Archive for the ‘Albums’ Category

Leather Lung – Graveside Grin

Posted: 16 March 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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Magnetic Eye – 15th March 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

Emerging from the punk and hardcore scene of Boston (that’s Massachusetts, US, not the arse end of nowhere in rural Lincolnshire) in 2012, according to their bio, Leather Lung ‘quickly gained an excellent reputation in their local scene, as well as plenty of critical attention through a string of EPs’. And yet it’s taken them till now to complete their debut album. They’ve been busy launching their own lager, ‘Dive Bar Devil’, which has proven popular, and honing their sound, ‘a thick, chugging concoction of stoner metal, doom, and unrelenting sludge, blended into a refreshingly heavy brew with a catchy kick.’

They’re straight in with the big, thick guitars and hefty riffing. It’s mid-paced, weighty, heavy and gritty, and packs a punch. ‘Big Bad Bodega Cat’ is as loud and dumb as it sounds, a blown-out monster blues-based riff lumbering heavy as the backing for raw-throated vocals. It takes some nuts to sing such daft lyrics with such sincerity, and this, I guess, is a large part of Leather Lung’s appeal: they sound a lot more serious than they really are. The fact that the trash-talking ‘Freewheelin’ Maniac’ which comes on with some big-bollocked bravado about ‘getting the fuck outta my may’ shares so much sonic territory with Melvins is a fair indication of the territory Leather Lung occupy. Sure, it’s heavy, but it’s fun, too.

‘Empty Bottle Boogie’ is another example of the way they use the form for fun, landing slap band in between Motorhead and Melvins, before diverting on a melodic prog-metal mid-section and then flooring all the pedals for maximum overdrive to power on to the finish.

In something of a shift, ‘Guilty Pleasure’ starts moody and acoustic, blasts into black metal, spins through a brief electro passage before going full Slipknot. And it not only works, but the transitions are effortless. This should not be possible. It shouldn’t even exist. It’s testament to their abilities – and brazenness – that it does, and that that they carry it off.

Where they really succeed – is in balancing melody and aggression. ‘La La Land’ could easily be a Tad outtake, with a slugging grunge riff and a ragged vocal roar. In contrast, ‘Twisting Flowers’ harks back to seventies metal played through a more contemporary stoner filter.

Graveside Grin was worth the wait: Leather Lung have succeeded in producing a set of songs which is varied, and at the same time, consistently heavy, with a lot of attack and snarly, gnarly energy, with just the right level of irreverence and knowingly OTT extremity and violence. Win.

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The Children… A Sudden Craving

Posted: 13 March 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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Erototox Decodings – 1st March 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

Holy hell! Where to start? We’ll come to the band’s pedigree and the CVs of this supergroup in due course. But first, the immediate impact of this second album by The Children – that’s what hits in an instant. Perhaps because I missed the first, I simply wasn’t prepared in the way I might have been, but then again, is there any adequate preparation in advance of this?

A stark acoustic guitar – something about the way it’s picked and pulled is sharp, tense, scratchy, in the opening bars of ‘gOd is a Bereaved’ is prickly, awkward – paves the way for an eye-opening vocal performance. It simply doesn’t conform to the mores of conventional musicality, and instead flies skyward and swoops towards the ground in terrifying, unnatural flips and arcs. Something is certainly sudden, and it’s not a craving, but the impact of this completely out-there sound. Intense is an understatement.

‘Woven Mother Aflame’ brings brooding atmospherics split asunder by explosive percussion – a snare that has the power to split skulls cutting through serpentine strings and heavy, resonant bass reverberations which hang in the air, before the gentler ‘Breathing Shards’ fades electronics into a strummed acoustic guitar. Breathe… out. But all is not comfortable. The quavering vocals – not quite falsetto, not quite any specific range, but warbling, tremulous – quiver, uncomfortably atop and amidst the multi-layered backdrop which slopes and slides and traverses through starless space as basslines stroll and amble sedately.

Some background: The Children… ‘are . They have been making music together for over 15 years. Former Barkmarket bassist John Nowlin and drummer Rock Savage have consistently anchored the rhythm section, with a savagely airtight groove that’s both thunderous and mellifluous, primal and funky, and cellist Kirsten McCord has regularly enriched the band’s sound with her somber, lulling phrasing as a one-woman string section. John Andersen was a founding member and key early collaborator. The inimitable vocalist Shelley Hirsch has been a visceral contrapuntal foil for several live shows. Former Swans guitarist Norman Westberg and clarinetist Johnny Gasper provided invaluable texture to the recording sessions for this LP.

