Sunday, November 27, 2011

Deerhunting Without An Accordion.....2 New Releases From France!

Pleebs 'n Pikers will no doubt piddle they's panties in infantile glee at the merest gaze upon this outfit's name. And in all honesty, that's okay. Whatever lures'em. I mean, just take a gander at the cover art. It would seem "all are welcome" is the mantra here. Besides, w/a name like Micro Penis, they's really got nothin to shy away from. 'Tolvek' is the 2nd release of brut flatulence from these canard gobblers. On it they's have journeyed past the feral channelin of Cromagnon & function as full on necromancers, conjurin up aural apparitions of Nihilist Spasm Band, MEV, Furious Pig, Comus & even the lost trumpet've Alan Shorter, mostly all at once. My copy came w/a rubber cabbage "conductor" not dissimilar to the one's brought to Earth by Hank Bain in the excellent SCTV episode known as 'Zontar'. Does this prove mankind is doomed? Buy it 'n find out. Edition of 300. & also

The Bruit Direct label, like any artisinal crafter've fine elixir's, the desire ain't about the macro. Rather, we's tend to be delighted by the dedicated micro results. And w/the band La Ligne Clair's 'Cheri' 12", there's versatile proof of this ethos in they's unique puddin.Perhaps it twas the grand scheme to make reggae or African hi-life, but be careful what you's ape. It has been said the Electric Eels was attemptin to fuse Bowie w/Captain Beefheart. And maybe that's what THAT sounds like. So too I'd concur w/ Mr. Bruit D that the music herein is No Wave. It's also-no Goth, no Crust, no Dub, no Thrash & no nonsense. Or maybe it's ALL nonsense. I reckon that just comes down to your penchant to dissect beauty in the marginal. La Ligne Claire excel in a mercurial galaxy where portals to Amos & Sara, 49 Americans or the Avocados (for instance) is always open & the likes of Lol Coxhill, Annette Peacock 'n Steve Beresford is looked upon as heroes. Not unlike a place I like to call, Home. This one's been a big winner in the turntable des engageant of 2011. Get it here;

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We Desire.....Invisible Jukebox Seance!

I can't say that I's spent much time in FLA, but at this juncture in my life, it seems like a fine place to be. The times I ain't out on the links is spent runnin the beach or swimmin for a spell, then escorting El Jeffe around to help tend to his various chores & appointments. He likes to bet them dogs too, so's there the occasional trip to the track, but most times it's just Lotto action to sate his fix. The lucky spot is some mini mart place tucked away in a tired old strip mall off Stacey St. At 1st glace it could be anywhere, but after takin it in on an almost daily basis, you get to familiarize yourself w/the particulars. There a dry cleaners, a spot what does your taxes, some sort've doctors office w/a sign what reads "All Prescription Filled, No Qustions". I assume they meant, 'Questions', but out of respect, I ain't about to ask. Next to them's is a laundromat & fixed in atween that & the Quick Stop destination is one of them mind readers places. It's got all sort've neon workin, w/a red 'n blue curtains blockin the sun light from beamin in through the front window. The front door has some large strands've tired old beads runnin across what function in a similar capacity. The flashin lights read "Tarot" "Palm Reader", "ESP", then one what's printed out from a computer proclaims 'Walk In Welcome' & another what's written by hand says "fresh empanadas" (small font too, black felt tip, very humble). Now I's always fancied the notion of someone trying to peer into my brain 'n tell me how's I'd come to be & what's just 'round the corner. But honestly, if they could really do all that, I'm afraid I'd have to kill'em afterwards, out of respect to national security & all. Some temptations you fight your whole life. But a fresh empanada? I didn't need no crystal ball to tell me THAT was in my future!
So I let myself in, rustlin through them beads & into a dimly lit parlor room. Then a thin, nasal voice got to chirpin "entrez-vous! entrez-vous"! I looked to my right & seen this birdcage w/a little green parakeet just shoutin that to beat daylight. The air mingled w/various scents've incense, cooking spices & roasted meats. Then a figure emerged from presumably a kitchen. It was a woman,all gussied up in silk 'n veils. It was hard to catch a good look, but from my vantage she seemed to resemble a cross twixt Cher & Waylon Flowers sidekick puppet, Madam.

