8Sided Blog

the scene celebrates itself

A Drumtastic Interlude

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The Shining: a Visual and Cultural Haunting is an ‘immersive publication’ exploring Stanley Kubrick’s obsessively examined masterpiece. It includes over one hundred loose-leaf ‘typewritten pages’ that mimic Jack’s fateful manuscript in the film1related: this tweet made me giggle today. It’s presently on Kickstarter, and boy is it tempting, even though I feel like this film has already been pulled apart from every angle (sometimes with ridiculous results). If you pledge at the highest level, you’ll get a replica of Danny’s Apollo 11 sweater, knitted to fit your size. Oh, and there’s an unexpected essay by Cosey Fanni Tutti on “sound and the unfolding domestic violence within the film,” which I’d love to read someday.

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“Story of the Century” by Ty Segall is a drum-tastic interlude from the soundtrack to the documentary Whirlybird (I’ve seen it, and it’s good). The massive drum break in the middle sounds a lot like the one in the middle of my own “141 Revenge Street,” though mine is lifted + sampled from something I honestly can’t think of right now. Segall’s break is probably lifted from the same source as well — if you consider having a living-and-breathing drummer replicate a drum break as ‘lifting’ in the borrowing/thieving sense. The full album is out tomorrow and it’ll be a lot of fun if this advance track is any indication.

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I’m also enamored with Al Chem‘s second release for the long-respected Compost label. The Upanishads EP stands out in a sea of dance music promos from the usual suspects as Al Chem’s inspiration arises from electro-acoustic experimentation. The tempos are house music-friendly but, barring some predictable DJ mixing a kick drum underneath, there’s no prominent rhythmic backbone. Instead, the tunes are percussive and often of the tuned, metallic breed of banging, resembling a highly restrained Einstürzende Neubauten. And that’s meant as a compliment! As on “Moksha,” the ting’ed notes are kalimba or kora-like, creating buzzing arpeggiations — possibly synthesized, possibly organic, it doesn’t matter. My pick is the subtly ominous “Advaita,” a cut that abandons melody for syncopated layers that resonate to create a perceived drone underneath. And “Vedanta” closes things out on a sunny note, full of delightful, ringing complexity that resembles Laraaji more than a tad. I bet there’s the temptation to release a club-primed remix pack soon, but I hope that move is resisted — I dig these four cuts just the way they are.

Desolate Lot, Hidden Lake

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It’s a rare and strange thing when the guy responsible for your house comes over for a visit. Specifically, he’s the son of the man who built this house in 1968 on a desolate lot next to a hidden lake on the outskirts of downtown Orlando. The man lived in the house in his final teenage years, enjoying skiing and snorkeling in the relatively pristine lake. Then the skyline was all trees, swamps, and woods where now you see houses of various sizes and eras and downtown’s multi-story bank buildings in the distance. There weren’t many neighbors — the huge house to the right of us was a swamp lot, but a locally known radio announcer was in the house at the left, built a year later.

This man was in the area and just popped by. We had never met him before. It’s interesting the thing that makes some people do that. On a whim, he decided to quench his curiosity along with the curiosity of a pair of strangers (there’s a lot we don’t know about the early days of our street). The man was friendly and outgoing, eager to see the house’s different rooms, to tell us what was the same and what was different, and then to reminisce as he walked by himself in the backyard.

He told me that his sister had the room that’s currently the site of my home office (where I’m writing this). She had cats, and they never left the room. That’s funny as my office, in the present day, is the room where cats are not allowed.

The man promised to return someday. He has original floor plans, sketches, and photographs of the house under construction. Those would be amazing to see.

Ten minutes after his departure, I joked to Caroline that he may have never lived here, that it was an elaborate ploy to ‘case’ our house for a forthcoming heist. She laughed, and then I silently recalled the encounter in my head, guessing what conversation points he possibly learned through publicly available records. It’s a shame we instinctually place caveats on the generosity of strangers.

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Here are a bunch of scans of engineering charts customarily found on the walls of nuclear reactors. They’re from all over the world and date back to the 1950s. I’d love to have one of these posters to put next to my water heater to frighten the plumber. Anyway, here’s one you might like:

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Friend of the blog Elijah Knutsen (previously) has been keeping himself busy in the soundscape trade, releasing ambient-prone productions but increasingly acquiring past influences. 2021’s Broken Guitars Vol. 1 gave a fractured and fuzzed-out (as in fuzz on the turntable needle) treatment of instrumental noise-pop. Now, Elijah responds with the justlikeheaven EP, a further adventure in noise-pop where the noise is enforced, and the pop is implied. These are steel-toned washes, given three titles to contemplate — “strawberry,” “cream,” and “heaven” — all elongated and feedbacky and tingly like being dropped in a vat of cotton balls. I don’t think I’m crazy for hearing melodies trying to escape. But I’m sure these melodies are solely in my head, squeezed from the shifting harmonics of the sonic textures. Shoegaze? More like shoegauze.

