A Dusted Review: Faith in Strangers by Andy Stott (November 19th, 2014)

The evocative, monochrome artwork that adorns every Andy Stott release for Modern Love is like a mirror for the stripped-down, minimalist brand of dance music that the Manchester-based producer distills. However, this only tells a part of the story of an artist in constant evolution, drawing together strands of music both dance floor-orientated and otherwise to create his own vision of electronica. 2012’s Luxury Problems felt like a conclusion, or at least a crystallization, of all the influences that had fueled Andy Stott, from Joy Division to dubstep, resulting in a perfectly-formed capsule of Northern English dance, and left us grateful listeners wondering where he could go next.

As it turns out, “next” means a return to basics, and Faith in Strangers retains little ofLuxury Problems’ hermetic universe, instead sees Stott reaching out and grabbing, almost hungrily, a wealth of sounds and styles. There is, however, one constant, namely the shape-shifting vocals of Alison Skidmore, Stott’s former piano teacher, who featured already on Luxury Problems. If on that album she was, consistent with Modern Love’s “hauntological” aesthetic (see Demdike Stare), a ghostly, elusive presence, on Faith in Strangers she often stands front and centre, with Stott contorting his music around her crystalline words and eructations.

This eclecticism delivers mixed results. Luxury Problems showcased Stott’s remarkable talent for crafting infectious, hypnotic rhythms: snaky, tremulous beats that owed in part as much to the unflinching repetition of the Durutti Column or Joy Division as they did to dubstep or techno. Here, the rhythm is stripped away on numerous tracks in favour of swathes of ambience and industrial drone textures. It certainly makes for a more expansive work, but loses some of the immediacy that defined Stott’s music as recently as on Drop the Vowels, released earlier this year in tandem with Miles Whittaker from Demdike Stare (as Millie & Andrea). The rhythmic backdrop on tracks like “On Oath” and “Science and Industry” are spindly and minimal in the way Suicide’s primitive drum machines were, and inevitably dominated by the combinations of synths and Skidmore’s Beth Gibbons-like voice. Elsewhere, the title track feels beamed out of the mid-1990s, Stott’s avowed admiration for Cocteau Twins shining through and again driven by the vocals, even if these are as wispy as mist.

The shift in focus can leave a seasoned Stott fan bemused, but you have to salute the man’s creativity and versatility. On a number of occasions, he expertly draws a line between old and new styles.  Tracks like “Violence” (a masterpiece) and “How It Was” evoke memories of trip-hop acts like Massive Attack and more recent electro-dance contortionists such as Actress or Burial. “Violence” is simply incredible, with cavernous passages of baleful silence punctuated only by menacing electro blurts and Skidmore’s isolated moaning. When the beats and bass kick in, they go straight for the guts with the kind of shuddering force you’d hear at a Raime or King Midas Sound gig.  The tempo is reduced to almost overwhelming levels, as saturated low-end tumbles and crumbles forward unrelentingly. There’s little doubt “Violence” and the more industrial-sounding “No Surrender” will form the centrepiece of any forthcoming Andy Stott live set, although, if Faith in Strangers proves anything, it’s that predicting what the man will do next is impossible.

A Dusted Review: Draconis by Skullflower (October 30th, 2014)

Skullflower

Listening to the music of Skullflower is a psychedelic experience in the same way that staring at a blank wall or ceiling in the dark whilst on acid, drunk out of your skull and/or high on grass (delete as applicable) can be. It’s as overbearing and unwavering as the open-ended violin drone compositions of Tony Conrad or the blasted walls of sound spat out by the likes of Vomir or the Rita. It’s proof that a full-on sonic assault can, in the right context, be as blissful and, I’ll say it again, psychedelic as the tripped-out musings of a Grateful Dead or Amon Düül II. It just takes more patience and a willingness to enter into labyrinthine minds of Matt Bower and Samantha Davies. Bower, in particular, has been ploughing this arcane, extreme furrow for the best part of 30 years, gradually honing it until he’s reached something approaching “tantric noise,” like Pärson Sound with the acoustic circular melodies replaced by unending acidic mechanical bile.