'Welcome" she said, smiling, "Please come in, won't you"? The bird was still yappin "entrez-vous"! over 'n over when suddenly she turned & shouted "Gulliver, shup up! Halt die gosche"! And all that excitable chirpin stopped.
In a rather terse tone she said "Please do not mind my little friend. He is merely doing his job. So then" her face now soft & the smile back, "are you here for a reading"?
"If it's from a menu" I replied", "then yes ma'am, I am".
For a second she looked confused, then connected the dots. "Ah, the empanadas! I am sorry, but for customers only. Funny, you don't seem Cuban" She then went to explain that since the strip mall didn't have no take out food establishment, she was constantly gettin orders from folks what passed by on theys way to frequent the spot El Jeffe hits. Seems it's Cuban run & has the best selection of rum in the area. It got so eventually some would stop by to get they's fortunes read just to eat!. Then after a bit, they'd bartered a way to pay of a readin, but would take the empanada's in exchange. It seemed logical. Not to mention a clever way've gettin around a food servin license. In the heat & humidity, them aromas what wafted out would hang there in front like invisible cloud've deliciousness.It weren't no wonder she'd have a followin. So I said to her "No ma'am, I ain't got no Cuban in me. But I am part rattlesnake w/a hint of ginseng". She laughed & fanned her face, I thought I seen her blush a bit even. She asked my name. "Roland Seward Woodbe, ma'am". And who might I have the pleasure've speakin with"?
"I am Brunnhilde von Stulpnagel. My friends call me Bunny".
"Charmed I'm sure, Bu-"
"So" she interrupted, "you may call me Ms.von Stulpnagel".
I must've looked like the crow what swallowed a rock. She was laughin uproariously, battin her eyes, rockin back 'n forth, fannin that face. Even the bird, Gulliver, was havin a snort on me, his shrill, piercin "E-E-E-E-E-E"! laugh lendin an almost sinister tone to the set up. Finally she said "Ha, I josh. I josh you Mr. Woodbe"!. She paused to catch her breath & continued "Please, come into the kitchen. I will prepare for you empanadas. And of course, call me Bunny, ja"?

So now the ice was broken & it was time for some background. I won't go into detail, but ol Bunny seemed to have led an interesting life. We's was even around the same age, so that made it a bit easier. She said she was of German extraction-not that I couldn't tell-& I don't know what it is about them people, but they will put grapes in just about EVERYTHING. Thankfully none in my pork empanada-which was spectacular-but plenty in the side salad, combined w/red onion & arugula. It almost worked too. And she'd stuck a few on this toothpick as a garnish for the marshmallow vodka 'n Dr. Pepper what paired well. So after she'd given up a bit of her back story, it was time for moi to spill some beans. All's I said was that I was a record reviewer for a computer blog. She asked which one. I told her, "Siltblog".

In that moment her face lit up & she pounded the the counter top w/her right fist almost in reflex 'n shouted:
"Scheisse!, Gewiss, gewiss. Yes, Roland Woodbe......that name! It is you! Ack, all but forgotten. I was once an avid follower of your writing. But you seemed to devote your life to other pursuits". I explained that yes, I had on occasion put record writin on the shelf, but now's that was the top priority again. Bunny seemed very excited & it was then a bright idea passed before me.
"Say Buns, I's got some little records out to the car, any chance I could bring'em in? How about I play'em w/o sayin who they is 'n you tell me if you know or not. Game"?
That Bunny! She said not only would I not have to play'em for her to know, all she'd have to do was hold'em to spill the pertinent info. She'd close her eyes, I'd hand her a record & from there she'd tell me alls I needed to know. "Like you, Roland", she said quietly, "I have forsaken my unique talents as a clairvoyant to cater to the desires of the....Abschaum. But not today! Bring in the records! Let us do this. Sieg lieber Tod"!

And so below is the transcript of how it went down.