Equal Parts Confusion and Admiration

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Tyler Mahan Coe has finally launched the long-awaited second season of his podcast Cocaine & Rhinestones. If you’re not aware, Tyler’s show digs into 20th-century country music through his sharp lens — as historic and important, but often sordid and contentious. As he says in each episode’s intro, “I’ve heard these stories my whole life. As far as I can tell, here’s the truth about this one.” Tyler’s the son of controversial country star David Allen Coe, as well as a (now former) member of his dad’s touring band since the age of 14, so he’s undoubtedly heard his fair share of stories.

I’m a fan of Cocaine & Rhinestones and have gone from tolerating to embracing Tyler’s snarky tone. And I wouldn’t say I’m a country music fan — though there’s plenty of country music I like — but I’m a sucker for detailed accounts of music history. Cocaine & Rhinestones is foremost about the history, and, man, does Tyler get deep into it. 

Cocaine & Rhinestones is dense. The first two episodes of Season 2, respectively focused on pioneering indie label Starday Records and the beginnings of Nashville’s music studio scene, contain so much information that I found myself repeatedly getting lost and tapping the ‘back 30 seconds’ button. The names and dates and places come fast and furious, and it’s challenging — but fun! — to keep up. 

That’s why I’m starting to think Tyler Mahan Coe might be podcasting’s Adam Curtis. Cocaine & Rhinestones can be as dizzying as Curtis’s recent Can’t Get You Out Of My Head. With Coe, it’s pinball and ice cream, and with Curtis, it’s Tupac Shakur and doomed cosmonauts. You can agonize over how the dots connect, or you can just roll with it in wonder.

But if it sounds like I’m downplaying Cocaine & Rhinestones, I’m not. Tyler’s put together a phenomenal podcast, heavily researched, and a mesmerizing listen.1And he generously provides full transcripts for each episode on his site if you prefer to read rather than listen. I’ve not only learned tons about 20th-century country music but also about the larger music business in the context of American history. The first season is a thrill, too (this is my favorite episode), but you’re welcome to start with the currently-in-progress second season. Supposedly this season is all about George Jones, but I feel like, so far, I’ve only heard about him a smattering of times. There’s been just as much talk about the history of refrigeration. 

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Rams wears its heart on its sleeve, encapsulated by the quote near the end: “Design only works when it really seeks to achieve something for humanity.” I’m a fan of documentaries about creative people doing creative things, making the world better and more interesting. No doubt, this film checks that box.

I wasn’t too familiar with Dieter Rams, but then, of course, I was, having seen his aesthetic throughout a world of products, including many in the home office where I’m writing this. It’s one of those “you can’t unsee it” situations — after watching, you’ll pick out his influence everywhere.

The vintage transistor radio — with its prominent touch dial — as the precursor of the iPod really is something to behold. I also enjoyed the scene in the design museum, where Dieter delivers equal parts confusion and admiration for the design choices of his contemporaries. The highlight, though, is the section in the middle explaining Rams’ 10 Principles of Good Design. It’s a beautiful sequence, both in how it’s directed as well as in the expression of the overall philosophy itself. Inspirational stuff, no matter your practice — you don’t have to be in commercial product design to draw from this well.

Oh, and yes — Brian Eno contributed the soundtrack. The music is lovely and fits perfectly with the visuals it accompanies. Eno pulled just the right selections from his 6790 options. 

Rams is streaming on Kanopy in the US. Check here to see where it’s available in your country.

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Today the wind outside is roaring (a common occurrence here at the lakeside office), and the sound is merging seamlessly with those found on David Newlyn’s new album, Tapes and Ghosts. The UK-based producer has released a healthy number of musical pieces over the past decade-plus and commandeers the cult-status CD and tape imprint Cathedral Transmissions. Newlyn’s sound on Tapes and Ghosts is an earthy flavor of ambient, at times resembling the Eno-y vintage of floaty music, as on “Surfacing“, where pianos meet string pads on the edge of discordance. “Sunset” follows suit, with a gentle guitar lightly overtaken by shimmering synths once daylight gives way to the spectral. There are hints of nature and memory through the titles of these pieces and others like “Radiance” and “Ceremony.” The music conveys these hints, too, often twinkling while pulling at something inner and emotional. The ghosts really come out on “Years“, featuring, as the liner notes reveal, an “unknown voice” from “a bought charity shop cassette.” This muffled spirit-speech accompanies Newlyn’s sheets of overlapping strings and melodic snatches. The effect is lonely and heartfelt and, coupled with the gusts outside my window, feels like wandering far from home. 

David Newlyn’s Tapes and Ghosts is available now on the prolific ambient/dream-pop label Somewherecold Records.

A Certain Smoothness

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Everybody’s Languishing → Adam Grant’s article in The New York Times on “languishing” seems to have connected with a lot of people. Grant defines languishing as “a sense of stagnation and emptiness. It feels as if you’re muddling through your days, looking at your life through a foggy windshield.” Jason Kottke spoke for all of us when he commented, “Yeeeeeep. Yep. Yep. 1000% how I’ve been feeling today and on and off for months now.” 