For Draconis, the duo returns to the absolutist vein of 2006’s Tribulation and Strange Keys to Untune God’s Firmament from four years later: this latest album, is impossibly long. The tracks bleed into one another like melting glaciers and the primitive song structures of 2011’s superlative Fucked on a Pile of Corpses are whittled away by saturation and excruciating volume. But compared to those two releases, Skullflower have been given (or gave themselves) license to flesh things out a bit, notably via the lush packaging. The album comes in a six-panel double-digipack, complete with a 16-page booklet overflowing with lush illustrations and bizarre photographs that both detail Draconis’ thematic concerns and deepen the mystery.

Bower has long had a fascination with arcana and mythological lore, although his focus is, as ever, enigmatic. The paintings that adorn these pages are abstract yet sinister, with vivid colours and strangely animalistic shapes creating an unerring sense of moody drama, as if we’re gazing at ancient humankind’s primitive attempts to recreate the legends of the earth’s creation or the epic battles of Norse mythology. Obscure symbols crop up here and there, whilst sketches and texts evoke trees, dragons and pyramids under the stars, drawing lines in myth and science from the north of England to Bhutan via ancient Egypt and the Hindu goddess Kali. Keeping things as vague and mysterious as possible only accentuates the album’s heady form of lyrical psychedelia. I cannot pretend to understand Bower and Davies’ vision, for I do not have their knowledge or imagination, but it sucks you in like a tornado, because you can’t help but try to figure it out.

“Tornado” is also a great metaphor for the music on Draconis. Each track on disc one is a veritable maelstrom of noise with extensive layer of “strings” (live they focus on guitar and violin, but sometimes I swear I can hear synths on Draconis, albeit bludgeoned into abstraction by effects) superimposed and swirling around one another like gales of wind blowing in every direction at once. Disc two is slightly more nuanced, from the two-minute opener “Alien Awakening” (there are aliens in here as well!) that sounds like Keiji Haino recorded in a wind tunnel mid-solo to the epic musical tapestry of 15-minute closer “Dakshinikalika” via “Dresden Spires”’ crumbling blocks of industrial crunch.

These are some of the most epic and evocative tracks ever released by Skullflower: huge slabs of metaphysical noise with the awe-inspiring primeval-ness of ancient stone circles, ice-capped mountains or ruined industrial buildings. In translating nature’s mystery and majesty into noise, Skullflower have thrown a curveball into the genre’s progression, taking out of sweaty club spaces and into somewhere more spectral, contemplative and, yet again, psychedelic. It’s no wonder the band mention Popol Vuh on the label’s website.

But should anyone reading this be tempted to regard Bower and Davies as little more than two slightly unhinged hippies with a taste for noise and post-pagan mumbo-jumbo, I urge you to check out their back catalogue and anything else you can find on them. There’s a vein of sly, sardonic humour that runs through their entire work (encapsulated here by a picture of their cat looking bemused in the booklet), whilst all this sturm-und-drang conceals first and foremost a deep sense of humanity: our past, our present, our future, our emotions and our fears.

It’s hard to tell if this hour and fifteen minutes of noise and drone is a definitive Skullflower statement, but it does what all great music must: it throws open the doors of possibility, asks more questions than it answers, and aims for something beyond the mundanities of reality.

A Dusted Review: This World Is Not My Home by Kleistwahr (October 15th, 2014)

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This is going to sound much more disparaging than intended, but the music of Gary Mundy’s Kleistwahr can literally shift a hangover. But I swear on it as a cure for next day alco-flu. A few years back, Mundy (as Kleistwahr) was the first act on the third day of a Festival celebrating the legacy of his influential and much-missed Broken Flag label. The previous night’s back-to-back onslaught of Matt Bower’s Black Sunroof! and Consumer Electronics had been visceral, not just because of the harsh music they threw at the audience, but also because I’d rather unwisely downed what felt like six gallons of beer along the way. It was therefore with painful skull and some trepidation that I approached the stage for Mundy’s solo set, knowing the man’s predilection for high volume.

But instead of making my head pound more, the sonic waterfall he unleashed swept my brain clear, leaving me light-headed, alert and gasping for more. Mundy is capable of similar feats of intensity as one half (or occasionally a third or fifth) of his most famous act, Ramleh, and maybe it was the after-effects of the previous night’s over-indulgence, but on that afternoon, noise had never felt so beautiful to me.