Kraus-A Journey Through The First Dimension 7" ep (Palto Flats)

BvS-Hmmmm, I must say, my 1st detection is smell. Yes...... a potted meat....(sniffs the air) clove, anise, the onion stinging my eyes.

RSW-A rillette maybe?

BVS-Ah! But not a conventional recipe. Very strong & singular. Does the name....Muttonbird....mean anything to you?

RSW-Yes! This artist is from New Zealand. Same's as the bird.

BvS-(head weavin side to side, hands clasped HARD on the 7") Mmmmmmmm, I see the name Ilitch....and Heldon.....but this could be a trick. No, those names precede this. Perhaps as influence....

RSW-Goddamn Bunny, that's amazing!. Your right, this is Kraus. But he sure does sound like them French fellas.

BvS- (now fully out of her trance, passes back the record) Oh, and Velvet Underground of course.

RSW-Of course. Don't leave the house without'em.


Atelier Mediterranee- 3 song 7" ep (Bruit Direct Disques)

BvS-Again, such smells!.....(arms fanning the air, as though to absorb an aroma)....what is with these records Roland Woodbe? This one......ack, tobacco, braised beef, bitter cherry & forest underbrush...a Bordeaux perhaps?

RSW-Well zap my zit! You nailed in Buns. This bunch is French.

BVS (undeterred, rocking back & forth, hands pressed against record) Yes.....could it be there is a.....small.....pimmel, amongst?

RSW-Haha, who knows? But I bet your thinkin of Micro Penis. Close! Damn your close.

BvS-(shouts) Quiet doofi! (resumes channeling).......there is something broken here. Something ....abnormal.

RSW-(whistles) It's said that some of the participants might be mentally challenged.

BvS (smiling slightly) Yes.....yes, you would know that. is like a modern take on Lucrate Milk....more unhinged....

RSW (slaps both knees HARD & interrupts) Shit Bunny! Can't fly one past you. It's Atelier Mediterranee. Lucrate Milk....that's good. I's gonna have to remember that one.

BvS (takes a slug of marshmallow vodka straight out of the bottle) Is Paris burning?

RSW (handing her another record) No idea. But that brain of yours sure is! (laughing).


Woollen Kits-Maths/Out Of Town (RIP Society)

BvS-Ah, muffins!. The scent of baked blueberries. So lovely. But wait.......I see a man, he is dressed....haphazardly. I am in someplace called....Olympia.

RSW-Calvin Johnson?

BvS-Would this man wear capri pants w/a hunting cap?


BvS-So! It is him. But only in voice. The music......I am in swinging is perhaps 1984. Creation...yes... Jas-

RSW-(excitedly interrupts) Jasmine Minks! Bunzo, you are a piece of work!

BvS-Shut up idiot! This is to fool me. No.......this music is from elsewhere. Another continent. I see snakes, toads, vast desert, kabobs & pasty vegans......

RSW (shakes his head in disbelief) Right AGAIN! They's called the Woollen Kits. From Melbourne,Australia.

BvS (Visibly exhausted, she tosses the record into RSW's lap. She is sweating profusely & is feebly trying to hide a hand that belies a faint but steady palsied tremor)-Mein Gott, Roland Woodbe! I am finished with this foolishness. Gulliver! Please, let Mr. Woodbe know his time is up.

Suddenly the entire space filled w/the most penetratin voice, like a talkin fire alarm what had gone off;

Gulliver the Parakeet-'Rous, Esel! Rous! Rous! Rous, Esel! Rous! Rous!' (over 'n over, over).

You don't have to tell me twice. Plus my ears was gonna start bleedin if I didn't vamoose.I gathered my records & bid farewell. Now that was a day-spent! Even El Jeffe'd won a couple bucks on a pick-four. On the way back to the complex I's tried to tell him about that scene. He wasn't havin none of it. With the lucre won, he'd 'invested' it in a bottle've Cathaca & was hell bent to get home 'n muddle some limes. I mentioned that Bunny had a gift, that she could see the future. El Jeffe retorted "I can see the future too. And it's this car in my driveway in 10 minutes"!. And so's it came to pass. We's rolled up w/time to spare. And them Caprihina's is goin down smooth. "Faith" as they's say, "is a passionate intuition".

for Woollen Kits & other Aussie releases, contact;

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee, And I'll forgive Thy great big one on me.....Glands Of External Secretion's 'Reverse Atheism' dbl lp .