We expected unnerving feelings at the beginning of the pandemic. There were warnings to not give in to frustration and sadness, not to kick ourselves if lockdown’s supposed extra at-home time didn’t result in our replication of Newton’s Year of Wonders. Many of us, of course, were hit hard emotionally. But now that there’s light at the end of the tunnel — thanks in part to vaccines, actual leadership, the economy surviving — we should all be Snoopy-dancing, right? Instead, some of us are languishing.

I recently looked back on my journal from a year ago, a reminder of how I felt in the early days of COVID-times. Unsurprisingly, I was despondent in uncertainty, but I was getting things done. I sent an episode of my email newsletter out every week for like eight (or more) straight weeks. I was blogging all the time. And I was continuing to make small moves on the professional side with my music publishing and consulting gigs.

But, man, these last couple of months have been TOUGH. I’m appreciative and thankful to get through the past year — for one thing, I and all of my loved ones are fully vaccinated — but motivation is in the outhouse. I’m no longer consistent with my newsletter, and it feels like I haven’t blogged here in ages. I’m getting professional work done, but my pace is slower than Béla Tarr’s camera trolly. 

That’s why Grant’s article resonates. It’s reassurance — Grant’s nail-on-the-head description of ‘languishing’ confirms that it’s not just me. Whew. And, magically, naming this condition is a great help. Says Grant, “Psychologists find that one of the best strategies for managing emotions is to name them … it could help to defog our vision, giving us a clearer window into what had been a blurry experience.” See also: Steven Pressfield’s technique of naming “the Resistance.”

The article contains tactical advice for dealing with the anguish of languishing. Grant suggests adding small challenges in your day as completing these tasks is a mood enhancer. I assume scheduling challenges in the morning is a good move, to get on the good foot. I’m guilty of usually mulling about for the first few hours of the day, coffee in hand, stressing out about the day ahead more and more as the minutes pass. How about I take that coffee to my desk and write a little something for the blog? That’s a small challenge that always feels fantastic upon completion. This tactic also reinforces that elusive and necessary daily writing practice. And Grant is correct — the day adopts a certain smoothness when the morning begins with a decent word count. 

We’ll see how it goes. As usual, I’ve got plans (lots of ’em), and I want to do them. I’m ready to stomp this ‘languishing’ sensation into the dirt and enjoy the eventual fruits of our post-pandemic season.

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Unwitting Idol → In a story that someone is undoubtedly going to option for a movie, Vladislav Ivanov found himself contractually obligated to compete in a Chinese boy band competition show. Initially hired as a translator, the Russian’s good looks inspired the offer to “try a new life” and join the high-stakes contest. Ivanov quickly realized that ‘member of a boy band’ was not one of his aspirations. Unfortunately, he was held to song-and-dance servitude under threat of a fine if he broke his agreement. The only way out was if the audience voted him off the show:

Using the stage name Lelush, Ivanov told viewers “don’t love me, you’ll get no results”, and repeatedly pleaded with people not to vote for him. His first song was a half-hearted Russian rap, in stark contrast to the high-pop of his competitors. “Please don’t make me go to the finals, I’m tired,” he said in a later episode.

As you may have guessed, this behavior only endeared the beleaguered Ivanov to his ‘fans’ who repeatedly voted to keep him in the competition. Some suspect Ivanov’s resistance was a calculated maneuver, like the reality show contestant who assumes the villain role because people want to see what villains will do next. But a friend verifies Ivanov’s reluctance is real: “He sent me a SOS message saying he couldn’t stand it.” Luckily for Ivanov (but not the rest of us, tbh), his pleading was finally answered. The viewers relented and voted him off the show in the presumably tense final competition.

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Gaze Craze → I had a feeling that the kids are alright, but this clinches it. Following the curious sea-shanty trend, Gen Z’ers are now resurfacing the classics of shoegaze on TikTok. Videos of whippersnappers vibing to My Bloody Valentine, Cocteau Twins, and other favorites from before they were born fill my heart with warm fuzzies. Vice looks at this mini-phenomenon and concludes that this moment — the pandemic come-down moment! — is ripe for a shoegaze revival:

16-year-old Jude Atkins says they got into shoegaze “about a year ago”… “The atmosphere of shoegaze really fits with the bleak, post-COVID, world we’re in. Everyone’s trapped inside and shoegaze has a very dreamy quality to it,” says Atkins. 

The Vice piece also features an observation from music critic Mark Richardson that shoegaze’s sonic gender blurring, often (sonically) equal parts masculine and feminine, appeals to a generation that strongly values inclusion. He mentions the mixed-gender membership of bands like Slowdive and Lush, but I’m thinking more of the vocals on Loveless — it’s known that some of the songs’ ‘female’ voices are actually an electronically processed Kevin Shields.