Norman Westberg has long been one of my favourite guitarists on account of his absolute minimalism: few guitarists would be content to bludgeon away at two chords for eight minutes straight, but his stoic patience is a rare trait which sets him in a league of his own. His more recent solo work is noteworthy for his sculpting feedback into musical shapes, and as such, his magnificently understated contribution to this album is essential.

Then again, how really to assimilate this? Our instinct, as humans, is to trust what we know, to lean into the familiar, the comfortable. This is perhaps why so much conformist pop, accessible blues-rock, landfill indie, continues to command so much appreciation. It’s not even that it’s easy and comfortable, but that it sits within an established framework with which people are comfortable – and the same, unsurprisingly, applies to people. ‘Weirdos’ are ostracised, and find themselves on the fringes, alone. People find ‘otherness’ simply too much of a challenge. Who can honestly say they haven’t taken a step back and made effort to put distance between themselves and a ‘crazy’ in their lives or on social medial? No shame in it: life is difficult as it is, and you have to have limits on who and what you can accommodate. But the point stands: other peoples’ disturbances create further disturbances. And A Sudden Craving sounds pretty disturbed.

A Sudden Craving is the sound of otherness. Yes, the vocals in particular are difficult to process. They sound… well, deranged. Wailing theatrically in a howling whorl of chaos and discord, underpinned by a hypnotic wave and monotonous plod of percussion, they really stand out as the definition of mania. ‘Breathing Shards’ may be mellower, but still possesses a sharp, jarring edge.

A Sudden Craving is scary because it doesn’t conform to any norms. Every one of the album’s ten tracks is unsettling, uncomfortable, unpredictable. It has depth and detail and many great qualities. Comfort and ease of access are not among then.

A Sudden Craving is a great album. It is not an accessible album, or an album which is comfortable or easy in any way. But then it’s not designed to be. It’s a head-shredding riot which really delivers some uncomfortable moments. At times I’m reminded of late Scott Walker. It’s compelling, and it’s quality, but one to file under ‘W’ for ‘Weird Shit’.

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Blueblut – Lutebulb

Posted: 11 March 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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Janka Industries – 3rd May 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

Once again, I find myself tussling with a jazz album and in a quandary as to quite what to make of it. For many, many years, I was absolutely certain I detested jazz. Until, that is, having been introduced in my line of work to acts like The Necks, I came to learn I’d simply been exposed to the wrong kinds of jazz. The weirdy, noisy, cacophonous kinds of jazz made sense in context of my appreciation of mathy noise rock, and wasn’t such an immense leap from Shellac to be incomprehensible. Like any genre, or even tea or coffee, it’s all about finding a point of entry, a flavour that suits your palette. I used to hate both tea and coffee, having been given the former with full-fat milk and sugar and the latter in the form of a fairly weak blend with milk but no sugar, and they only really clicked when I ditched the sugar and discovered Earl Grey, and that you could have really dark-roast coffee with no milk and a shovel-load of sugar. So, you know, you find your thing.

And then along comes Lutebulb, by Blueblut.

The blurb isn’t wrong in describing Blueblut’s lineup as ‘highly unusual, bringing together ‘three musicians acclaimed for exceptional contributions to their respective spheres in experimental jazz, electronica and rock.’ It’s a jazz-centred fusion, for sure, but it’s not jazz fusion as one tends to think of it, and certainly not as I’ve come to understand it. So what is it? As we learn, ‘Lutebulb is the fabulous culmination of ten years of intensive touring, with the Vienna based trio of Pamelia Stickney (theremin, vocals), Chris Janka (guitar, loops, samples) and Mark Holub (drums, vocals, percussion) socking it to global audiences with an international polystylistic musical language which takes in improv, jazz, avant-rock, ska, folk and Krautrock among other elements.’

There’s certainly a lot going on: initially, it comes on a bit laid back, not so much loungey as a smug muso pop collision of jazz and Latin dance, and I suppose the title, ‘Cocktail’ is something of a giveaway as to its swinging party vibes, but then shit happens – particularly some pretty crazy guitar work, and the percussion goes big and suddenly the party’s been crashed by a towering riot of sonic chaos, before suddenly, the entertainers seemingly remember themselves, pull their ties straight again and try to pull together some semblance of a funtime groove.

This sets the album’s template, really. Tracks tend to begin a bit kinda loose, a bit kinda boppable, a bit pool party fun times, albeit with some weirdness in the way the rhythms and the notes don’t quite chime in the conventional ways, and you wonder if it’s maybe the punch or the heat, but the tempo drifts a bit, first one way, then the other, and then maybe something doesn’t quite feel right, and it certainly doesn’t sound right and… what is going on? The room’s spinning and there are all sorts of random noises and you can’t tell if it’s people losing the plot or if some chickens have escaped and the sky’s falling in.