I’ve been desperate for a new Kleistwahr album ever since. 2007’s The Return (Outer Bounds of Sound) was an excellent record, but failed to replicate the emotional and physical catharsis that Mundy provides in a live setting. This World Is Not My Home, which comes delightfully wrapped in a sleeve aping classic Broken Flag releases, feels like a concert recording, 39 uninterrupted minutes of blasted noise, subsumed melodies and aching drone. Armed with a gaggle of his trusty effects pedals, an electric guitar and a primitive synthesizer, Mundy builds up a noise suite of endlessly shifting tempos and form, each phase gracefully bleeding into the next. As if recorded live, This World Is Not My Home seems to kick in mid-way through a drifting guitar solo, with Mundy displaying his dexterity on that instrument via a pained, sweeping motif that wouldn’t seem out of place on a Godspeed You! Black Emperor album. Very quickly, however, the noise kicks in, with gritty wall noise vomiting over a sinister vocal sample. At times, with both guitar and noise generators, the saturation reaches a feverish level, straining the very extremes of pitch and timbre.

As brutal and harsh as Kleistwahr can be, however, there is more to This World Is Not My Home than just power electronics. I’ve already mentioned Mundy’s talent as a musician, but more important is his humanity. He probably won’t thank me for writing this, but his approach is atypically sensitive for a genre that relies more often on misanthropy and aggression. In an interview I did with him and his alter ego in Ramleh, Anthony diFranco, Mundy explained to me that the lyrics on their most recent (and astounding) Malediction album include the line “Please forgive me” repeated over and over, like a despairing, self-flagellating mantra.

For all the throbbing gristle and shades of darkness on This World Is Not My Home, its principal feeling is one of melancholy, its title hinting at the despair of someone who feels he doesn’t belong in the world. The album is the expression of Mundy’s attempts to find his space, and as the track draws to a close on a sea of wailing feedback and his inchoate vocalisations, one is assailed by an acute sense of loss, mournfulness and, deep within these static grooves­– hope. This World Is Not My Home is the most emotionally affecting noise album I’ve ever heard, and is therefore somehow positively reassuring, despite the gloom.

It reminds me why I was so impatient for it to see the light of day, and in its dying moments, as Mundy’s voice reaches for a naked emotionality, it becomes hard to stem the tears. That’s not what a noise album is supposed to do to you, but then, as this album makes abundantly clear, there isn’t another noise artist like Gary Mundy.

A Dusted Review: Slant of Light by Mary Lattimore & Jeff Zeigler (September 24th, 2014)

The most remarkable thing about this intimate, almost self-effacing record is that it was crafted via a series of improvisations. You wouldn’t think so, to listen to it. Mary Lattimore is a harpist who has played with Wreckmeister Harmonies and Kurt Vile, among others, and her preferred instrument is hardly the first to spring to mind when someone mentions the word “improvisation”. However, in Jeff Zeigler, who enmeshes elegant synthesizer drones with her fragile plucked notes, Lattimore has found a perfect foil and, although slight, Slant of Light contains a number of moments of real beauty.

It would be an easy shorthand to describe the four concoctions they came up with during a snowstorm in Philadelphia as ambient, but that wouldn’t be taking into account the intricate details present on each track. This is not just a case of someone playing a harp over some random electronics, but a sequence of elaborate conversations between the two artists, a coming together of thoughts and minds. It is, mind you, a slow-paced record, as one would expect, with opener “Welsh Corgis in the Snow” (I’m none the wiser) setting the tone: languid notes from Lattimore dance around a blanket of shimmering aquatic drone from Zeigler. The Arctic conditions of that Pennsylvania winter seem to have filtered through the walls and right onto the tape, such is the detached, stripped-down nature of the record, and yet repeated listens reveal hidden depths of warmth and emotion. “The White Balloon” (at three minutes the shortest track) is a swirling waltz of gliding arpeggios from Lattimore and sliding electronic textures by Zeigler, and the overall effect is of being snuggled under a blanket by a warm fire in some cabin out in the Appalachian forests. Lattimore and Zeigler clearly enjoy playing together and this pleasure seeps its way into their music’s otherwise simple structure.