The shoegaze sound has always nudged from the periphery — one can hear hints of its influence in music that’s surprisingly mainstream — but the true test of a revival is when new musicians take up the mantle. Well, apparently, this is happening. Spotify reported twice as many recordings classified as ‘shoegaze’ released in 2019 than in 1996. Granted, part of the increase is due to the ease of releasing music now vs. the required manufacturing expenses of the ’90s, but still.

Personally, I won’t believe we’re in the throes of a full-on shoegaze revival until everyone starts listening to Black Tambourine again, especially this song:

Undermining, Not Underlining

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Discovery vs. Intention → What a fun conversation between Brian Eno and Stewart Brand, promoting We Are As Gods, a new documentary on Brand’s fascinating life. The first half uses Eno’s soundtrack contribution as a topic launching pad. The conversation touches on the intersection of film scoring with ambient music, how multi-track recording brought music closer to painting, and how endless options are making us all permanent curators. My favorite part comes at 17:00 when Brand asks Eno to differentiate, in terms of the creative process, discovery from intention: 

I think the thing that decides that is whether you’ve got a deadline or not (laughs). The most important element in my working life, a lot of the time, is a deadline. The reason it’s important is it makes you realize you’ve got to stop pissing around. You have to finally decide on something. Whether I finish something or not completely depends on whether [a piece of music] has a destination and a deadline.

Eno goes on to describe his fabled archive of half-finished music — “6790 pieces … I noticed today” — most of which is created through discovery, i.e., “pissing around.” Then, when he gets an assignment (a destination with a deadline), he pulls something relevant to the project from the archive and finishes it. That’s an inspiring process and one I’d love to replicate. 

I wonder how much time Eno spends “pissing around” and building this archive. I imagine an ideal would be one or two hours a day. And I’m curious how he decides on and enforces self-imposed deadlines to move his own projects forward.

Oh, and this quote in the video from Eno is a keeper: “What I like better than underlining is undermining.”

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Etcetera → Seth Godin’s advice on how to make your Zoom calls better. Now I want a beam splitter. ❋ This 2015 compilation is a psychedelic overview of On-U Sound’s post-punk dub: Trevor Jackson Presents: Science Fiction Dancehall Classics. ❋ Writer Ernest Wilkins explains why he’s joining the parade of newsletter publishers leaving Substack. This part is especially eye-opening: “I’ve lost anywhere between $400 and $1100 in churned subscriber revenue due to paid subscribers not wanting to give money to this platform anymore. I need it to be clear that for the two years on Substack before this, I had a 0% subscriber churn rate.” ❋ I’m excited about this forthcoming documentary on ‘sound activist’ Matthew Herbert, A Symphony of Noise. ❋ Kevin Shields of My Bloody Valentine in The New York Times: “My nieces and nephews — they would complain to me, ‘Why are you so purposely obscure? You know, it seems stupid.'”

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Rachika Nayar – Our Hands Against The Dusk → I’ve been delightfully obsessed with Rachika Nayar‘s debut album over the past couple of weeks. The Brooklyn-based artist (in both visuals and sound) has accomplished some heavy-lifting with Our Hands Against The Dusk — the album is unabashedly experimental and uncompromising but somehow remains accessible and, yes, beautiful. Guitar is the main instrument throughout, but it’s looped, processed, and sometimes ‘glitched’ into unfamiliarity. The opening track, “The Trembling of Glass,” is an introductory window to Nayar’s technique, with layers of texture and manipulation swept away in the last half to reveal a bare acoustic motif. It hooked me in straight away.

Interviewed in Magnetic, Nayar explains her method: 

I see one aspect of my process on this album as tearing up an instrumental sample into a million pieces and then putting those fragments through cycles of recombination … these processes feel to me like exploring a single idea through multiple and multiplying perspectives — seeing one thing in all its different realities and selves. 

When one listens closely, there are many opportunities to identify what Nayar is up to, but her execution is nuanced and organic, despite the music’s inherent digitalness. One hears these ‘million pieces’ as a whole, as guitars ring with hopeful tones on “New Strands” and pianos and cellos combine and intertwine on “No Future.” The effect is mesmerizing — dancing somewhere between music that’s ambient, experimental, and influenced by modern classical — but, most of all, it’s affecting. The emotion that went into creating this album is anything but disguised. 

Our Hands Against The Dusk is the most impressive debut I’ve heard in a while. Don’t hesitate to open your ears and heart to it.

Transportation in One Direction

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No Scene Happening But They Made It Happen → Austin Kleon appeared on The Unmistakable Creative Podcast, dropping oodles of terrific insight and advice for creative people. I was delighted to hear Austin talk about punk rock as an aesthetic influence, basically (and unknowingly) boiling down the topic of my recent post on ‘the punk rock dream.’ Here’s what Austin said:

I always think punk rock helps with all this stuff. Being in touch with that DIY spirit of the ’80s and ’90s, even the late ’70s, that punk aesthetic. I think every artist should read Michael Azerrad’s book Our Band Could Be Your Life. I think you should read about artists who … there was no scene happening, and they just made it happen. I think that’s fundamentally an American thing, to be in the middle of nowhere and to hit the road. I’ve always been influenced by the do-it-yourself ethic of punk and not thinking of punk as a style but as a real way of being. I always think that helps and that every generation sort of needs to rediscover punk because its roots go deep.