The dedicated emergence of BUFMS as both a historical 'n contemporary source of neo Dadaist styled brain disembowelment has been most joyous to behold lo these past few years. From the stupendously great compendium that was the 'Induced Musical Spasticity' 4lp boxset (2009) & movin forward into the blindin light of hipster indifference, the whacked, manipulative collages they's embroider is perhaps the finest aural lysergide to be found amongst us since the goldern era of LAFMS. To wit, one need look no further than Glands Of External Secretion's 2xlp 'Reverse Atheism', which's just been released 'n whose varied landscapes of sound stitchery takes on all manner of religiosity, both real & imagined. And it ain't just the sublime duo of Manning & Glass this time neither. Ye, they have assembled a supporting cast of DOZENS to assist them in this magnum opus, the credits've those both impressed 'n enlisted readin like a freaks moderne take on 'It's Mad Mad Mad Mad World' (there must be bodies buried everywhere!-Capt'n Siltbreeze). For instance Bruce Russell, Alastair Galbraith, Patricia Rowland, Scott Simmons, Doug Pearson, shit, even Earl Kuck makes an appearance! Which proves once & for all him 'n Seymour Glass ain't the same feller. It's one of them conundrums, like for years I thought Dan Marino was just a fat suit alias for Roger Daltrey , then come that Super Bowl not long back where's they was both on screen pretty much at the same time, so's then I knowed the difference. I don't ask for much, a little proof will do. But let's not digress.
And this ad hoc patchwork've left field tinklers, tappers, tapers 'n tots tackle not only the obvious (L Rondo or Lizzy Claire P for instance) but also re-diddle the words & tuneage of Hippocrates, Roald Dahl, Osmond Brothers, God's Gift, Alejandro Jodorowsky & Flannery O'Conner to name but a few. For those what like they's room filled with layers've sound transparency, perhaps to impress or intimidate housemates or neighbors into thinkin yr legion is many, 'Reverse Atheism' is a most excellent ally in the pursuit've such chicanery. As Quinus Ennius wrote (shoeless) many moons ago 'Amicu certus in re incerta cernitur'. And who amongst us could argue with that? Even John Frum needed a buddy sometimes. Glands Of External Secretion understand that if you wanna win the race, you's gotta go a little berserk to do so. Which is how this fine document operates; it's successfully wrestled the madness of others & dropped'em on they's collective noggin. You might think that winnin isn't everything, but losin most assuredly sucks. So's this is why I say verily unto you; hop on over to Tedium House & secure a copy! If ordered now, it'll come w/a free, penalty 30 min cdr. Oh, and be sure to tell'em Song Keaspai sent ya.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Let Us Toast To Unintended Consequences.....Roland Woodbe Back On U.S. Shores!

