Tuesday, December 06, 2011

A Tarheel By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet.....Bad Boy Butch Batson's 'Spare Parts' Lp

I got a cable the other day. I know! Who sends them anymore? Better yet, whose got the parts what to receives'em? Leave it to Fiona Finesse to stir up trouble though. She ain't never gotten over me. Not to mention a bloodhound's nose. The persistence to trackin me down is bafflin. So she sends this telex what come in over the wires to my Romanian landlady, Mrs. Valduva, downstairs. Probably got the only workin telex machine in the state. And Fiona was somehow onto it. So I hears these light thumps on my door & I knowed it was Mrs. V (see; her little hands is riddled w/arthritis so she can't knock. Instead, she rocks back 'n forth, bumpin the door ever so delicately w/the top of her head. It's like code, but not). I open up & she thrust the paper at me. "From da match-ine", she said evenly, "for you". I awkwardly took the cable, havin no idea what it was at 1st, & thanked her for the hospitality. She waved me off, turned as if to leave, then slowly came around to say "It for years since I hear the little voice.I think maybe it is the tzwika speaking. but no, is match-ine. Ah,is a sign! I tink from you wife. So you will leave now, yes"? I laughed & smiled at her. I said, no, I didn't have no clue what she'd just handed me. There weren't no wife (in the Christian sense) & I'd let her know when I was fixin to head out. She waved me off again & headed back down to her parlor.

So I take a gander at this message;



*654321 FU

What a charmer! And to think I'd all but forgot our trip to Burnt Corn. Young lovers tryin to sate they's passion in an antique village. The things you conjure up ,grrrrrr! But that was a long time back. I don't think I'd bust a nut down in the moss 'n mud for nobody nowadays. And she don't seem to recall that copperhead. She's lucky I spotted it when I did. Rat snake my ass! If that thing'd bit her in the snizz, she'd still be swollen tighter than a Christmas goose.Women! They likes to pick 'n choose the memories, don't they? But she has a damn fine set've ears (among other things), so I set about gettin a copy of the lp she was hippin me to.

Procurin this'Spare Parts'album weren't so hard. Funny thing about it, say's it's material from 1998. It's hard to know if it's an lp what's been sittin around all them yrs, or if someone ponied up the snuff to see the material finally realized some 13 yrs later. Either way it's a humdinger. Batson's one of them enigmatic 'real people' types. Your glad he's out there (& OUT THERE) but at the same time, it's comfortin to know you ain't likely to cross paths. Like the best of'em, the battle between tenacity & narcissism is hand to hand, so the results is exemplary in a combination of knotty weirdness, inspired wildness & at times,just plain hilarious. Imagine a cross between Butch Willis & Alvaro. Or if Bruce Cole went & made a record w/Smegma. It's that kind of whack. And as such, a dead on keeper + one for the ages. Comes in an appropriately designed silk screened jacket + a lil booklet w/pics, lyrics & personnel. Stop on over to http://www.tediumhouse.com/ http://www.mimaroglumusicsales.com/
or http://www.fusetronsound.com/ to procure copies. Then go direct to http://www.badboybutch.com/index.html to find out all you'll ever need to know about the man. I'm sure it's quite a story. Just look at him! How could it not be?

Sunday, December 04, 2011

A Bear Taking A Dump Asked A Rabbit.....More Limerick Reviews!

It has been an age since I last heard from Lester 'Ding Dong' Dell but he ain't lost a lick of his limerick genius.The thing about ol Ding Dong is this; he's much more fun to read than to hear. 'Cause he also SPEAKS in limerick form all the time too. So when I says he's a genius, I'm bein nice is all. That's how he's wired. Can't help it. Same as a retard. It's a fine line I'm told. Anyways, enjoy:

True Sons Of Thunder-Spoonful Of Seedy Dudes lp (Jeth-Row)

True Sons Of Thunder duly impale
On Jeth-Row Records this does in fact hail
The proto crud is real swimmin
It's like "rob all the men & fuck all the women!"
And behind them only winners will sail


Cheater Slicks-Gutteral lp (Columbus Discount)