The whole interview is fun and inspiring. Add it to the queue.

Also, Lee Schneider gave a shout-out to ‘the punk rock dream’ on his Universal Story Engine blog. Lee is moving his writing off Mailchimp and Substack and explores the reasons why and the alternatives he’s looking to use. There’s some detail on the privacy issues inherent in many newsletter platforms, a topic I didn’t get to in my post. 

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Pizza Toast & Coffee → Craig Mod has written endlessly about pizza toast — in his two wonderful email newsletters, this lengthy article for Eater, and an elaborate self-published book. All of that is fascinating, but I can’t say I quite got the appeal of this hodgepodge entrée. Why all the (mostly digital) ink devoted to tomato sauce on a slice of bread? And then Craig released this video:

I’m a sucker for quiet, transportive videos like this one. If you can focus for the video’s five-minutes — restrain the fidget, imagine there’s no phone in your pocket, drown out all other sounds — Craig’s slowly paced document will place you right inside the Būgen cafe as the rain lingers outside. Craig films Yamane-san’s elegant creation of the pizza-ish toast like a tea ceremony, some of the rituals (such as the slicing) not quite making sense at first. Then the big reveal, and yes, now I finally get it. 

I could attempt pizza toast — the video exposes the process and ingredients clearly — and I might. It sure looks tasty. But Craig’s video is all about mood, and that’s mostly the mood of Būgen and the care of Yamane-san. It’s apparent that mood’s as essential to Craig’s love of pizza toast as the toast itself. As I mentioned, I find this video transportive, but, unfortunately for any at-home pizza toast attempts, that transportation only goes in one direction. 

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Moderator – Midnight Madness → Electronic music producers from Greece have a fondness for jazzy beat constructions. A few prominent small labels are carrying the torch, such as the long-lasting Timewarp outfit. Then there’s Melting Records, an Athens-based imprint specializing in instrumental hip-hop and trip-hop reminiscence. But Melting’s discography has recently branched the label’s sound into uncanny territories. Melting Records releases are still sample-heavy, crate-dug assemblages accompanied by rhythms that err on the phat side. But the sources have gotten more global, drawn from a world of foreign locales, and snatched from genres and eras that extend beyond the usual jazz/funk spectrum.

Case in point: Midnight Madness, the latest album from Greek DJ and producer Moderator. As noted in the release’s promo text — which, full disclosure, the label hired me to write — Midnight Madness has a midnight movie feel, like we’re witnessing something sordid and exotic from the safe distance of a cinema’s chair. The consistent Morricone-meets-RZA vibe amplifies the grainy film quality of the album’s 14 tracks, helped along by crackly spoken snippets captured from who-knows-where. It’s hard to know what is sampled and what originates from Moderator himself — the vocals are obviously ripped from parts unknown, but there are also lovely instrument textures throughout, threading the tunes together.

“Walking Slow” summarizes the album’s modus operandi — spaghetti whistles, Agent Cooper on guitars and saxophone, forlorn vocals, and those beats those beats those beats. Some songs have speedier moments verging on big beat (remember that?), but Moderator is best when the pace is leisurely, and the layers are thick and dreamy. “Crystal Gaze” and “Once Upon a Time” are fine examples of this, two songs that lope like a sleepwalking b-boy unable to escape slumberland. 

Too Drummy for Ambient

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Grooving to Amapiano → Prodded by Awesome Tapes From Africa, today I’m immersing myself in the South African genre of amapiano, defined as “a township-developed style that fuses elements from a number of different club-ready genres from across the decades.” This DJ mix by Teno Afrika is an overview of what amapiano is all about:

But Uwami, a fantastic new album by DJ Black Low, is really connecting me to this sound. Some of the production flourishes — especially the in-your-face percussive electronics — are especially provocative and attention-grabbing. I haven’t listened to a tune and remarked, “oh, shit!” to myself in a while. I did that a couple of times within the first few songs.

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ZZT Records in 1982 → This eight-minute ‘documentary’ on Zang Tumb Tuum (more commonly known as ZTT Records) is a fascinating time capsule. What a find! I’ve written about my ‘80s obsession with producer Trevor Horn, and ZTT is commonly known as his label. But, as the video shows, co-runners Jill Sinclair (also Horn’s wife) and music writer Paul Morley played a part, too. I love when professional units (labels, bands, companies) consist of distinctive personalities, each taking on a unique role. In ZTT’s case, Sinclair is the grounded business mind, Horn is the producer and resident nerd, and Morley is the prankster and creative spirit. Morley seems relegated to the background in this video, but he was crucial to the look and feel of ZTT. The Dada and futurist-influenced aesthetic and winking pseudo-corporate speak filling liner notes, label press releases, and manifestos were all Morley’s doing, no doubt. All of this conflicting but complementary energy created a classic record label that’s worthy of study and admiration. 