‘Aumba’ starts rather differently, a gentle piece led by acoustic guitar that brings a more reflective atmosphere, but it takes a hard swerve, the pace picks up, there are choral chanting vocals and then a handbrake turn into buoyant math-rock territory before some truly frantic fretwork. And because more surprises are needed, from nowhere, we get a crooning lyrical ballad in the last couple of minutes.

There’s unpredictable, and then there’s Lutebulb, which emerges with a fourteen-minute centrepiece of oddball experimental jazz that mashes absolutely everything together: one minute, I’m reminded of America’s ‘Horse With No Name’, the next, it’s Paul Simon’s Graceland and a Joolz Holland world music extravaganza. Then, somewhere in the midst of it all, we get the jazz breakdown with erratic percussion and space, dogs barking, and then, something else again. Led Zep riffage. Noise. More dogs barking. Every time I leave the house, the streets and parks and fields are like bloody Crufts, and the headfucking noise that’s emanating from my speakers – mostly a horrible conglomeration of barking and a strolling bass is making me angry and tense. And then the last piece, ‘Kaktusgetränk’, incorporates a familiar and popular jazz piece I can’t place or be bothered to research because by now I can’t decide if I need a lie-down or a massive gin.

With Lutebulb, Blueblut have created one of the most wildly varied – and in places, difficult, irritating, random – albums I’ve heard in a long time. I neither like nor dislike it: it has some truly great moments, and it has some not great moments. But when you throw this much into the blender, it’s to be expected, and I’d like to think that this kind of reaction isn’t entirely unexpected. The musicianship is outstanding, and their capacity to switch style, tempo, form, is something else, and the results are enough to leave anyone punchdrunk.

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Warren Schoenbright – Sunless

Posted: 10 March 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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Human Worth – 15th March 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

Warren Schoenbright isn’t a person, but a noise duo, based in London. And Sunless, we’re told, presents ‘eight tracks [which] chart a blistering course through different circles of misery, abjection and darkness. Alighieri’s Inferno is the armature around which this new record has been sculpted with glimpses of horror plucked straight from Dante and Virgil’s descent. Schoenbright are preoccupied with using the classical trope of a descent into the Underworld to explore how transformative and redemptive navigating the melancholic and horrifying depths of one’s mind can be.’

As the title suggests, Sunless is dark. Really, really dark. Immersed in mythology and biblical references, it’s an exploration of the most torturous sufferings, gouging deep into the depths.

‘Christquake’ made for an obvious choice of lead single: the album’s shortest track at two minutes and twenty, it encapsulates the album’s entire essence in that brief and intense span – but this is an album which is best appreciated in its fullness, with the majority of the tracks extending beyond five minutes and bringing forth almost untold torture and pain.

‘Boiling Vermillion’, the album’s first track, blisters and burns. It brings expansive, tranquil passages, not least of all the vast intro, punctuated by explosions of fiery post-metal rage. There’s blasting industrial percussion and a wall of noise that towers all the way to the sky. And when it slams on the distortion – fuck! This is a sound that you feel gouging at your guts. More often than not, there’s perhaps a tendency to see heavy or noisy music as being primarily cathartic, that the sound itself is a vent, by which to channel emotions which don’t readily translate into more detailed articulation. This tendency is furthered when the lyrics are rendered obscure by their delivery. But while the lyrics are largely impenetrable, there’s another level of articulation here, and so much sonic detail…

Where Warren Schoenbright differ from so many other bands who make bleak, intense noise, is that there is so much space, so much reverb here on Sunless. Most bands this thick and heavy are suffocating in their gravity, their density. This is something I personally appreciate: the capacity for music that has an impact that’s so powerfully physical is a reason to let it enter your being. Sunless is different, though. Sunless is not suffocating. It’s intense, but its texture is different. Its scope is broader, and the album as a whole simply feels immense, in a cinematic, widescreen sense. But that isn’t to say it doesn’t contain moments of pulverising weight and density: they blast hard in short bursts which arrive unexpectedly, something which only intensifies their impact.

‘This Litany They Gargle in Their Throats’ begins fairly gently, a nagging guitar and solid percussion defining the shape of an irregular sonic sculpture which lays the foundations for a rasping, fire-breathed vocal. It’s a slow-build, and the feedback and anguish grow until there’s a sudden switch after a couple of minutes or so, and it takes a turn whereby Young Gods meet Swans circa 1984. It’s stark and intense… and then the monster grind hits like a bomb. The abrupt ending sticks like a bone in the throat.

The wailing feedback of ‘These Drear Abodes’ really tests the listener’s limits, and the hearing. Here, the intensity derives not from crushing power chords, but from a different kind of force – although the grinding low-end feels like a bulldozer excavating unseen depths, and when they do hit a barrelling blast of heavy, it’s as if the sky is falling down, a descent into the inferno indeed. This brutal bludgeoning hits even harder on ‘Minos the Judge’, and again, Swans’ Young God EP and early Godflesh stand as the most representative comparisons, but this fails to convey the soaring, transcendental elements which are every bit as integral to the sound.

