(Dead Letter) “Music For Film” is kinda of like the “Hey There Delilah” song, but with the oomph of a marching band. And there’s ten songs of it. “Music for Television” is kinda emo with gusto, so it’s “Gustmo.”
Friday, May 24, 2013
(HHBTM) Bouncy hardcore that gets brutal yet remains joyful (even when declaring [I believe] “sonic fuck yous!, and even duringa ten minute ambient mellow feedback suite. Everything from the crackling energy to the snotty vocals, to the tonal shifts to the faux Pettibon cover art make this seem like you should be hearing this in the pit, and if you get kicked in the head, all the better. I don’t know what their name means in English, but I do know ne thing…this is very good!
(Good Land) The Figgs are a great band because they came out the box as such solid power poppers, but were still able to find garage rock and punk edges that many skinny tie-ers miss. Establishing themselves as a hardworking fave band in the early 90s, they were surprisingly sucked up by a major label, but came out stronger and more determined when they were unsurprisingly spit out by Capitol, and I have been excited by their steady flow of new material over the last coupla decades. That said, if you asked me what album to reissue by the Figgs this decade old dalliance might not be my first pick, as it has moments of uncharacteristic ballad-ish mellow that do not fit into my ideal Figgs mind-picture. But there are some hefty hooks here, and if you never heard this before you wont be able to tell when it came out – totally timeless! In other Figg feature stories, founding Figg-ment Pete Donnelly (also currently one of the Q's in the Terry Adams-meets-Scott Ligon version of NRBQ) has released a delightfully slick, garage rock-free power-popped singer-songwriter record that is a treat. Side two is a one two knockout, with a rural-ish Replacements sounding “The Only One” followed up by the shuffle soul of “Can’t Talk at All,” and there’s even a tribute to Tom Ardolino! Not the Figgiest record, but fabulaously Figg-tastic, nonetheless.
(This will be Our Summer Records) Chicagoland homeboy Graham Smith’s product placement triumph band is back with some of his most polished compositions (though still loose-ush and sorta stream of consciouness sounding). Wordy, catchy, kinda goofy, occasionally preciously poignant, smart-silliness is buffer than Buff (from the Fat Boys) and cleverer than Buffy (from the vampire show).
(Profound Lore) I’ve met this cheerful cellist, and the aptly named artist has a personality that is totally money. Yet somehow she has crafted a near-perfect piece of eerie contemporary classical ambient goth that scares the Bejeezus outta me! Shoul be called Helen Moody!
(japonizeelephants.com) It’s been almost twenty years of the Japonize Elephants confusing me into thinking Indiana is actually a magical music portal where one massive band can somehow be a vessal for 100 years of weird international pop music, sounding like a 1930s radio show one second, cartoon hillbillies the next, Middle Eastern belly dance backups a moment later, stoned Zappa fans after that, Nero-esque distracted fiddlers all the hile, with quick jaunts into Klezmer, Americana, Mexicana, melodramatic silent film accompanism, and chanting cult-ism. That all of it might be the soundtrack to a lost Tex Avery cartoon makes you never want to forget these Elephants.
(worldofpaco.com) Paco sings scary songs in a disarmingly resonant voice, and it either entrancingly creeps you out or creepily entrances you. Or in my case, both, which has me in a weird, perpetual state of creep- trance…you can’t un-ring the Paco bell!
(elliotknapp.com) Scrambling audio doodling specialness that presents fever-dream narratives done with the time signatures (and potential dangerousness) of a precariously-balanced pot of boiling water…or perhaps boiling absinthe.