Also: I wonder if Rod Stewart was aware of what Horn said about him here when Horn was hired to produce a Rod Stewart album.

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Ausklang – Chronos → Soaring spaciousness abounds on Chronos, an album from the Berlin-based trio Ausklang. The band’s not quite moody enough for post-rock, a bit too drummy for ambient, and way too heady for indie-rock. They’re somewhere in the middle of all of that, probably closer to what I hesitate to call “soundtrack rock.” Ausklang are like a Popol Vuh for the drone-footage age, replacing the ecstatic mysticism with shoegazey optimism. 

The pieces are primarily improvised, the best bits edited together, and then overdubs added — a songwriting process pioneered by fellow German space cadets CAN. But while CAN gloriously sprawled and looped, Ausklang build and erupt. The title track, for instance, is a subdued slow-end jam that blasts itself into reverb-drenched guitar lines and cymbal crashes near the five-minute mark. And then there’s the gorgeous “Future Memories,” lulling the listener with a beatific guitar-then-piano melody before a Slowdive-like upward swell washes everything away.

The band performs a two-hour improvised ambient set every week at The Zionskirche, a 19th-century neo-romantic church. This aspect of Ausklang closes out Chronos via two beatless tracks that combine light drones, guitar atmospherics, and hopeful piano. Thus the album’s sequence mirrors the band’s dynamic sense — the tracklist progressively glides and thickens before floating down to a gentle landing. The album is so satisfying upon reaching the end, it’s tempting to replay Chronos from track one and fly again.

Whistling Away in the Background

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Steve Cobby – I’ve Loved You All My Life → Maybe there’s a lockdown stimulus to Steve Cobby‘s prolificness — he’s released two previous albums since the pandemic’s start, as well as a single and a murmur or two from his old outfit, Fila Brazillia. But Steve has always brimmed with musical output, a career-long series of textured and melodic songs with intricacies that belie their frequency. 

If there is a stuck-at-home influence on his latest album, the warmly titled I’ve Loved You All My Life, it’s in the sense of longing for sightseeing. The cover depicts a green, lush, but enclosed location — the starry sky is our escape hatch. And the music seems to travel, not explicitly quoting worldly influences but hinting at them as if remembering what it was like to be a tourist. “Kintsugi” comes closest, resembling a sort of Polynesian jazz fusion with tuned percussion, soaring flute-like lines, and thick four-fingered chords. Someone’s whistling away in the background, like an overzealous member of Martin Denny’s band. There are many other sonic vacations on the agenda — “Plutus Maximus” feels like a night-time stroll through a pleasantly unfamiliar town, and “Keeping Ourselves Together” could soundtrack a tranquil cabana session, fruity drink in hand. And the album closes with “Mise En Abyme,” a wistful duet of harmonica and piano that might signal the recognition of memory, that the things we miss the most live on inside our heads. 

I’ve Loved You All My Life is a joy to listen to and, yes, reassuring. This album might be my favorite of Steve’s work out of all of his recent (all worthy) options. And, if you’re into vinyl, act fast — the Bandcamp campaign to get the album on vinyl ends in a week (Steve’s already met his goal, but this is still the only way you’ll get to nab the wax). 

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Tomaga – Intimate Intensity → It’s never too late to discover a great band. Sad circumstances may make it seem otherwise, as in the case of Tomaga. Somehow this London duo was off my radar despite first appearing in 2013. I happened across their 2019 album Extended Play 1 a few months ago, and from the first track, “Bluest,” I was immediately roped in. Tomaga’s sound is textured and intricate, with jazzy post-punk drums, flashes of discordance, and in-studio arrangements hinting at a modernized This Heat. That’s when I learned the bittersweet moment of my discovery — looking up Tomaga online, I saw that 1/2 of the band, Tom Relleen, had just died of stomach cancer.

Tomaga’s other half, drummer and percussionist Valentina Magaletti, announced last month that the band completed a new album before Relleen’s passing. Intimate Intensity is due on March 26 and, judging from the four advance tracks streaming on Bandcamp, this is an early contender for ‘album of 2021.’ The title track is especially potent, carrying forward all the elements that drew me into “Bluest.” The drums, accompanied by pingy percussion, play at a meter just out of grasp; a muted bass carries a wisp of melody; warm, melancholic strings embrace this sonic space. This is the final sound of Tomaga (as it’s the last song on the album), and it’s weighty and intensely moving.

Floating Points collaborated with Marta Salogni on a gorgeous, plaintive ‘reinterpretation’ of “Intimate Intensity,” released last week. It’s a benefit for The Free Youth Orchestra, a charity set up in Tom Relleen’s name. Amazing stuff. 

