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)

Curly Hair - The Ivy League

Putting on a Curly Hair song has the same rejuvenating effect as taking a midday walk in the park. There’s no disturbances, no irritating twats hurling their egotistical chants at you, just time allocated to wandering about and collecting your thoughts. The duo’s first release, a six track EP entitled The Ivy League, has some organic, flowery illustrations on its cover and is refreshingly real and honest.

The twee, sing a’ long nature of their music belies the confidence and serious intent underneath. Curly Hair are not to be underestimated. Having set up their own label in Brighton, Toy Soldiers (which has incidentally signed Jonquil), recording their own songs and designing CD covers, they seem keen to keep control over their art. As a first for Curly Hair, the record avoids making a bathetic entrance or flogging a pointless statement; it’s satisfied in its handmade process, in the pleasure of playing and recording.

Comparisons to Belle and Sebastian have already been drawn in the press, as is typical with this kind of light song writing. After a short opening, we hear the first of two standout tracks: “Let’s Get Cleany”, a smiling ode to rough living that slows to a gradual halt and, to finish, “The Bus Song”, an upbeat affair which provokes me to use the ‘infectious’ adjective… regrettably. Some minor problems include “Hully Gully” - an out of place acapella vignette. The duo’s voice doubling displays a strong musical bond, but in the mix it’s muddy and cluttered.

Even with synth organ, glockenspiel and trumpet, The Ivy League is unlikely to give you anything unpredictable. Its play count might also be short lived, or at least infrequent. None-the-less, Curly Hair set a resonant tone for themselves and their prospective label. If you see them busking somewhere around the country be sure to buy them a cup of tea and a sandwich.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Smittens / The Just Loans Split Single

In just cause, Twee Pop and DIY ethics promote an inspiring idea that anyone can pick up an instrument and write songs. Nobody said however that all this music will be ‘good’. This release from WeePOP! is a prime example; it means well but fails to convey anything beyond the simple joy of being in a band. Seriously guys, it’s time to grow up and let Belle and Sebastian go.

You may get two bands for the price of one (two tracks by each) but like Tesco or an unfamiliar drug dealer, it pushes something of dubious quality. About halfway through The Smittens’ ‘Summer Sunshine’ you realise you’ve been burned. Lines like “cause we’re bands and we’re fans / and we like to have fun and we like making friends” don’t do much for me; neither does the irritatingly jolly backing band and tired clichés of mix tapes and cute musings. Beat Happening made an art form out of being sad and child-like; few get close to replicating it.

The Just Loans are more accomplished musically – “I hear you’re the man now, John” is a bitter and jangly bit of folk with a grumpy accordion – but again the lyrics let them down. Both bands need a dramatic change of subject matter and musical prospects – maybe a turn to The Mouldy Peaches’ sarcasm for inspiration? The rest of you keep away, there’s better stuff coming from Scotland.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Fryars - Dark Young Hearts

Our interest in the past is getting pretty obsessive isn’t it? Think of some classic old band and there’ll be a contemporary equivalent for sure. Shit, the band you’re thinking of is probably imminently reforming due to their own retro addiction, an obsession with their own past. Fryars, a solo project by one Ben Garrett, has a specific intention: 80’s art electro. It achieves it too, spot on, but don’t worry. Dark Young Hearts is fortunately more than just market filler.

Straight off, Ben’s voice style is a dead ringer for Franz Ferdinand’s Alex Kapranos. Certain tracks, such as “The Ides” with its club indie rhythm, even sound like the group too. Ben is 19, self taught and has a fascination with the subconscious and the fictional. “A Last Result” feels very Syd Barrett with its silly song structure, particular English insanity and surreal, Louis Carroll-like imagery. No arguments, “when the mind is a mushroom, but the words come easily” is a damn good line and the track is definitely Ben’s best.

We have the masterful Steven Hague (producer of The Pet Shop Boys and New Order) to blame for its electro-glam tendencies. “Lakehouse” and “Visitors” sees Hague slap on the emotion: Casio synthesiser leads over rolling electro drum pads. Trouble is, it reeks of sweaty shoulder pads, pot noodle and Tears For Fears. The cracks do give way thankfully, and we catch glimpses of substance behind the yuppie disco fest. The final track “Morning” is a warm and sumptuous, symphonic anthem that leaves you on a reassuring farewell.

While on the support circuit, Ben had received seductive winks from the top labels. Yes, the big guys in the big suits had got down from their big, spinney chairs to extend him a hand. Don’t do it Ben! Give the Music Industry the finger and stay independent. Admittedly, this is all too easy to say and, like so many others before him, it’ll be hard to hold against them forever. Fryars’ catchy, naturally cool idiom and breezy energy could see the dark ones returning again and again.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

New Singles: Black Moth Super Rainbow's The Sticky and Randan Discotheque's Daily Record and Time To Waste

BLACK MOTH SUPER RAINBOW - THE STICKY
Come, come let The Black Moth Super Rainbow screw about with your childhood memories. The BBC workshop synths and vocoder rambling may evoke a carefree response but instead of transporting you back to the comforting days of long summers and peanut butter sandwiches, its affect simulates being trapped in a creepy kids TV show.