Man, it's been a while. The sayin goes that 'whatever don't kill you, makes you stronger' but I's has come across many a hard luck droop to know that ain't always the case. Take my word for it; the South Pacific is full've western bums what thought they was on to a better life. Strong? Sure, the scent they's carry is, stinkin to high heaven! So close to water, so far from hygiene. Beatin down. Couldn't take to island livin. It's a great equalizer, the line between romantic notion 'n desperation ain't but an r-c-h in diameter from each other. Whether it was runnin from a past, in pursuit of new adventure, or just plain laziness-thinkin that they's was gonna grow a money tree on a beach 'n while away the days in a daquiri haze-the new life didn't take 'n there them varmints is, laid out; one after another, sun burnt, toothless grifters, all of'em w/a scheme in their eye. An I was afraid of headin down a similar path. Shit,I'd only set up house in Kolonia cause I was overwhelmed by the beauty of Polynesia. Only! That's a good one. I had plum tricked myself into thinkin I was gonna be some kind've goddamn Paul Gauguin & was in for a storied life. And I'll admit, the Marquesas' is way more fertile'n most've Micronesia. Yet after a spell, they's was all the same. A man what ain't growed up on a diet've mud drinks 'n dog eatin can't be expected to stay that path for life. And on top've that, throw in a bunch've whinin, ugly Peace Corps workers, wives (both won 'n wooed), syphilis, endless fish head stew, the contents of a sunken WWII era Japanese bullion ship, a descendant of Joseph Darnand, coconut liqueur, two Filipino ladyboys, Nazi pen knives, Cash4gold lear jets, some blood on the tramac 'n well sir, you've got quite alot of explainin to do. Which I didn't have no mind for. So I lit the fuck outta there! Ranger X met me up to Hawaii & we snuck on down to Mexico in a souped up Polaris submarine what was rumored to have once belonged to Marlon Brando. It had a permeatin odor of rendered duck fat & as any avid fan've the great man already knows, he lived on nothin but roast confit & braised carrots while preparin for the role of Jor-El, so's his skin would reflect the perfect, Kryptonian sheen. So the claim seemed plausible. But Mexico weren't no salvation, so it was on through the locks of the Panama Canal w/a destination set for Florida. West Palm Beach to be exact. We was gonna bunk up w/a an old associate of Ranger X who was called simply, 'El Jeffe'. That's right, not 'El Jefe', as in 'the boss', this feller's name was Jeff, so's it was just a spot of fun atween him & The Ranger. Evidently El Jeffe had been very high up in the USAF chain of command & was the mole what got Ranger X his valuable cache's of hashish & whatnot many moons ago. They was thick, them two. Why, they could sit there 'n talk like twin clairvoyant's; finishin each other's sentences, eyes twitchin, heads bobbin, fingers dartin around. Was almost like a matin ritual. El Jeffe now was some kind've writin or readin instructor, none of that was ever explained in any detail. He sure had a load've books though. Claimed he'd written a few too, one what was entitled 'The History Of Zeal'. But it was under an alias. It had sold well he claimed, but was now very much out of print (& rare). He showed us galleys for some book he was workin on called 'Can You Find Jesus In The Gerkin? Secular Ramifications Of A Pickled Diet'. Again, he weren't usin no real name w/his pen. What a bird! Whatev's, he got me set up w/a nice little spot over to Greenacres which ain't but a toss from a bunch've golf courses. Plus now that Capt'n Siltbreeze has got my address, the records is comin in for review, so I'm back at it. I also got the buyout check from my ex partners in SNOUTS + a little something extra for lettin'em keep the recipes, so money ain't a worry. Ranger X done vamoosed to parts unknown, so it looks like I'm back to the blog in the mornin & off to the links w/El Jeffe most afternoons. I'm gonna have to learn how to golf left handed though. I'm just beatin the pants off these fellers down here w/a my regular game. They's all the time sayin "Woodbe, you should have gone pro", but I've been hearin that my entire life. About everything! You gotta be careful when believin what you's told. Mainly it's about listenin right so's to separate the bitter from the sweet. Dissect & filter. As the old sayin goes "A mind too open may fall out".


Roland Seward Woodbe
Palm Beach County, Florida 2011

So's to kick right into the fray, let us consider this new S/T lp of posthumous proto-punk dunt from a feller what goes by the name've Dan Russell 'n issued by something called Aggravation Overdose. If we's to believe the printed history of Dan, he's been scabbin up the midwestern terra firma since the mid 70's, mainly in & around Flint, MI. But what is compiled here is tracks from 83-99 & it is a meaty buy to be sure. Like most folks what insinuated or skirted around the punk climes of they's city, Dan Russell & his bands was weened on early Crimson, Cooper, Sabbath, even some Be Bop Deluxe, all's of which can be discerned on this most excellent collection. if you's is fond've smokin your hams (or butter'n them beans) to the aggressive aural singularity what is MX-80 Sound, Debris, Crap Detectors & Vertical Slit, then this lp should be a must have for the vinyl larder. Email for more info.