Side note: I recently wrote about my love for an EP by Holy Tongue, and I now see that Valentina Magaletti is also a member of that project. 

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Abel Ray – “Last Exit To Transkei” → I don’t listen to much house music anymore (which I suppose is funny from someone once kinda known as a house DJ). At one time, the genre sounded like the future but now, to me, a lot of it sounds stuck in the past. So it’s exciting when I run across something house-adjacent that’s nudging the genre forward an inch or two. 

Abel Ray is an electronic music-maker hailing from Morocco, and “Last Exit To Transkei” is a track from his forthcoming Labyrinth EP. The cut draws upon the same pool as My Life in a Bush of Ghosts and similar fourth world experiments — a stew of cultural music and references stirred and poured over a rhythmic backbone. At times dubby and spacious, “Last Exit To Transkei” reveals its layers over ten engrossing minutes. Flutes, chants, hand percussion, and restrained synthesizers may sound like nothing new, but seamlessly meshed, they signal where things will go. This is music that blurs genre and location, the four-on-the-floor beat as a map guiding the listener through the territory. 

You Could Be a Rapscallion

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Can’t Get You Out Of My Head → I’m looking forward to seeing Can’t Get You Out Of My Head, the latest documentary epic from Adam Curtis. He’s expanding on his favorite topic: how those in power unscrupulously maintain their positions in a world that’s increasingly outside of their control. The ideas in Curtis’s docs are heavy and frightening, but his style is endearing. That style includes a dizzying montage of images usually sourced from discarded video newsfeeds, big text in an Arial font, his hypnotic “as I slowly count to ten …”-like narration, and a slew of impeccable music selections.  

Most likely, that music is why Can’t Get You Out Of My Head is presently geo-locked and only accessible to UK viewers via BBC iPlayer. Without getting too deep in the music rights weeds, the United Kingdom has a unique set-up where much of the music registered through its collective management organizations (CMOs) is pre-cleared for synchronization on national television. In other words, if a song is available through the UK CMOs, then a BBC television program can use the music without negotiating a license — the fee is already set. This means songs can get placed in British television programs quickly and without fuss. And if you believe what Adam Curtis says in this interview, he was still choosing final songs as recently as two weeks ago. But the downside of this type of license is it’s only valid for the UK — these rights don’t extend to other countries, and that’s why you can’t see this (and most other BBC shows) on iPlayer if you’re not in Ol’ Blighty.1If that’s the case, your new friend’s initials might be VPN. 

I’m sure the producers and music supervisors are presently working on the appropriate licenses for international audiences. Clearing music for global viewing isn’t quick and easy and could take months. But my money is on Can’t Get You Out Of My Head appearing on Amazon Prime eventually, as that’s where a number of Curtis’s previous documentaries are sitting. Or, you could be a rapscallion and keep an eye on YouTube. 

In the meantime, check out this New Yorker profile on Adam Curtis. Sections of the piece describe his process, which is perplexing and fascinating. Curtis regularly watches hours of random footage on fast forward until: 

When something catches Curtis’s eye, he slows the film down and makes a note. “VVVVVVVVG shots—beam plays over sleeping children,” Curtis wrote, of a BBC documentary about psychiatric therapies from 1970, in a viewing note that he shared with me. The number of “V” s indicates how good Curtis thinks the footage is. (I counted twenty-three “V” s before one “G.”) He then organizes his impressions into broad categories: whether something helps tell the story, or illustrates an idea, or reflects broader themes about the history of the world. “It’s messy,” Curtis said. “But I have a very good memory.”

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Cop Rock → Speaking of music rights and takedowns and whatnot, check out this bizarre story about a cop in Beverly Hills attempting to use Instagram’s copyright protections to stop a livestreamed recording. As an activist was filming an interaction, the officer inexplicably pulls out his phone and starts loudly playing Sublime’s “Santeria.” 

Based on what’s visible in the video, [the officer] seems to be banking on Instagram’s copyright algorithm detecting the music, and either ending the live stream outright or muting it. Or, even if the algorithm does not detect the song immediately, someone — for example, a disgruntled police officer—could simply wait until a user posts an archive of the live video on their page, then file a complaint with Instagram that it contains copyrighted material.

Though Instagram has strict music policies, the rules have loosened. Most music labels and publishers have deals in place with Facebook/Instagram to allow music. And clips with this music is generally okay when the “recorded audio [is not] the primary purpose of the video” (quoting Instagram).

But some songs still pose potential problems and takedowns, such as those recorded by The Beatles. And that’s not lost on the Beverly Hills police force. In a separate incident, the same activist questioned an officer who pulled out his phone and treated live viewers to “In My Life.”

So far, the videos are still online despite the policemen’s efforts. But these strange tactics are another reminder that we’ve already fallen into some bizarro-tech Black Mirror timeline.