Very few of us would be able to keep a grip on their sanity while inescapably stuck in the world of The Magic Roundabout. This is precisely the reason why we don't give children acid. For sure, the reoccurring phrase "you and me, we're going to melt away like apples in the ground" holds anything but Disney schmaltz. The humid, electronic psychedelia suggests Lemon Jelly or Caribou, putting on masks made of wax and acting out German Fairytales.

At just over two minutes long, it's a short and simplistic release containing nothing overtly new (in fact, dangerously close to their classic 'Sun Lips'). Ideally, their newest album Eating Us where this record is plucked from will expose them to a wider audience. It is now that Black Moth Super Rainbow can begin to test their fans patience and drive their unique Halloween road show to more sublime destinations.


RANDAN DISCOTHEQUE - DAILY RECORD MAY 18TH 1993 and TIME TO WASTE
I wouldn't be the first of Bearded's writers to notice that there's something going on up in the cold and crazy Scottish hills. Randan Discotheque, the baby of songsmith Craig Coulthard, belt out two marvellous tunes on this double sided single and make a name for themselves.

In the catchy electro vein of the early 90's, 'Daily Record' is a window into one day in the Daily Record paper. Frankly, it's a cheap attempt to revive the by-gone era (also particularly strange when Craig says in a perky voice "a friend's legs were blown off by an IRA bomb") But despite this behaviour, it manages to come through after a couple of listens.

'Time To Waste' begins like a long lost Television track. A groovy bass riff punctuated by scratchy guitar frets. Damn cool. I'd bet you've always wondered what Jefferson Airplane would sound like if they came from a New York art school? Of course you have - Craig's echoing vocals over rolling blues answer your question.

Incorporating all sorts of ideas, Randan Discotheque's range may be broad but it still presents them with the problem of what exactly to rest on. It would be easy to label them as purveyors of Scottish indie charm but I doubt that would go down too well.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Posthuman - Monsters and Vortices EP

Setting is clearly very important to Posthuman. Having performed at a mixture of strange locations (namely a prison and an iron mine) it's clear their intention is to impose a sense of place on the listener. Their music is a sort of theatrical electronica - by layering eerie effects over a throbbing dubstep bass, it's an aggressive mechanical ballet.

Monsters and Vortices is their third EP among an extensive list of albums and singles. Though completely club friendly, there is a deep and subversive message behind the music. London's towering disillusion and self-fulfilment is exposed; truth hides in the grimy back alleyways and subterranean mazes. The residing urban dread is hard to shake off, even after 'The Karman Vortices', a comparatively down-tempo finale that could be seamlessly edited into Boards of Canada's 'Geogaddi', their most sinister of albums.

The EP opens on 'Krill' with a pounding kick drum that overflows onto the rest of the record. A pure evil bass line in 'Callisto' slowly and mercilessly crushes the spiralling, free loving synths in a death grip. A rhythmically cut female voice sample initially provides a small human element; ultimately the heroine is smothered by the smog spewing from steam burst percussion. 'Monsters Exist' takes the tone deeper into paranoia - it's like being stalked by some predatory creature.

The EP should come with a prescription warning: Not to be taken by technophobes or schizophrenics. An extremely unsettling record, totally vacant of anything human, Monsters and Vortices is a fearful drum and bass achievement. Directing their eyes to the horizon while keeping a foot in the club, they are right to be beckoned into the circle of the electronic dark arts.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Windmill - Epcot Starfields

The second album release from London's singer songwriter Windmill sees his themes of alienation and displacement launched into cold, dark space to explore the empty stratosphere that engulfs our insignificant little blue planet.

Windmill, known to his bloods as Mathew Thomas Dillon, has a peculiarly characteristic voice. Cartoon-like yet on the verge of tears, it's a shot away from Wayne Coyne or Bright Eyes. The attraction is its weakness and trembling insecurity.

Each song is unassumingly simple and built firmly around the piano - an excellent instrument to convey intimate sadness and isolation (so long as you stay clear of Elton John and that sonofabitch Chris Martin). Dillon often sings in unison with a deliberately off key backing ensemble sounding like a sing-a-long in a school play. A few standout tracks such as 'Sony Metropolis Stars', 'Big Boom' and my favourite 'Photo Hemispheres' decorate the album with uplifting hymns.

One of the most thoughtful lines comes from 'Imax Raceway':

"We want our parents to live for always / they won't, they don't want us to be sad"

(pronounced 'seead' by Dillon in his pseudo American accent) These melancholy truisms remind me of the bite-sized philosophies of The Flaming Lips or Mercury Rev. In a sense, we define our lives by these brief reflections, but unlike the grand, collective unity behind The Flaming Lips, Dillon keeps us at a distance. His detachment is key to his creative individuality.

Epcot Starfields, designed around a childhood trip to EPCOT in Florida, is a beacon of hope. Hope that a future existence will have meaning - not just made up of brand names or technological faff - and that his unique voice will be heard a million light years away. There's a lot to like about Windmill. Scared, anxious, lost and disillusioned, he's one of us:

"I find it compelling that even when armed with the knowledge of our mortality, people's ideas are limitless"

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)