While the title track brings dolorous chimes, picked guitar echoes, and burnt offerings, the final cut, ‘Icarus and the Bruised Air’ closes the album with eight and a half punishing minutes of slow grind that weighs in against the best of Godflesh, only with a much more organic feel. The drumming is nuanced, as is the guitar work, which introduces an atmospheric, almost gothy aspect to this remarkably multi-faceted composition, which culminates in a colossal and utterly eviscerating slow climax.

Playing Sunless at great volume not only heightens the impact, but really brings out the detail, and the production is absolutely incredible: the drums hit hard and you feel as if you’re in the room with them as they play, and play hard. Sunless is heavy and intense, but it’s so much more, and it’s cerebral as well as physical.

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Gudrun Gut – GUT Soundtrack

Posted: 7 March 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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Moabit Musik – 8th March 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

Gudrun Gut has forged a career on the fringes, participating in numerous collective and collaborative activities as well as solo projects. Often creating artistic work which sits well outside the boundaries of genre categorisation, her output has never been dull, or predictable. And so it is that GUT Soundtrack is precisely what the title suggests – her own soundtrack, to – wait for it – a mini-series about Gudrun Gut.

It’s a difficult call to make in assessing whether this is indulgence or an essential artistic profile, especially without actually viewing the series, but reading the synopses of the three episodes, it does seem that GUT is a bizarre hybrid of documentary and reality TV, particularly on the arrival of episode three:

Episode 1 The Blank Page. In the first episode of “GUT,” everything revolves around the mysterious blank page that means so much to artists. A Boat trip at moonlight with Thomas Fehlmann, a foto session with Mara von Kummer, and the surprise guest Ben Becker.

Episode 2 MMM. In the second episode the letter M takes center stage: Music, Mother, Malaria, and the mysterious Monotron. Gudrun composes the soundtrack for her series, everything turns into a pink dream. In the studio with her bandmates Manon Pepita and Bettina Köster.

Episode 3 The Sourdough. In the final episode, Gudrun turns her attention to the everyday, the routines, the laundry, and the bread. Here, an artistic ode to the freedom hidden in the seemingly ordinary unfolds. The visit of musicians Pilocka Krach and Midori Hirano culminates in a garden performance with Monika Werkstatt. A delicate symphony of the everyday, the essence of art and community resides.

Ah, that delicate symphony of the everyday. On a personal level I find pieces where people recount their routine not only vaguely dull, but, worse, depressing, as they invariably seem to have time – time to eat a nutritious breakfast, do some yoga or go to the gym or got for a run, before their morning session of creativity or money-making from a comfortable environment, be it a studio, or spacious office, or a coffee shop or somesuch. I feel myself shrivelling inside as curling with envy as I compare these routines to my own, which involves a daily to-do list an arm long whereby I squeeze in endless laundry and changing cat litter around my dayjob, runs to the shops and making sure everything is ready for my daughter to go to school in the morning, including making a packed lunch, before finally sitting down to knock out a review around 9:30pm and waking up at my desk, review-half-written around 11:30 and panicking about being back at the dayjob for 6:30 the next morning.

But I’m not here to berate the former Neubauten member’s breadmaking, but to critique the audio accompaniment, and, as ever, to reflect on how well a soundtrack stands when standing apart from the visuals to which it is intended to augment.

The series may contain three episodes, but the soundtrack comprises some twenty-four short, incidental snippets, which are nothing if not wide-ranging in style and form. One minute it’s like an episode of The Clangers; the next, it’s like listening to percussion made from the banging of bin lids. Spoken word and space-rock, swirling synths and fizzing electronics are tossed around all over the shop. There are moments of glacial synthpop glory – ‘Gutscore’ is atmospheric, dynamic, a bit Kraftwerk, a bit Tangerine Dream, a bit Mike Oldfield, while ‘Garten (Edit)’ is reminiscent of Yello. Yes, it does sound, often, overtly German, but then, Gudrun Gut was there from the early days of electronic exploration and as such, she isn’t following the lineage, but has been instrumental in its evolution.

‘Biste Schon Weg (23 Mix)’, one of the set’s few longer songs – that is to say, over three minutes – is a reworking of the song which appeared on Guts’ last album, the 2018 release Moment, while ‘How Can I Move (24 Mix) revisits a song which originally featured on Wildlife in 2012.

