicker basket, or a knitted sweater. It has a scratched, everyman charm that unites the bedroom studio ethic of Wavves with the folksong expression of Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy. Steve Reich once said that the true folk music of our time was being made in the bedrooms and garages of ordinary people. Reich was right about a lot of things.

The clunky and grainy nature, an experiment in Gypsy Folk sensibilities, strays from the genuinely unsettling to the mournful and sad. Featuring a zither (yay), ‘Who’s That Calling Your Name’ begins cloaked in deceptive and enticing beauty only to crash into jarring dissonance. His finest track, ‘At The Base of Her Spine’ is also his most aggressive, shouting “Sink your teeth into my soul” in unreserved passion. Jonny sings in a high, minstrel style – like Jon Boden from Bellowhead on a comedown – and the music is wide awake, intimate and lovingly put together.

At Play In Borely Rectory rests directly on a thin line dividing brilliance and stupidity, sort of like Eddie Izzards ‘Circle of Cool’ gag. It teeters between the two, like an eccentric, pleasantly drunk trapeze artist. In this position, it’s a cult folk classic in hibernation. A record of such sincere strangeness will always find someone, somewhere to inspire. Who knows where it could go from there.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Sennen - Destroy Us

In fear of falling into repetitive, zombified writing, I had made up my mind to quit reviewing any more ‘nugaze’ for a while. It lasted a couple seconds. We all have our addictions and Sennen from Norwich might have been my next love affair. But it wasn’t to be. They tick all the boxes but still leave a little to be desired. It’s awful when you discover that love isn’t blind.

The problem is that they lack a noticeable shade of colour to separate them from the prism of other rising dream pop acts. Destroy Us is more of the same post rock guitar layering and huffing and puffing, unable to move mountains as intended. Case in point: ‘The Distance from A to B’ climbs and climbs only to fall on an anti climax. It’s bathetic or, to lower the tone, like interrupted sex. If you want EPIC guitar crescendos then you’d be better off turning to the unsigned Dezerett, a Florida based trio that call down some biblical, God-like climaxes.

By track three the EP finds its feet. The earnest and well executed ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ is enough to rescue it from being forgotten in the caverns of itunes. Here, the drummer, James Brown, whose role is otherwise functional in the band, pulls his finger out and moulds the rhythms into more daring shapes. Pseudo-religious pop archaisms like “Every time I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray” are nearly poetic when supported by the strong melody and Interpol style guitars. It’s then taken way too far on ‘Figurene’: a soupy, sad bastard that sounds identical to Christian pop (shudder).

During its better moments, Destroy Us displays amiable song crafting suggestive of The Chameleons and soft, creamy vocal harmonies that would complete a milkshake. Not lacking in emotion by any means, their ethos is untouchable. What brings them down is their manifestation of those deep thoughts. This problem could be mine however, as I just can’t shake off the pessimism that’s been shadowing me lately. It’s like Sennen say: “Is there anything left for us to destroy?”

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)