CDR is a label so kind
Sent the live Cheater Slicks record, oh my, what a find!
What more can I say?
They bring it all day
If you don't dig it then eat my behind


Degreaser-Bottomfeeder lp (NGL)

Degreaser's got one in the can
Who amongst us is not yet a fan?
It weaves & it bobs
As it rectally robs
A young Sea Scout from being a man


Hank IV-Bellyful Of Slugs/Cold Equation 7" (S-S)

Hank IV have a new 7" platter
And on it they couldn't sound fatter
Twas it Anton LaVey
Who was so fond to say
"With cockrings it's mind over matter"


Black Humor-Love God, Love One Another lp (Superior Viaduct)

The Black Humor reissue is here
So scabrous, pugnacious and clear
It just goes to show
In case you don't know
That perversion is not always queer


Friday, December 02, 2011

Inside Every Sane Citizen Is A Madman Waiting To Run Free.....Devin Gary & Ross, 'Four Corners' 12" EP!

Arbitrary Signs is a newish label up to NYC which has been feedin heavy on a diet of unspecified peat tannins what's then oozes out it's various compounds into a succulent variety've aural alkaloids. The topper thus far's this 'Four Corners' 12" ep from the trio've Devin Gary & Ross. Now I could write great tract's of bubblin prose or gush long trails've fanboy tears as to my eternal admiration for one them's array've counter culture heroics. And I've only just been hipped to the other 2 feller's eye-poppin activities 'n it's fair to say I am lookin to gain citizenship into they's kung fu kingdoms post haste. Yeah, it's all warm 'n fuzzy, so before I collapse into spasms of psychonautic ecstasy, let it be known that Devin Gary & Ross has hybridized some kind of skewered ambio-ack that combines slow braised Pink Floyd proto-psych with chicken-fried Hirsche nicht aufs Sofa snorts awash in bucket've saucy, piquant Morricone-esque atmosphere. Even the Marty Robbins cover makes you's feel like it's a sunny day in a dry rubbed Colin Charteris universe. Stuffier shirts is likely to opine these amigos tres is the greatest embodiment of artist's to moonlight in underground NYC since De Maria Conrad & Young caged suds at Cedars. Which in all likelihood means the name, 'Velvet Underground' is right around the proverbial corner. But I ain't got no gallery to plug. And I'm about as far away from SoHo as I am Samoa. But I don't bear any ill will to curators. Hell no, in fact I damn near one myself! And everybody loves the Velvet Underground, right? But that's a whole 'nother hog on a spit. In closin I wanna say this 'Four Corners' ep is one of the finest releases these ears have had the pleasure to come across this yr. It's ergoline madras of whimsy, space 'n karma is as enchantin to the senses as they is to the soul. 300 pressed & a wise owl says they ain't many left. If you possess a mind that is prone to forward thinkin, waste no time & beam down here; peterfmeehan@gmail.com

Related addendum;


Thursday, December 01, 2011

The Plunder From Down Under.....New Oz 7" Reviews!

Not unlike the cyclical swarm of-say-the Cicada, every decade or so there's this deluge've releases what's hatched down on Terra Australis then unleashed into the world at large. And much like the clack 'n scree've said insecta, these bands kick up a whole lot've stridulation that is uniquely their own. And before you's say 'Captain Cook', it's EVERYWHERE. But a pestilence it is not. Quite the contrary. In fact, Senor Siltbreeze had a hand in some've the cultivation spawned towards the end've last decade.And he continues to keep his unique hemiptera antennae poised for any goings on via 27° 0' 0" S /133° 0' 0" E. But they's new eggs in the basket 'round the clock, now more'n ever. Ain't no way any one person/label's gonna keep up. And to that end, there's been a groundswell of newer, smaller DIY labels 'n distro's (both here & abroad)what's sprung up to fly the flag. I was tryin to explain it all to my Haitian buddy, Jean-Joe the other night over dominoes. He breeds roosters 'n sells'em around. Seems to do an alright business too. Said before he come to do it, folks'd drive as far as Okeechobee to get'em a bird. "So you see Boodbe", he explained w/a shrug, "your records & my cocks....they are not so different". We nodded in agreement. Can't says I'd ever had it put to me quite like that before, but he had a point!