“Echo Sounder” follows this vein of contemplative, emotional introspection, almost at the risk of becoming cloying or predictable despite the elegant playing from both artists, but closer “Tomorrow is a Million” rescues Slant of Light from the clutches of sentimentality by effectively flipping the entire concept of the album on its head. Instead of plucking her strings to produce pretty notes, Lattimore rubs and scratches them, reducing the usually rather saccharine harp to the sound of an atonal acoustic guitar. Meanwhile, Zeigler’s electronics become more threatening, shadowy interjections of noises daubed in echo, like phantasmagorical figures shoving their into focus on damaged 8mm film. The piece grows in intensity, the harp’s strings stretched to snapping point and, after so much prettiness on the preceding three tracks, the effect is frankly spooky. The morose, inchoate end segment only adds to the unease.

In the first paragraph, I described Slant of Light as “slight”, and unfortunately, at only four tracks and 30 minutes in length, it feels a tad under-developed. But there are some truly lush moments in the first half, and “Tomorrow is a Million” points to immense potential on the second. I just wish Mary Lattimore and Jeff Zeigler could have sense this when recording and taken some time to take “Tomorrow is a Million” further.

A Dusted Review: Palm Tree Fire by Slackk (September 19th, 2014)

The concept of “instrumental grime” — and indeed “instrumental hip-hop” as whole — baffled me at first. I couldn’t understand why anyone, even the most talented producer, would want to deprive their tracks of the flow of an MC, which fills the space of hip-hop music and provides the focus of the songs. But of course, the advent of new technologies (notably laptops) and a fresh contextualisation of UK hip-hop, which is no longer only a vehicle for the voice of disaffected black youth but increasingly a realm favoured by hip white folks, means there is more room to explore the limits of grime, which, much as with rock, has perhaps inevitably led to a removal of vocals from the genre altogether.

The results are often mixed, the raw passion of a Flowdan, a Warrior Queen or a Spaceape stripped away leaving, even in the case of old hand Terror Danjah, a rather uncomfortable and repetitive austerity. It could simply be that not everyone’s a Kevin Martin, but I have long suspected, much like that bloke back in the 1950s who didn’t think much of rock’n’roll, so I’m likely incorrect — that instrumental grime is not a genre that will stick around for long.

That said, Liverpool’s Paul Lynch could be the guy to give it the much-needed injection of oomph. Lynch has been involved with grime pretty much since day one, and has developed into something of an authority on it via his Grimetapes blog and the Boxed crew. This wide-reaching, encyclopaedic knowledge therefore informs the entirety of Palm Tree Fire, making it a sort of journey across grime’s entire spectrum. You’d expect it therefore to be almost schizophrenically eclectic, but Lynch combines astute judgement with a remarkable melodic sensitivity.

At times, Palm Tree Fire feels like a journey through both space and time, starting with the muscular title track, which features gruff sampled male shouts, staccato beats and moody bass lines; and winding through 14 other vignettes before concluding with “Kit and Holly,” a peculiar (certainly un-grime), organic snippet dominated by xylophones sounds that could have been plucked from a children’s TV show, birdsong and atmospheric hesitant synths. The contrast between the opener’s macho swagger and the almost fragile textures on “Kit and Holly” could almost serve as a metaphor for Palm Tree Fire in its entirety.

Along the way, Slackk treats us to the entire panoply of grime’s various evolutions. Snares like machine gun fire rattle ominously at detached intervals under metronomic hi-hat bursts and see-sawing high-pitched synths on “Intercept” and “Jackal,” pulsating with futurist dystopianism. “Millipede” and “Three Kingdoms” are the epitome of the new sub-genre called “sinogrime” where synths that sound like they’ve been lifted from 80’s art-pop band Japan’s Tin Drum sway over analogue-sounding percussion that shifts in unpredictable tempos far removed from grime’s traditional full-on rhythmic assault. There’s even the occasional “eastern”-sounding wind instrument for good measure. “Sinogrime” is certainly an interesting proposition, as Fatima Al-Qadiri recently displayed on her Asiatisch album, but, in the hands of Westerners, it can quickly descend into bland formalism and vaguely coarse stereotyping. Lynch dodges that bullet on the lush “Three Kingdoms,” but “Millipede” is pretty dull.