Tossing bumping electronica and some weird excursions make for an interesting journey, and a collection which encapsulates Gudrun Gut’s varied output during the course of a lengthy career. Quirky, odd, idiosyncratic, these are all highly appealing features which define a unique artist, and render GUT Soundtrack a fascinating listen.

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Joe Solo – Sledgehammer Songs

Posted: 4 March 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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1st March 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

Joe Solo is a man with a message. Through tireless touring, relentless releases, and devoting endless toil to the cause, he has established himself as a strong and singular voice for not only the working classes, but for social equality, fairness, and a proud advocate of socialism. He sings songs of solidarity, without resorting to lumpen sloganeering, penning protest songs which are bursting with humanity – political without being overtly mired in politics. He’s also staunchly DIY, plugging away at making music from his shed, from where he also hosted a radio show for a number of years.

The biggest obstacle facing any DIY artist is actually reaching an audience: the algorithms of social media don’t exactly favour the little guy, and so for his latest album, Sledgehammer Songs, he’s gone all-out on engaging his friends / fans on Facebook to help spread the word – and it’s paid off, with pre-sales sufficient to necessitate the production of more CDs and a big run on the vinyl, not to mention the wealth of merch. And why this album, and why now?

Well, first, it’s so easy to get stuck in the cycle of record, release, tour, often to returns which are plateaued or even more dispiriting, and second, Sledgehammer Songs is a significant work. And because Sledgehammer Songs is very much an album which is about collectivism and community, and features a number of likeminded singers – notably Rebekah Findlay, who features on several songs, as well as York’s Boss Caine, Jess Silk, Carol Hodges, and some community choirs, too.

As Joe’s notes on BandCamp explain, ‘This is an album about music and its importance, not only to the political struggle, but to our own sense of who we are. It is both personal and protest.’ Joe’s no middle-class muso lecturing on working-class issues: he squeezes in music-making around a dayjob repairing washing machines, and he knows what it is to grind out a living to support his family, and often recounts conversations with the people he encounters in his work. Real people, real lives. Real struggle. And so, when he speaks, he speaks for both himself and for the people, and does so truly from the heart.

This very much comes through in the songs themselves. It’s a set of acoustic-led songs with simple structures, some augmented with harmonica, there are hints of The Clash, hints of Bob Dylan, slivers of Billy Bragg, and Solo sings with an unashamedly northern accent, and his voice is melodic, gentle, but he’s capable of bringing some throat for emphasis when it’s called for. ‘The Last Miner’, which adds a folksy violin and the voices of The Hatfield Brigade for a lilting sing-song tune which balances melancholy and positivity.

‘A Better Way’, released ahead of the album, encapsulates the sound and spirit of Sledgehammer Songs. It’s a depiction of the everyday realities of life in Brexit Britain, from nurses in the food banks to the diminishing spending power of wages under rocketing inflation, social division and inequality, and each line a call and response met with the refrain ‘there has to be a better way’, and while it’s a bleak picture, the sentiment is positive, unifying.

The title track with Boss Caine and Rebekah Findlay brings folksy Americana, and a celebration of the power of music, while on ‘City of Sanctuary’, the message is simple, but effective: ‘If you’re a refugee, you’re alright by me’. Listening to Sledgehammer Songs reminds us just how bad a state we’re in, where we have members of parliament saying that asylum seekers should ‘fuck off back to France’ and demonising the poor and disabled in the most shamefully dehumanising ways – led by a multi-millionaire prime minister who’s so far removed from the realities of everyday living that he doesn’t know how to fuel a car and pay at the pump. But despite it all, instead of wallowing in the endless shit – the likes of which is floating along our rivers and washing up on beaches around our sorry island – everything about this album is so direct, vibrant, real, and uplifting that it restores faith, and brings hope in the human spirit. All is not lost yet.

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Nnja Riot – Violet Fields

Posted: 25 February 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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Cruel Nature Recordings – 23rd February 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

Nnja Riot is the solo project of Lisa McKendrick, who also happens to be one half of experimental electronic noise duo Isn’tses, with Tim Drage, who makes serious noise as Cementemental.

It’s a small world, especially in circles of noise and experimental electronics, and so it is that a few years ago, I paired with Tim for a one-off collaborative set in London at the bottom of a bill curated by Human Worth, with the mighty Modern Technology headlining. I lost my hearing in one ear before the set due to some congestion, and by the end, I’d lost my voice, too. Somewhere along the way, I’m convinced I’ve crossed paths with Isn’tses, too, but can’t find the evidence at this moment in time.

Anyway, my needless digression brings me to the point of observation that their individual projects are quite different from one another, and their collaborative output. This is ultimately a good thing, because while algorithms which have seemingly replaced the music press in making recommendations of the ‘if you liked listening to this, you’ll like this’ ilk, it ain’t necessarily so. Because algorithms don’t understand art, or the fact that an artist’s output may be widely varied.