Kevin Failure'd talked a blue streak about Drunk Elk afore I'd ever heard this record 'n while I reckon they's had a different approach at one time-says him-what it laid down on this 7" is alright by me. The vocal/guitar/organ sound conjures up a fetching austerity & if I didn't know it was crafted in Hobart, Tasmania durin this decade, I might've pegged'em as an MIA Z-Block entry, whose sanguine 'n subtle charms had recently been unearthed in a lost era Cardiff cupboard. But I am chuffed to know that Drunk Elk is of our time & look forward to more. And they's Pictish charms is duly noted. Contact;http://quemadarecords.blogspot.com/ for more info.

Listenin to this 7" from Muura reminds me of the time I tried to make Merzbow mow my yard. Well, it weren't mine exactly, but that's a long story, anyway, the point is he HATED bein asked to do ANYTHING. But there's no free ride on the Roland Woodbe express. You shoulda seen him; we walked down to the shed, I pointed to the mower, explained how to start it & showed approx. where to go & how much needed cut. Don't you know turned on his heel & stomped back to the house? Marched himself up the stairs 'n commenced to assemble his amps 'n noisemakers then proceeded to kicked up this squall've feedback that was just incredible! Oh brother, he was MAD! I could barely hear it over the roar of the Toro but what came through was direct, primal & heartfelt. All's of which takes me back to this Muura record. There's even passages on here where I swear I can hear some Moondog tugs in the harbor. Good crack this is & a handsome sleeve to boot. Get it via; http://www.tediumhouse.com/

And speakin've Moondog, the bunch what go by the name Sky Needle has a new one fresh off the press. Maybe it's them homemade instruments they flump, but the basic 'groove' is not too far removed from Louis Hardin's ambient scapes. They's also glow in embers still smolderin from the last, great Ralph Records clambake. From this distance it's hard to say exactly who they might resemble most in that stable, but I never claimed to be no Frank Johnston. And the stellar hand screened gatefold sleeves would make the slick designers at Pore No Graphics eyes buzz out in envy. Edition of 200, hit up the band direct at; www.skyneedle.org or joel@otherfilm.org

The feller Brendon over at Negative Guest List is a busy budgie. Gots all manner've suds goin down; a fanzine, lp's, double lp's, singles, ep's, bookin shows, a bit of distro, that moustache....hey Mr. publican, gimme what he's havin! Can't say I's found no duds yet, but it did take me a minute to wrap my nog around Low Life's 'Sydney Darbs' ep. There was somethin sticky in the mix that hinted at Box Of Fish residue, but overall it moves along in very driven & dark tones what fantastically transported me back to the streets of London, circa 1982. There I tailed these 3 blokes whiles they's whispered sweet nothings into ears at Illuminated & Small Wonder, only to surrender the goods over a parsnip bundt cake (w/vegemite icing, yum) at the Crass compound. Makes sense. Shit, after all that imaginary walkin, even I was peckish! Dig this & all manner've Aussie product at; easterbilbyrecords@gmail.com

Also, these & many more releases can most likely be found via;


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.
www.doubtfulsounds.info & also http://www.tediumhouse.com/

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; http://bruit-direct.org

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. It......it 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).

contact; store@bruit-direct.org

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 London....it 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; easterbilbyrecords@gmail.com

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 aggravationoverdose@gmail.com for more info.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Crewcified For Your.....Watery Love New 7"!

Another two shots of bilious commentary courtesy of Philadelphia's best band at the moment. The A-side is penned by Richard Charles; a litany of condescending, sneering lyrics behind the roar of what sounds like the gear shaft of a Kensington garbage truck being stripped out & blazing a path of fire down Girard Ave. You know, the kind of good timey tunage you can only light up somewhere between Mecht Mensh & Iron Cross. The flip is an interpretation of a song written by Louis Allan Reed. But Watery Love's cover eschews all manner of hip, uptown vibrato found on the original, preferring to accessorize their stud w/the leather & switchblade swagger needed in a sketchy, downtown milieu. You know, the kind of controlled lunacy you can only sniff out somewhere between John Cale & Chain Gang. Thick black vinyl pressing housed in a sweet high gloss sleeve. One time edition of 330. Prices are as follows;

US-8$ ppd
Canada- 9$ ppd
Elsewhere-12$ ppd

Paypal to; sltrx@pil.net

Saturday, July 09, 2011

What The Scrivener Saw.....Dan Melchior Und Das Menace Tour Diary!