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Shea Betts – Enna → NYC musician/librarian Shea Betts visits us again with a dose of aural contemplation on his tranquil new album, Enna. I recently reviewed Sea / Sky, his debut release, and its overdriven, ‘natural-wonder’ ambient music style. While that album conveyed a windy skyline meeting rough seas, Enna captures an extended episode of pleasance and stillness. And with the cover art foliage and titles like “First Light,” “Bloom,” and “Sunday,” one gets the feeling that spring is in the air. 

The album’s method resembles languid chords played on organ or harmonium, realized through warm, synthesized textures that sit somewhere between the two. Shifting movements in the mid-range are often accented with sparkling overtones (most prominently on “First Light” and “August“), barely hinting at melody but still feeling familiar and song-like. 

These days I’m drawn to music that I best describe as “reassuring,” something that I can put on as I sit back and clear the attic. Enna fits the bill. And the songs are relatively short — we usually expect a single track in this drone-ish style to take up a side of an LP — but the spaces left in-between songs suggest a moment to breathe and reflect. I’m not sure if this was Betts’ intention and that he meant Enna as a sort of sonic balm, but its tones indeed do wonders for a restless psyche. 

This Place is Gonna Explode in Flames

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Marc Weidenbaum posted his answers to a ‘concert questionnaire’ yesterday on his (highly recommended) Disquiet blog. I assume this questionnaire is one of those things passed around on Facebook, friends tagged, and so on. While reading Marc’s answers, I started coming up with my own. Remembering was pleasant and wistful, with us all missing concerts and chances to find new favorite bands and experiences. I thought I’d share my answers-at-this-moment here in the notebook.

Last Concert → Sadly, I was being a homebody and didn’t go to many concerts just before the pandemic (if only we had all known, right?). I saw some local band or DJ a week before lockdown — it escapes me who it was. All I remember is during the show a friend offered my wife a job that she ended up taking. But the last concert-concert was probably Dale Watson in Brooklyn during Mondo NYC. That show was one big party, raucous out the wazoo, and, in retrospect, a pretty good send-off before a year without concerts.

Worst Concert → Surprisingly, I’d say Massive Attack in 1991 at SOBs in New York, their US debut. There was a ton of hype, and I was very excited, but the performance was meandering, mostly instrumental, and strange, not too different from a bad DJ set. I left midway through. A decade later, I read an interview where Massive Attack was asked what their worst show was, and they named this one. It turned out their vocalist (Shara Nelson?) bailed out a day or two before. They didn’t know what to do and were nervously winging it. 

Loudest Concert → My Bloody Valentine in San Francisco on the last reunion tour. I took my earplugs out for a few minutes during the ‘holocaust’ section of “You Made Me Realise” to experience it raw. I’m glad I survived. The venue — an old aircraft hanger — may have had something to do with the volume as I saw them again the next night in Los Angeles. L.A. was still loud but not “this place is gonna explode in flames any minute” loud like it was in S.F.

Seen the Most → Besides the bands I toured with, probably Sonic Youth, who I saw about four times starting with the Daydream Nation Tour. However, they might be tied with Alex Chilton. My favorite Sonic Youth show? When they opened for Neil Young at our local basketball arena. The size of the venue did wonders for the band’s squall. 

Most Surprising → There was no opening band listed for that My Bloody Valentine concert in San Francisco. While waiting for the show to begin, a rumor started to go through the crowd that Sonic Boom, formerly of Spacemen 3, would be opening. Exciting, yes, but Sonic Boom’s solo work at the time was mainly droning (but good) ambient type stuff. Then the crew set up Sonic Boom’s gear, which included a full drum kit, bass amp, a second guitar amp … curious. That didn’t look like ambient music. Then Sonic took the stage with a band and immediately launched into Spacemen 3’s “Revolution.” Hey, what?!? And then the band proceeded to play a 45 minute set of nothing but Spacemen 3 songs. Now that’s what I call a surprise. And it seems like it was a one-off as Sonic Boom was nowhere to be found the next night in Los Angeles.

Best Concert → There are many vying for this slot. Zeena Parkins at Timucua White House would also go under the ‘quietest concert’ category if there were one. The Butthole Surfers in Houston in 1988 (with The Flaming Lips), which was definitely the most life-changing concert. I wrote about that here. Pylon and Public Enemy, the couple of times I saw them both (separately!) in 1990. And, as an unexpected callback to the top of this list, Massive Attack in the mid-2010s. They were so good I was speechless for about an hour after the show.

Next Concert → Who knows. I had tickets to see Kraftwerk play so close to my house I could have taken a long walk to the venue. The pandemic said no. And Terry Riley was set to play Timucua a few months ago. Fingers crossed that these get rescheduled. 

Wish I Could Have Seen → I had a chance to get in a car with some friends and go see Hüsker Dü in New Orleans. One of those friends had a college radio show that night and needed someone to sub. As much as I loved Hüsker Dü at the time, I loved being on the radio more, so I stayed in Ruston, LA, and filled in on his show. My thinking was that I’d catch Hüsker Dü the next time around. They broke up a few months later.