Thursday, June 25, 2009

Because I Could Not Stop For Death, He Kindly Stopped For Me.....Reviews X 5!

The latest outfit to pony up & stir-fry outta the lo-fi wok is from Davis, Ca & calls themselves Green Green. Predictably there's nothing remarkable about it, unless you's think RTFO Bandwagon deserve a Northern California Appreciation Chapter. If that's the case, do you's also think that your parents was two dogs who fucked each other in the ass & a puppy popped out? you? Comes w/a little band pin I'll never sport, but ain't lost. Yet.
300 of these, collectors go to;

Around 10 yrs ago or so, the whole New Weird America was in full throttle, perhaps the last generation of mongrels to possess an inkling of 1st degree knowledge of punk, improv & prog before they's was all ground up together in the grinder. Interestingly, it was said dunces what spun the crank, thereby creatin a bleak musical smorgasbord of amateurism in the form of little cdr patties as well as elaborately constructed cassettes molds & other vacuous whatnot. But enough of that diatribe, my point is how's now there's some've them Kabobs what's reinvented themselves from the New Weird to somethin more akin to the Old Weird, thereby makin'em New Old Weird American Americans. D. Charles Speer & The Helix is part've of this sect, if not it's leading voice what w/a couple lp's & now this 7" under their collective belts. And as such, they warmly embrace the music/stylings of the original denizens 'n patrons w/rich & harmonious flair. On this little fella Mr. Speer & Co. unwind w/some rural rock ala post Band frolic that on one side ('In Madagascar') tugs on the beard've Levon Helm & on the flip ('Bar-Abbas Blues') pats the fanny've Robbie Robertson. I used to have a shirt what said, 'Big Pink Was Not A Myth' & here you's got more proof for the pudding. Purchase this at;

Dan Melchior has been much in demand this yr & like any solid mercenary, he delivers w/force & thunder. Without a doubt one of my favorite tracks've to date is his (apropos) menacing ode 'Post Office Line', haha, just the organ refain itself has enough lethal rounds in it to take out an entire station. This latest offering via Dull Knife is no slouch neither, 'Terrible Shame' bein absorbed in similiarly resigned, post psychedelic/hangover clarity as any've the outstanding tracks what can be found on the last V-3/Jim Shepard releases (atwixt 'Pimping In The 90's & 'Motorcycle Movie'). 'Ghost Of A Flea, Pt. 2' doesn't knock on the door so much as kicks it down & while it might jog my memory as a modern day companion to Flipper's 'Old Lady' dirge, unlike Shatter & co.-who liked to bully from a safe distance-Dan make it abundantly clear he's in the house to rob the men & fuck the women. Or is it the other way around? Either way I'm given the guy a wide berth! Another one what's 300, find out more from;

Mr Pumice is a fella what's something of a pleasant enigma. By that I mean in the post X/pressway, post Gate breeding kennels've New Zealand noise rock pups, Mr. P seems to be the only one what's no longer exclusively bein weened on the lathe cut teets of the perpetually nursing Geraldine bitch. He's actually gettin pressed up on regular vinyl! How many to date I cannot say, but this new split w/Grouper has just arrived & his entry ('Twin Neck Double Kick Bum Chin') is classic; a detached sci fi sea shanty, enveloped in fog, rockin against the winter waves & peppered by a sharp,salty, sea air. What was once South Island vices is now become North Island habits, but Pumice is by no means a counterfeit of those what was brewin up afore, ney, his grok is more a distended homogenization of all what's been chuffy & left of the dial from the Andband down & counting. Grouper also deliver w/a haunting number lost in the mist. Stunningly elegiac, it's hard to know if she's waving or drowning.If I's ever get to hear them Mary Briefcase records I only hope they deliver a fraction of the same beauty.

Bill Orcutt might be the closest thing we's got to a underground rock version of Tommy Pynchon. Ain't no one's seen him in an age, a statistic (or whatever) he likes just fine. And of course there's the stories; how he moved to the Ukraine & started a school what teaches bears to play hockey. Or the one about him livin in the Congo & bein an arms dealer. And I don't mean weapons neither, I mean real life arms! Who'd buy such a thing? I reckon there's nothin wrong w/keepin your audience mystified, no matter how bizarre or gruesome the conjurin. And every now & again he takes time off doin Lord knows what to release a record, the task of findin a copy bein no small feat neither. The one what come around for a minute a few yrs back was as ambiguous as his day to day & while I found it confoundingly charmin then, I can't claim that it has left much of an imprint now. But I doubt I'll be sayin that about this new one what's called 'High Waisted/Big Ass Nails'. You might think upon 1st listen that Bill's slingin w/one of them dagger's he wielded so perilously in Harry Pussy, but stick your neck out a little further & you'sll realize he's forged a whole new scimitar which has done cut off your head. At that moment of impact them ears'll ring w/a hum've cacaphonous fuzz, then a mass've guitar rush w/the gust've Antennae Jimmy Semens + fury've of Saharan string mangler Doueh will flood over your nimble brain. And suddenly, almost as abruptly as it began, it is over. Except now friend..... you will eat no more hotdogs. The chopping block only has room for 100, line up here; &