When "Reese" (my nickname for Nigel Rees-Moog) informed me he was taggin along w/Melchior & co. for a potential tour diary, I informed him I'd be only too eager to publish his musin's, should he bring them to fruition.And thusly he followed through. Scintillating stuff to be sure! But I'd expect no less for ol' Reese. The man can lock you in w/a narrative.Why, there was the time we was at a post United Nations somethingorother & Reese had an entire table captivated by this tale of a rice puddin he'd ate at some diner in New Jersey. A Greek diner to be specific. He went into the whole history of Greeks & rice puddin & they's penchant for diner cuisine in the US. He even had a theory why the Chinese weren't no good at it. Seein as how rice come from the orient (he opined), you'd think something like that would be as natural as a bowel movement to'em. Reese says while the Chinese might've invented gunpowder, they sure didn't know the 1st thing about blowin up rice! He reckons some Greek fella just keep boilin his rice one day till them little kernel's just exploded. And forthwith you got all this meltin starch, add some milk, cinnamon & what have you's then before you know it, presto! Just about the best desert an Englishman could ever ask for. Stateside anyway. And he got the table of us laughin pretty good about the irony of how the Greeks could civilize the western world, but they could not make a hash brown potato edible if they's lives depended on it. Ain't THAT the truth!
Anyways, Reese is a truly fine citizen of the world & I'm happy to have him aboard this one time.

Your Editor,

Roland Woodbe

*The above artist rendering of Nigel Rees-Moog is unknown. Disclaimer - Any resemblance to the late Lord Lucan is entirely hereditary.

'The Tour'
By Nigel Rees-Moog.

When I was invited along on the Dan Melchior Und Das Menace European tour as chief scribe, and procurer of petrol station victuals,
I was obviously honored. I have known Dan for 20 years or so, having attended a rather low wrung Art School with him in the early 90's -
and have followed the arc of his myriad releases ever since. I felt it was an offer not to be scoffed at, after all, how often does one get to spend time
with a genuine underground 'Bluespunk' combo on the road? Oh the shenanigans! I was sure that much malfeasence and debauchery would soon
be afoot, and I would be the one to immortalise it all. My very own 'Hammer of the Gods'! (how wrong I was)

On the days before the upcoming voyage I stocked up on the things I knew would be hard to find abroad (cornish pasties, baked beans,
marmite, jellied eels) and threw caution to the pungent continental wind. You know what they say - When in Rome! I bought a pair of
espadrilles, a hooped jersey and a bavarian hat just to have all bases covered (not being sure what constitutes Belgian national dress)
and on the 13th of May I was as prepared as a man can be for such things, and went to meet up with the U.S contingent in Barcelona.

Day One.

I met the others at the airport in and was immediately taken aback by their somewhat stoic countenance. It was true that
the drummer was highly enthusiastic about eating native meats and cheeses, (all pronounced with 'authentic' guttural cadence) and giving anyone
who would listen a history lesson in whatever passed before his dazzled gaze, but other than that I sensed none of the 'Hard day's night'
like devil-may-care attitude that I had been expecting. The keyboard player seemed like a man of distinction, and I was somewhat assured
by his presence. Dan's wife too, had an air of 'get it done' American resourcefulness, and I thanked god that organisational things would not be left
to Dan or I to deal with (I had been present once when he was trying to renew his passport, and the experience did not bode well) As for myself,
I felt I was up to buying some sandwiches, and jotting down this account, but not much else.