And so it is that as Nnja Riot, Lisa takes a much more songwriterly approach to things, and Violet Fields contains seven songs which can be described broadly as stark industrial electropop. ‘Horror Heart’ brings all of the elements in together to raise the curtains on the album: understated verses, with a thumping heartbeat bass beneath a delicate vocal bathed in reverb, are suddenly blown away in a wave of noise and monotone robotics with whipcracking synthetic snares cutting through the murk with some harsh treble.

‘The Evolve’ is a low, slow, dark pulsating grind which swells to a blistering ruckus of bubbling, broiling eruption of glitching electronic froth, and things get mangled fast and hard. Nnja Riot is indeed an appropriate moniker: the noise grows and takes over by stealth, as if from nowhere: one minute things are pretty mellow, the next, it’s all going off and you’re being carried away on a sonic tidal wave.

The album’s longest track, ‘Dark Assassination’, stretches beyond the seven-minute mark, and with a stuttering, beat hammering like a palpating heart in a state of fibrillation against the ribcage, it’s creates a muscle-tightening tension which is uncomfortable. The vocals are disconcerting, sounding as they do detached, off-key, non-melodic. Desperate drones bend and warp in the background, adding layers of dissonance and discomfort.

Everywhere across Violet Fields, there are subtle but essential incidental details, little lines of melody which ripple and fade. The title track is hazy, sedated, spaced-out, with melodic elements juxtaposed with swerving sci-fi noise which threatens to drown out the erratic beats and she cuts loose to another level of intensity with the vocal delivery: fuzzed with distortion, there’s a outflowing from the innermost which pours into the swirling wash of multi-faceted noise.

Violet Fields crackles and fizzes, often promising structures which crumble and evaporate and leave the listener feeling a little lost, grasping for something uncertain and just beyond reach. It’s this sense of vagueness which remains after the grainy ‘Musical Fix’ and the ephemeral drift of ‘Slow Release’, a mere fragment of a song which carries a spiritual richness on a ritual drumbeat before fading. There’s a sense that hearing Violet Fields and fully grasping it are not one and the same, and it feels that however long one spends engaging with it, there will always be depths and layers of implicit meaning that exist beyond the realms of conception. You wave a feeble hand, desperate to clutch and cling, but it’s gone. It’s gone.

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Paal Nilssen-Love & Ken Vandermark – Japan 2019

Posted: 24 February 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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7CD Box-set PNL Records/Audiographic Records – 9th February 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

It may be a way off Throbbing Gristle’s 24 Hours box set or Kenji Siratori’s 12-disc Merzbomb set, but seven hour-long CDs culled from live recordings from a 16-date tour of Japan in 2019 is a huge, huge thing to be faced with. It’s extravagant, indulgent, and frankly excessive, but a boon for fans – at least the really hardcore ones with an obsessive bent.

This is, of course, a document – and a painstakingly detailed one that that. One may question the need to release recordings of almost half the dates of a single tour, but but when improvisational artists play, no two sets are alike, so there was never any danger that this would feature seven discs with the same set played as a carbon copy. But what’s more, this particular tour was noteworthy for introducing new collaborations with legendary Japanese musicians: Akira Sakata (reeds/voice), Masahiko Satoh (piano), and Yuji Takahashi (piano).

As the accompanying notes outline, ‘The group is known for its creative intensity, that constructs and deconstructs material with utmost freedom and spontaneity, and which has been documented on 11 albums since its inception. The addition of such incredible musicians from Japan only heightens the kinetic nature of their playing and the speed in the exchange of musical ideas documented with this collection.’ And this box set, limited to 500 copies – which while not massive, isn’t exactly a tiny run, and as such indicates the kind of fan-base they have, not only in terms of size but also devotion – is being released to coincide with their next tour of Japan.

Each disc features a set performed by a different permutation of players, bookended by sets by Paal Nilssen-Love / Ken Vandermark, with all the variants of the duo with the addition of one to three Japanese collaborators covered across the span of the seven discs.

Each disc is split differently, demonstrating just how different each set was. The first couple of discs, featuring Paal Nilssen-Love / Ken Vandermark and Paal Nilssen-Love / Yuji Takahashi / Ken Vandermark respectively, documents the performance on 4 December 2019 and contain a couple of pieces running for around half an hour and a couple more which run to the ten to fifteen-minute region. The next night’s performance couldn’t be more different, with the first two moments running for forty and thirty minutes respectively, followed by a further nineteen-minute behemoth.

I say it couldn’t be more different, but of course, all four sets are built around some epic jazz workouts which aren’t always easy on the ear – in fact, quite the opposite, as anyone familiar with the work around the Paal Nilssen-Love axis would reasonably expect.