It’s a rare thing, but Palm Tree Fire’s eclecticism proves to be a strength, as Lynch’s scattergun approach may be erratic, but when it hits the nail on the proverbial, the absence of MCs becomes as irrelevant as it would in any other genre of electronic music. “Bullfight” shares the title track’s aggressive rhythmic propulsion, even edging towards a form of industrial dance akin to Vatican Shadow (with whom Palm Tree Fire’s artwork shares a certain aesthetic). But the real triumphs are an involuntary triptych formed by “Crafty Tiger,” “Litherland” and “Puma Walk.” All three are dominated by mournful synth lines developing into crystalline melodic patterns, linking Lynch’s grime DNA (encapsulated by the juddering beats he deploys) with the more restrained pop of the early ’80s synth revolution. It’s not quite Duran Duran, rest assured, nor is it as austere as early Human League or Robert Rental, but there’s an emotional strain running through these three tracks. By extension, they carry the rest of Palm Tree Fire beyond mere genre exhibition and into something more personal and resonant.

Because I fell in love with grime through the clipped, punkish energy of Dizzee Rascal’s Boy in da Corner and Wiley’s Playtime is Over, I still find the absence of vocals on these tracks a bit disconcerting. But by maintaining a remarkable coherence over so many tracks and sub-genre shifts, Slackk demonstrates just what can be achieved in instrumental grime, taking it beyond the genre’s parameters and towards something more universal.

A Dusted Review: Punish, Honey (September 16th, 2014)

Vessel’s Seb Gainsborough is part of Bristol, England’s Young Echo collective, but his solo material differs considerably from that of his peers. While the other Young Echo producers mostly play with the familiar, albeit frayed, contours of minimalist dubstep, grime and techno, Gainsborough has, with Punish, Honey, pushed those tropes into esoteric new realms. There’s still a hint of techno running through the backbone of the album’s tracks, his novel approach and formal structures sound like very little else coming out of the UK’s club culture. It’s small wonder Gainsborough has made a home for himself on Tri-Angle Records, a label that has previously given us superlatively spooky beat-based salvoes by The Haxan Cloak, Holy Other and Balam Acab. Tri-Angle had already released the previous Vessel album, Order of Noise, a more straightforward ambient/electro/dubstep work the title of which might have been more suited for this release. On Punish, Honey, Gainsborough deploys a series of homemade instruments such as metal sheets for percussion and flutes made out of dismantled bicycles.  Consequently, while the album retains an echo of the reverb-heavy post-dubstep of its predecessor, it’s also a more abrasive, unsettling listen, touching on a heritage that stretches back to the early days of industrial music. Indeed, even the synth passages have a lo-fi edginess to them that would not sound out of place played by Chris Carter circa 1980. On “Red Sex,” see-sawing synth lines stretch back and forth like muffled dub sirens over a crunching metallic shuffle and buzzing synthetic gristle. It’s part dub, part industrial clamour and instantly evokes the dilapidated factories and wind-whipped parking lots that still dot much of what used to be England’s industrial heartland. Vessel’s greatest connection to vintage dubstep lies in this cold, unflinching liminal vision of modern urbanity.

Gainsborough claims he set out to consider the meaning of “Britishness” (a tediously overused term by politicians and newspaper hacks). With track titles like “Black Leaves and Fallen Branches” and “Kin to Coal”, such ambition is clearly laid out, although any conclusions made are abstract and tinged with inchoate morosity. Be warned: there is none of dubstep’s hazy sensuality and end-of-party emotionality onPunish, Honey. In the two years since Order of Noise, Vessel’s music has edged into the shadowy realms of a new strain of underground techno, a nebulous demi-monde inhabited by the likes of Regis, Sandwell District, William Bennett’s Cut Hands and Vatican Shadow.

Vessel may be less jagged and brusque than those other acts, but by injecting his music with a bit of clatter and creak, he’s exploring similar territory and coming up with an equally austere sonic vista. It’s a subtly beautiful combination: when Gainsborough returns to techno beats on Punish, Honey, such as on album highlights “Anima”, “Kin To Coal” and “DPM” and meshes them with the darker, more industrial atmospheres that dominate the album, the results are truly thrilling, mechanized dance for a post-industrial age.