We set off to rent the van and equipment, and within an hour we were on the road. Just like 'Keroauc' but without the drugs, or enthusiasm.
It was a long drive to Lyon, and when it turned out that there was no way of plugging in an ipod to the car stereo, the more modern of us
were confounded. Luckily Dan had brought along a copious amount of Cds, and we were treated to an endless stream of obscure and abrasive
noise that seemed to find little favor with anyone in the van other than Dan himself.
On pulling into the parking lot of the Lyon venue we were met with the greeting 'You are very late'. I jumped out of the van looking for the green
room, and was bewildered to learn that such a place did not exist. I was then handed a lukewarm can of French beer and directed towards a table from
which food that would seem to have been almost entirely made out of garlic was being doled out. I gave it a miss, and got to work ingesting
tepid lager.

The show started around 10.00, and Dan's rented amp had stopped working by 10.10.
Letha (Dan's wife) immediately showed the resourcefulness I had spotted in her, by plugging Dan's guitar into her amp. The show went on, but without her, unfortunately. What a brick!
The rest of the show went off without a hitch, and when Das Menace had finished, a trio of very serious French men in black sweaters got up on stage and started twiddling knobs. The result would be best described as 'Whitehouse lite' (though mercifully free of mincing 'power' vocals) No one in our entourage was spellbound by the spectacle, or it's resulting din, and we soon set off in search of more warm beer.

Day Two.

There was no 'gig' to play today, so it was a late start.
I had un-judiciously partaken in a French Whisky called 'Sir Robert Peel' the night before, and started the day with what the French call 'Mal aux Cheveux'
The fact that the French are not well known for their Whisky is no longer a mystery to me.

We made our way hastily to Calais, where we were to take the 11.30pm ferry. I felt a bit of a fool crossing back over the channel to Blighty so quickly after my
initial flight, but I was still quite hopeful for some 'Shark insertion' type hi-jinks, so I felt I ought to tag along even though, as Dan said 'Nobody in London likes us' The ferry was largely deserted except for a few drunken oiks who insisted on sitting uncomfortably close to our party. Still, it never fails to rouse a little bit of patriotic pride in one to see the white cliffs of Dover emerging from the murk, and it is always nice to observe that Dover does smell a little less like shit than Calais.

Day Three.

London was as over cast as usual.
The journey into town went quite smoothly until we hit the Great Western Road, and were mired in the inevitable gridlock.
The show was at Ryan's Bar, Stoke Newington (of which Alexie Sayle famously said -'Have you ever seen the 'What's on' Section of the Stoke Newington Gazzette? It's a big piece of paper with 'Fuck All!' written on it') and our contact was Russell of the Pheromoans/Bomber Jackets. He was a charming fellow, with a dry sense of humour much to my liking, and his offer of a pint of Bombardier was most gratefully accepted.
It quickly became clear that the organisation of the night's events was suffering from what those in big business call a 'power vacuum' though. There would be no sound man for the night, and no one working at the bar seemed even remotely interested that we would be playing there. We carried the many heavy pieces of equipment (some of which were not even functioning) down the steep and precarious staircase, while Tony (keyboard king) and Matt (drum banger) went off to park the car. They didn't return for at least two hours, during which time I got drunk enough to seek solace in a battered sausage and chips.

The show was a mixed blessing at best.
The Bomber Jackets played a great set, augmented by a spiffing female drummer who used those drum pads that were so popular in the 1980's.
Our man Russell sat hunched over his mic, spinning his tales of mundane profundity, while Dan the keyboard man made varied and exciting sounds on various tiny casio devices. It was extremely good, though I'm not sure the audience noticed.
Next up were Spin Spin the dogs - who I was informed hailed largely from the land of Robin Hood. I would like to be able to say something positive about them, but as I am not likely to bump into them any time soon (stoke newington being a place I would not set foot in unless I was forced to do some kind of court ordered
community service there) I will tell the truth. They were dreadful musically, and hateful personally. Their music reminded me of nothing so much as a bored wedding band tackling the That Petrol Emotion songbook (if this means nothing to you, you are lucky) I vacated the basement and entertained myself with watching a Greek football match in the bar.
Das Menace played a great set, blasting the sparse and stoic audience with shards of noise that they seemed largely unable to process. House music and Oasis seem to have neutered the English's previously highly developed sense of aesthetics, and one can only harbor a sense of loss at this development. Would these
wooden people have heralded a Barrett era Floyd, or Vertical Slit performance if it'd been presented to them? I very much doubt it.