Japan 2019, then, contains a lot of wandering, often straining, discordant, and manic sax, which runs every whichway atop thunderous arrhythmic percussion that clatters and thumps its way stutteringly, yet confidently, all over the place.

My appreciation of this type of brainbending jazzery has evolved over the last few years from a baseline of zero to quite digging its bold adventurousness and stubborn refusal to be shaped into anything remotely structured or normal, pushed outward by an immense respect for the way improv performers are capable of bouncing off one another with such intuition that they sound incredibly well-rehearsed. That’s real musicianship. But it doesn’t mean that it’s listenable all the time, or even half the time. And then there’s the fact that this release is seven discs: that’s around seven hours, or a full working day – of warped sax work and percussion which rattles and clatters all over and it’s still difficult to process, to contextualise. At times, it’s a frothing frenzy of energy; at other times, we hear the performers pull things back and create not only a space that’s broad, but allows for a leisurely stroll around the sonic geometry of their interplay, and as such facilitates broad exploration.

There’s simply so much of this that it’s easy to get lost and disorientated in the labyrinthine tunnels which twist and turn endlessly.

Ultimately, a Paal Nilssen-Love & Ken Vandermark album is the jazz equivalent of an absolute riot – and with this one spanning seven discs, it’s more of a war than a battle, and perhaps best digested in smaller doses.

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Hammok – look how long lasting everything is moving forward for once

Posted: 22 February 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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Thirty Something Records – 1st March 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

Norwegian noise rock act Hammok have been giving much cause for excitement in recent months. Having first encountered them by way of their Jumping/Dancing/Fighting EP, just over a year ago, they’ve continued to produce something just that bit different. Noisy, yes, but also jerky, and quirky. Something about their sound and the delivery grabbed me. Perhaps it was the instant tinnitus brought on by the full-throttle blast delivered with unbridled mania. Jumping/Dancing/Fighting was less a knock on the door followed by polite head nodding and a round-the-group introduction than rocking up at a dinner party, kicking the door down, pissing on the welcome mat and setting fire to the hallway to announce their arrival.

The title of their debut album look how long lasting everything is moving forward for once, makes no sense linguistically, as a phrase, or even in terms of content. It’s a loosely-assembled succession of words that sort of convey something, although its precise meaning is unclear. And as such, it seems quite right and fitting for the sonic riot it hosts. Since Jumping/Dancing/Fighting late in 2022, they released a second EP last June, and with almost an album’s worth of material already out there, their first album doesn’t include a single track off these first releases, and, trailed by single release ‘Séance’ last month, look how long lasting everything is moving forward for once is an album devised as an album – rather than a collection of songs.

look how long lasting everything is moving forward for once is a short, sharp shock, and a brutal blast, to boot. It pack in eleven songs, and while a few are of a solid length – ‘Wannabe (Billboard No. 1)’, ‘BRAINROTDESPERATION’ and ‘Eat You Alive’ all stretch beyond the four-minute mark, but the majority off the songs are under three minutes, with a fair few – the 1:20 ‘Post Wannabe’ and 1:55 ‘Post Wannabe’ and 2:19 ‘Trap Door’ and 2:28 single ‘Séance’ all blasting hard like sonic injections, eye-popping explosions of innovation and raw energy.

‘Long Lasting’ crashes in on wave of feedback before blasting into an incendiary wave of noise with frenetic drums and manic vocals screaming all explode like a sonic supernova. Charging into an album headlong like this has impact, alright, but inevitably poses the question of just how sustainable that kind of energy is. Immediately after, the raging post-punk ‘Séance’ feels like the obvious lead single choice, with its neat synths, pumping percussion and something almost resembling a hook. It’s a cracking tune, but it’s wild, crazed, and intensely noisy, combining the screamy grunge of Pulled Apart By Horses with a ferocious hardcore punk element.

‘Nothing’s Never Better’ maintains the pace and the raging nihilistic fury, but again hints at an evolving signature for Hammok – a minuscule break, often no more than a couple or bars – where from amidst the chaos and the discord, there’s the briefest flicker off melody, or levity, like a single ray of run breaking through a thoroughly clouded sky following twelve hours of solid heavy rain. It’s so fleeting as to seem almost imaginary.

There’s grunge, noise rock, post-punk, hardcore, and post-metal all in the mix here, all fermenting away fervently, and it’s a lethal cocktail, which has resulted in an album that’s too hard, too fast, too wild, too varied, to get down with straight away.

‘Wannabe (Billboard No. 1)’ is almost pop-punk… almost. Because it brings an unexpected and hard to reconcile range of elements, from the charging fury of early Idles and the shimmering, chiming breaks of Interpol, delivered with a dash of shoegaze and for all the rambunctious rage, there’s something inherently sad about it – the mood, not the song or the band.