A Dusted Review: Sirène by Robert Curgenven (September 9th, 2014)

Robert Curgenven is an Australian composer and sound artist currently based in the UK, whose work on Sirène is deeply affected by his roots in Cornwall. Cornwall is a land steeped in history and mythology, with a landscape dominated by rugged valleys, windswept moorland and battered coastlines. Curgenven’s focus is on the sea, as indicated by the title, and he manages to convey something of the grandiose potency and inherent menace the ocean has represented to so many Cornish people over the centuries. The waters are choppy and treacherous off the Cornish coast, and so represented a clear danger to local people who, paradoxically, relied on the sea for their very existence, as their main source of food.

Curgenven turns to the figure of the siren to reincarnate this dichotomy in musical form, notably on the almost-title track “Ressuscitant de l’étreinte de la Sirène”, which roughly translates as “Revived from the siren’s embrace,” converging the myth of Odysseus onto the Cornish coast and later, on “Turner’s Tempest,” drawing in references to British painter JMW Turner, one of whose proto-impressionist paintings adorns the front cover, and the epic narratives of Shakespeare. His music is similarly evocative: Curgenven uses field recordings of pipe organs captured in churches around Cornwall and, with only a bit of EQ as effect, elegantly layers them one on top of the other to create languid but ever-shifting and evolving soundscapes. The three pieces swirl and shimmer like the water the album’s title suggests, their apparent listlessness slowly revealing itself to contain swells of tension and subsequent release. Much like Ingram Marshall’s Fog Tropes/Gradual Requiem (reissued earlier this year), Sirène is a minimal record, but one that, by connecting to even obscure psychogeography, is rich with emotional resonance and subtle hidden meanings.

Picking out the individual tracks on Sirène would be an exercise in futility, because it feels more like a suite, with the different movements gently folding into one another. Curgenven displays a deft touch at both performance and editing, with individual tones sustained almost to breaking point on “Cornubia” whilst elsewhere the sounds recede into near-silence or linger as impenetrable sustained drones. Again, the imagery of rippling tides and whistling wind is impossible to ignore, and bathes the album in a reflective, melancholic glow. Despite “only” using pipe organs, it’s one of the most absorbing and affecting albums I’ve heard all year. To embark upon listening to Sirène is to take a sensual and liminal journey: into the imagined past, over the mythological oceans, beyond the realm of reality.

A Dusted Review: John Edwards, Mark Sanders, John Tilbury – A Field Perpetually at the Edge of Disorder (August 21, 2014)

This album’s curious title gives a perfect hint of the music contained within the abstract cover and indeed of the sound of UK improv overall. The key of the whole genre is in the way its performers balance the freedom to follow their individual muses as improvisers with enough form and structure to keep the music from collapsing into shapeless mulch. Even when I don’t quite like the results, I can only marvel at the intuitive way the best of these musicians (Steve Noble, Roger Turner, Evan Parker, Steve Beresford, John Butcher, to name a few) navigate this perilous equilibrium.

Bassist John Edwards is currently one of the London scene’s most important figures, a huge presence in bands like N.E.W. and Bruise. He has accumulated an eclectic array of collaborations with artists including Peter Brötzmann to Otomo Yoshihide, Roscoe Mitchell to Okkyung Lee. Unlike many older improvisers, Edwards has followed the lead of Derek Bailey in embracing music beyond improv’s roots in free jazz (he even featured in Justin K Broadrick and Kevin Martin’s God!), and his bass style is one of the most distinct you will find in the European and British improvisation scenes. Drummer Mark Sanders, meanwhile, is almost as experienced, having performed and recorded with the likes of Gail Brand, Howard Riley and Evan Parker. As for John Tilbury, he’s a pianist who should need no introduction, with a career that stretches back nearly 50 years. He has proved to be one of his instrument’s most distinguished players of that time.

It’s to his credit that, at the age of 78 and with a background mostly in the traditionally more rigid world of minimalist and avant-garde composition (he’s performed works by Morton Feldman, Christian Wolff and Cornelius Cardew in particular, even writing a definitive book on the latter), Tilbury seems to feel no reticence at playing with these young bucks. The album’s title implies a certain tension between the players, and it certainly kicks off with a subdued, almost brooding atmosphere, with a pall of near-silence barely troubled by moody scrapes from Edwards, Tilbury’s intermittent notes and mild interjections on cymbals and rims by Sanders. Tilbury’s experience in minimalism dominates, and the album correspondingly moves at a slow pace at relatively low volume throughout, with Edwards weaving grinding notes around the pianist’s sporadic tinkles, thunderous drives and passages performed inside the piano. Indeed, at times, A field perpetually at the edge of disorder feels closer tomusique concrète and the works of Stockhausen or Cage than to anything anchored in the jazz tradition.