We all retired to Christian's (Pheromoan's guitarist) house, where much fun was had, and many interesting records listened too.
By the time I decided to retire, a conversation about George Lucas had begun to gain momentum. Sensing that things were rapidly going pear shaped I made my excuses, and wandered off to sleep in the bathtub like John the scouse.

Day Four.

The next day we drove down the road to the Stag's head public house.
The Americans were all very cheered by the ambience of said establishment, as it was (relatively) old, wooden, and unspoiled by the prevailing Starbucks design aesthetic.
Once again no sound man was present, and the organiser of the event was indignant with rage about something or other. Rumor had it that some of the bands on the bill were not 'beat' enough for him, and to that I can only say 'Hard cheese!'
We chose to drink in the snug bar instead of placating him with glib flattery, and the Pheromoans were good companions in this.

After scoffing down a ropey kebab at a dump across the road, I came back to find the first band in full swing. I heard some muffled Flat duo Jets like warble
through the bathroom wall whilst taking a long overdue leak, but by the time I came out they had stopped playing. I will not venture an opinion on their set, as it would be presumptious of me to do so (I'm no Everett True, after all)
The Pheromoans were next up, and while I must admit that I was predisposed to like them, they certainly made it easy to do so. A great band, if I do say so.
I never saw the Door and the Window play (too busy at the ashram) but I imagine it would've had a similarly skewed trajectory. It rocked, but obliquely.

Das Menace shaped up to the task again, and blasted all and sundry with a dose of good old sonic violence. There was much guitar wailing, and I think a couple of those in attendance even liked it.
We packed up hastily and beat a retreat to Dan's parents house in the sticks. I have never been as grateful for the use of a twin bed with clean sheets in my life.

Day Five.

There was no gig today. I went for a walk by the river and threw some bread at a swan.

Day Six.

Wake up/Drive/Ferry/Drive/Belgium.

What a strange town! Kortrijk! - the venue has a urinal that stands slap bang in the middle of the backstage area. The Belgians buy records after the show
and prop them up on the top of the urinal whilst taking a piss.
There is much strong, dark beer, and much discussion of the European monetary system.
A sign in the house we are all staying in says 'Puerto Rican showers only'. It is hard to imagine that many Puerto Ricans pass through Kortrijk, and it also hard to say why their showering habits should be so much more notorious in Belgium that they are in the USA. I suppose someone saw something on television. It's a curious phenomenon, this 'cultural misappropriation'
Still, it's a very clean house, and the people are extremely nice and appreciative of loud and abrasive music.
I take one of the top bunks, and lay awake all night listening to the four members of the band snoring in unison - another concert, just for me!

Day Seven.

Off to Germany. Why does my scrotum seem to recede into my body slightly at this prospect?
It's true that my Grandmother's house was flattened by a German bomb in WW2, but it is something apart from that.
The language? Perhaps. The leiderhosen? I don't know. Perhaps it's that dreadful woman I worked for in that restaurant in Windsor. I'm sure she could've secured a high rank in the SS if she had been born 60 years earlier, and such things had been permitted.

I will spare you a description of the Northern German countryside. Suffice to say it looks a lot like Ohio. No big surprise there.

We were playing in Hamburg, and not just Hamburg, but the Reeperbahn.
If you have ever been to Amsterdam then just imagine what that place would look like if a bomb hit it, all the decent looking prostitutes escaped, and the place was invaded by severely sunburnt, obese androids with blonde flat tops and eighties style leather jackets. You are now halfway to visualising the hell of the reeperbahn. Add a layer of filth 2 inches deep and aimlessly rendered US style graffiti to every imaginable surface, and you are getting closer.
Every five minutes or so one is forced to vacate the street as a group of drunken storm troopers come rolling by on a 'beer bike' This is a small bar mounted on a multi person bicycle which is hired out by germans celebrating an upcoming wedding. The barman steers, whilst serving the grinning simpletons seated at the bar ridiculously alcoholic lager. What fun!