‘H.F.D.’ is as much of a blasting wall of house as it gets, making any Strapping Young Lad mentions appropriate, and then there’s a sudden lurch into gnarly metal with a lot of detail. Meanwhile, ‘BRAINROTDESPERATION’ is a magnificent piece which manages to cross post-rock with hardcore and brings a dramatic, gothic edge. The riffs and rackets keep on coming, back-to-back, end-on-end, and the intensity does not let up. There are brief flickers of melody which peep through the blanket of noise, occasional lines with almost resemble hooks, but they’re whipped away as soon as you catch a glimpse of them, leaving you wondering if you imagined them. ‘Eat You Alive’ is a ferocious squall of guitars, the vocals are positively rabid, and the final track, ‘Terror’ arrives not only as a contrast but a surprise, with some jangly indieness paving the way for something that’s an incongruously upbeat slice of emo metalcore.

look how long lasting everything is moving forward for once is an overwhelming experience. There isn’t a dull moment, or even a moment to catch breath, and consequently, knocks the wind out of you and leaves you dizzy and dazed. look how long lasting everything is moving forward for once is imaginative, inventive, insane, and is solid proof that Hammok are no slouches when it comes to mongering noise.

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Musique Infinie – Earth

Posted: 14 February 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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Hallow Ground – 7th February 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

Silent movies provide a perfect inspiration for musical scores: unencumbered not only by pre-existing scores, but also dialogue or incidental sound, they offer a completely blank canvas and space for musicians to fully explore – and articulate – the mood of the movie, the moments of drama, to become both immersed in and enhance, even create, atmosphere.

Following the split of Siouxsie and the Banshees in 1996, Steven Severin devoted much time to writing scores for old movies, and performing them as live soundtracks in movie theatres, and I was fortunate to catch him in around 2012 when touring Carl Theodor Dreyer’s 1932 Vampyr. It was a powerful and haunting experience, and one which clearly brought new dimensions to a very old film.

In the same vein, Musique Infinie – the collaborative project of Manuel Oberholzer a.k.a. Feldermelder and Noémi Büchi – present an improvised score for Alexander Dovzhenko’s groundbreaking 1930 silent movie Zemlya (Earth) created for the 24th edition of the VIDEOEX festival for experimental film.

For those unfamiliar – such as myself, the crib notes inform that ‘Frequently cited as a masterpiece of early 20th century filmmaking, the movie deals with the collectivisation of Ukraine’s agriculture.’

Now, the movie clearly holds up on its own to be so revered and still revisited almost a century on, but what of the soundtrack? How does it hold up without the visuals which inspired it?

The soundtrack is divided into two movements of roughly similar duration – ‘Creation’ (14:25) and ‘Destruction’ (12:54). It begins with big, bold, sweeping symphonia, synthesised choral soarings atop majestic, broad-sweeping synth tones. There is a palpable sense of grandeur, and with deep string sounds resonating low beneath big, emphatic surging drones, this feels immense and so strongly cinematic that it’s hard not to be caught up in the tide. A sudden droning downturn marks a temporary change of mood before we’re brought out into calmer waters and begin to regain our breath around the five-minute mark. Robotic, industrial glops and bleeps undulate and oscillate, cresting through the smooth surface. Over time, the piece transitions between organic-sounding orchestral manoeuvres to altogether more space-age sounding synthscapes, before fading rapidly at quite an interesting intersection.

‘Destruction’ – as one might well expect – steps up the drama and the dynamics, but perhaps less expectedly becomes more overtly electronic, with stuttering, glitching disturbances and cold, dark waves blasting in, bending and warping. At times haunting, disconsolate, others foreboding and unsettling, this is certainly the more challenging half of the album. But on the one hand, while it’s more exciting, in some respects, it’s also less fulfilling. Partly, it’s because of the way in which the organic-sounding strings rub against the more overtly electronic sounds, and as much as this juxtaposition and interplay is essential to the compositional form, it sometimes feels like a clash whereby the pair are seeking to achieve two separate ends. Given its improvised nature, this is perhaps to be expected, and the overall flow of the album as a whole is marked by moments of convergence and divergence.

There’s also the nagging sense of just how contemporary this feels in contrast to the visuals the sound is designed to accompany, although without being able to observe the intended setting, it’s difficult to fairly judge the level of success here.

One could – and probably should – see the film, and should also watch it with this accompanying it, as intended – but that isn’t this release, which must be judged on its audio content alone. And taken apart, in isolation, Earth is a stimulating and dynamic work, and one which demonstrates that Musique Infinie aren’t afraid to test themselves and to test boundaries, and to create a powerful and dramatic listening experience.

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