Sanders is the most constant presence, whether cracking out clusters of percussion or gently patting his cymbals, and his warm, enthusiastic presence, along with the odd moment of playfulness from Tilbury (he somehow makes the sound of toy whistles seem logical in the context of the album), means that A field perpetually at the edge of disorder is rarely dry or impenetrably austere. Mind you, it’s certainly aimed at a very specific audience, and its complex rhythmic shifts and slack pace will not be for all, but as a document of three top class musicians coming together and managing to build something unique despite wide-ranging backgrounds, it’s very much worth taking the time to explore.

Joseph

A Dusted Review: I Shall Die Here by The Body (August 15th, 2014)

I Shall Die Here sits at the confluence of different genres without ever sounding confused, incoherent or ill-defined. Quite the opposite in fact: these six tracks are as solid as a boulder slamming relentlessly towards you down a mountain side. I Shall Die Here is, put simply, the most brutal and unforgiving album released in many a year, one whose sheer extremism even puts most black metal to shame.

And it is a metal album at heart, but drummer Lee Buford and singer/guitarist Chip King made the bold move to pitch their traditional-sounding heavy doom into a black hole of new found textures, turning in the process to The Haxan Cloak’s Bobby Krlic. On paper, the two-piece’s taut riffage and plodding drums might not have lent themselves to Krlic’s more subtle, shadowy and echo-laden world, but by working so closely in tandem (it is generally hard to tell whose input one is hearing at any given time, beyond the drums, vocals and guitar), the result is a spectral nightmare vista where The Body’s metal is opened up from the inside and spread outwards, the resultant spaces filled with murky textures and morose electronic drones.

It’s a bit of a cliché for doom metal bands to ladle on misanthropy and despair like custard over an apple pie, but few do it as well as The Body. The album and track titles all allude to pain and misery: “To Carry the Seeds of Death Within Me,” “Alone All the Way,” “Hail To Thee, Everlasting Pain,” but the duo (and Krlic) resist the temptation to just hurl anguished screams and overdriven riffs at their listeners, instead exploiting the sense of emptiness and desolation that has become the hallmark of much of the post-dubstep electronic scene, from Logos and Wen’s urban dystopias to Krlic’s own oppressive electronica.

“To Carry the Seeds of Death Within Me,” for example, opens the album with a distorted scream (I can’t tell if it’s electronic feedback or a heavily manipulated vocal, but either way, it’s unsettling) and monolithic, repetitive drum crashes from Buford. The use of repetition locks the band and the listener into an oppressive cycle, enhancing the sense of unease as mauled guitar sub-riffs and incoherent vocalisations by King join the fray. The track builds up, but also ebbs and flows, with Krlic’s shimmering electronics upsetting the rhythmic forward motion and incremental voume increase, destabilising any sense of familiarity as full-on metal makes way for echo-laden near-silence and metronomic electro beats. It’s disorientating, and all the more emotionally potent for it, especially when a last choked scream from King segues into the muted sampled voice on “Alone All the Way.”

On the face of it, “Alone All the Way” is a more “traditional” metal salvo, but again, the rhythm is constantly shifting, and King’s voice is little more than a distorted shriek, all meaning lost to the winds. Buford really shines, as another quasi-dubstep middle section makes way for a rolling martial drum-beat that sounds like it could have featured on an Oneida or Boredoms record. It’s almost psychedelic, or even funky, and another sign that nothing is as it seems on I Shall Die Here. “Hail To Thee, Everlasting Pain” is another highlight, with gristly electronics and hypnotic beats combating with King’s murderous howl, the track slowly building into a full-on conflagration where noise, industrial and shades of mutated techno collide into a furious maelstrom of sound. I feel a bit too much has been made of the “noise” aspect of The Body and I Shall Die Here, but “Hail To Thee, Everlasting Pain” certainly sounds like something you’d hear on a Cold Spring release.