The club (as usual) was several flights of dangerous stairs underground - and to add to the fun, no one knew where the light switch was!
Still, once we settled in, there was at least sound man present.
Our contact, Jens took us all back to his apartment and fed us pasta and wine, which was much appreciated. The giant New York Dolls mural on the wall was slightly disconcerting, and Dan's championing of Neu, Faust, Can and La Dusseldorf was met with mild incredulity. We were in Garage country, and something told me that the band would not find a lot of favour amongst this crowd.

We made a way down to the club in much the same manner as a man makes his way to the gallows.
The show was good (no support) but some of the sparse crowd were scandalised at it's brevity. I heard Tony being berated by a bespectacled German -
'But why are you only playing 7 songs? This is not good practice I think'
'The set lasted 40 minutes'
'I paid 5 euros, and this is not standard practice'
'Well, what can I say?'
'I thought your music was okay, though it lacked dynamics, and the guitar person was not very engaged'
'Well, why would you want to hear more then?'
'I paid my 5 euros for US garage, and 7 stoner jams is not good practice'
and so on..........

Day Eight.

Leaving Hamburg was like being giving an 11th hour reprieve. I felt more alive, and the air was sweet. Things could only get better!
The scenery remained banal, but the trees seemed to get greener as we left the environs of the 'fetid city'

Munster was interesting.
I was given some very dirty looks when I crossed the road against a red light, and the profusion of kebab shops was just as high as it was in Hamburg.
(Thank god for our Indian Empire!) Still, it was very, very clean.
The venue was a veritable wonderland, with soundmen, promoters, flyers, posters, fans and everything else one may reasonably expect.
The band played, (Great version of ATV's 'Splitting in Two') and orderly lines were formed to buy records. These Munserites put their
money where their mouths were, which was a good job, as the door deal (100% after staff were paid) was hardly likely to be a big earner.
Still, I think all present were well pleased with the result.

Unfortunately that night Letha was sick, and the crash pad we were presented with was fairly thick in cat hair. I did not envy her predicament.
I suggested that her and Dan take a double bed in the loft, but Dan discovered an insect of indeterminate species under the duvet, and understandably declined.
I grabbed one of the mattresses that had been packed together (bomb shelter style) on the floor of the room, and moved it into the kitchen. I then put on my jeans, socks, jacket, (with up turned collar) and laid the cleanest looking thing I could find (a shopping bag) under my head. I slept soundly until an angry arian burst into the room with the already infamous cat in tow, squealing to be fed.

Goodbye Germany, hello France!

Day Nine.

Who would've thought one could feel so at home among the French? Everything is relative I suppose.
The land of connossieur Gas stations was a most welcome change of pace. Beautiful scenery began to roll past our bird shit encrusted windows again, and I was
full of expectation for our visit to 'Jolie Paris'
Of course, we would have to actually get to the venue first. Luckily the drummer was an expert with the 'stick shift', and although he was near gibbering break down by the time we pulled up outside 'La Mecanique Ondulatoire' he did a great job. Claire, our promoter stood outside, wearing a skirt that resembled a belt. I didn't notice anyone complaining though, and I was certainly not going to be the first. Everyone was all smiles and bonjours, and the stereotype of the rude Parisien was quickly laid to rest.
After the inevitable descent into the basement (much cleaner than usual) we were confronted by a very pro-active French Canadian sound man. Would the wonders never cease?
The band performed an honest to goodness sound check, after which we set off in various directions into Paris. I was keen to find some good Duck Terrine, and did not have to walk far to find some. I perched myself by the Seine and gorged myself with the stuff, dozing off so that I almost completely missed the Pupils set. I came in on the tail end of the last song, and found them playing to a good crowd - especially for a Monday night. Things boded well for Das Menace!

It was a very good show indeed, with particularly strong versions of 'Swamp!' and 'Town Feeling' (Kevin Ayers) and the Parisians really seem to 'get it'. They were very forthcoming with their money after the show, and cleared the band out of a number of releases.
Accommodations were a distinct improvement too, and I got into bed in my underwear for the first time in days. I even got to watch Bear Grylls eat a spider in French on a flat screen TV!