I Shall Die Here is not an easy record to get through, and its unrelenting fury and horror will be too much for many. Chip King’s screams can also grate at times, although he mixes things up nicely as the album progresses. But for those with a strong constitution, I Shall Die Here is a reminder that metal needn’t be restricted by the conventions laid down over the past four decades, that it’s a genre that, when opened up and broken down into individual parts offers a wealth of experimental possibilities. In The Body’s case, they’ve used Bobby Krlic’s influence to project a world of darkness and death, and all power to them because, in doing so, they’ve created one of the most haunting and terrifying metal albums since the legendary Khanate broke up.

A Dusted Review: Don’t Know, Just Walk by Mike Weis (August 11th, 2014)

The idea of America as a “new country” is so ingrained in most minds that it almost becomes easy to forget that it’s only white, “Western” society there that is relatively young. It also shortens the gap between the modern nation’s founding and the most recent century-and-a-half of rapid development, from rural ex-colony into the world’s premier industrial and technological nation of the world.

As such, the mythical, primeval history of what is now the USA only rarely trickles into modern life and culture. While there exists in Europe, notably the UK, a sense that music can be used to reconnect with primordial pre-modern societies and histories, whether real or imagined (sometimes referred to as hauntology), such a scene in the US is harder to pinpoint or even identify, maybe because of its size, or because Europeans only arrived in the 17th century and rather quickly went about reducing the numbers of the native population. Nonetheless, artists trying to probe the ancient hidden reverse under the concrete and bricks do exist in the USA, usually in the Midwest, Deep South or around the Great Lakes, and Mike Weis, drummer for hazy post-rockers Zelienople, has encapsulated this veiled territory with acute beauty on Don’t Know, Just Walk.

The album was created in the wake of Weis’ diagnosis with prostate cancer, and inspired by wooded areas and fields in Michigan and Indiana, where he recorded the delicately-applied field recordings that traverse Don’t Know, Just Walk’s three tracks. The title refers to a form of Korean zen buddhism, and Weis uses that faith’s teachings to muse on death and mortality in a way that is reflective, sombre and ultimately life-affirming.

The three compositions on Don’t Know, Just Walk form a sort of suite, with the track titles even combining to form an enigmatic sentence: “The Temple Bell Stops,” “But The Sound Keeps Coming,” “Out Of The Flowers.” The epic, twenty-minute opener releases the listener into the inner and outer worlds of Mike Weis instantly, as spooky, muted voices intone ominously over a sparse tapestry of electro-acoustic drones and crisp field recordings. The feeling is of being lost deep in a forest at dusk, surrounded by buzzing cicadas, crunching leaves and shades of something altogether more sinister. Weis takes his time to construct his music, slowly adding layers of instruments and electronics until, almost of a sudden, the air is filled with sound. Although percussion is used sparingly, as a drummer Weis not unexpectedly unleashes his kit about four minutes in, again methodically accumulating repetitive kicks and swathes of cymbal crashes until — blended with arch synth noise — they form a seamless ocean of unfettered drone.

At other times, Weis is content to leave wide-open spaces in his music, with only faint interruptions to break a heavy silence. These well-placed shifts in tempo and volume serve to enhance the atmospheric potency of “The Temple Bell Stops”, and a strange form of oneiric psychogeography seeps into the mind’s eye like a ruptured narrative. When Weis returns to the drum kit, first to hammer mercilessly on his cymbals before segueing into gamelan-like tribal percussion, it somehow feels perfectly logical. Mike Weis sucks you into his world entirely on this album, and in one track the spell is cast.

The rest of the album continues the motifs laid out on “The Temple Bell Stops”, with the 18-minute “But The Sound Keeps Coming” acting as a more docile mirror of its predecessor, with an emphasis on field recordings, notably bird calls. The broiling, contradictory emotions and innate darkness of “The Temple Bell Stops” give way to something more peaceful and relaxed, at least at first, before a strange ritual, embodied by more tribal percussion and crackling drones breaks apart the tranquility. The track carries the same sense of mysterious, untamed oddness as the first album by Britain’s The Haxan Cloak, as if this music is being generated in tandem with nature rather than in spite of it. If someone were to soundtrack the awakening of long dormant forest spirits in America’s heartlands, this is probably what it would sound like.

It’s not often that a musical artist will react to personal strife or difficulty by producing something universal, but Mike Weis has achieved just that. By braving his illness stoically and taking off into the wilds, he has reconnected with something arcane and mystical that resonates enduringly in the collective (sub)consciousness.