I feel asleep harboring all kinds of passionate feelings for the great city of Paris.

Day 10.

Off to Bordeaux.
I was eager to see this city, having never previously visited it.
The scenery continued to beguil, and the gas stations continued to proffer up fare that one would only find in a high classed bistro in the UK.
Every now and then it would dawn on me that the salmon, herbs de provence, goat cheese and rocket baguette I was eating had been bought
at the French equivalent of a Mini Mart.

Bordeaux was another beautiful old city. Scrappy, but charming in the best way.
The promoter Ruth, was of the highest possible order - a veritable rock in the sea of wishy washy-ness that is the budget rock tour netherworld.
Her presence was infinitely re-assuring, and I found myself feeling almost 'at home'
I skipped sound check and strode off into town looking for a roadside cafe. Call me a tourist if you will, but there are simply some things that must be done in such a place.
After fending off several very aggressive beggars with curt reproaches learnt the hard way in the streets of London, I settled down to drink my coffee.
Sipping ostentatiously at my tiny cup (with my hand placed firmly over my wallet) I decided that the band would not miss me for the night. How many ear splitting
T.S Mc Phee- esque guitar meltdowns does one need to endure in a 10 day period?
Bordeaux offered up her charms to me in no uncertain fashion, and I spent some very enjoyable moments perusing the shops in town. The erotic outfits for sale in the modest red light district, were quite something, and if I had been a bit more flush with cash I may have been tempted to buy a studded catwoman get up
for my girlfriend.

Arriving at the club when Dan was already manning the 'merch' table I was surprised to find the place packed with attractive women. What a night to wander!
I had stayed until the bitter end during the sausage fests of Hamburg and Munster, but here I had gone on a jaunt. Silly bugger! Mind you, how was I to know that this kind of music could actually draw nubile females out of their houses? France, you mysterious mistress!

We then piled in the van, and made our way down several roads that were barely the width of a renault compact to get to Ruth's 'maison'.
And what a maison it was! The place was like something you would see in a Bela Lugosi film - with an ancient looking spiral suitcase, and rough hewn sandstone walls.
We drank some wine, listened to some crazy middle eastern music (from Ruth's boyfriend Stephan's collection) and attempted (with very little success) to use a French keyboard to send emails. All in all it was a wonderful night.

Day 11.

It was with some trepidation that we left France. It was unanimously agreed amongst the group that the 3 French gigs had been the highlight of the tour, and we wondered what Spain, and the Primavera festival had in store.
Dan confided in me that he considered the real tour to be over, as the Primavera shows were bound to be schmooze fests above all, and he fully expected the grounds around the stage to be largely vacated once their sets commenced. I listened dispassionately, making no judgments of my own. I had seen some strange things on this tour, and I wasn't too sure what I thought anymore.
France turned slowly into Spain, and we pulled into Barcelona just in time to return the equipment. The van would have to go back in the morning.
We drove some miles outside of Barcelona and found a hotel. Beers were drunk, and I was asleep by 12am.

Day 12.

Today there was no gig.
We returned the van early. It had been our prison for an average of 8 hours a day for the last 11 days, and consequently I was not sad to see it go. Tony practically ran into the office to hand them back the keys.
From there it was off into Barcelona - what a city!
I must admit that I got throughly lost, and ended up in some fairly dangerous looking neighbourhoods (note - Barcelona's hookers are not the cities best attribute) Still, the atmosphere over all was 'muy simpatico', and I felt full of the joys of spring.
I rented myself a small apartment in La Rambla for a fairly paltry sum, and set about getting pie eyed on sangria at various bars. It was a long and enjoyable night.

Day 13.

I awoke to find that I had a fairly severe headache. I'm not sure what they put in the sangria, but for a minute I was suspicious that I'd been rufied.
After going down to the supermercat for some ibuprofen, and swilling 4 of them down with cup of strong coffee, I started to feel connected with my surroundings again. By 12pm the city was right back in full swing, and I ventured back into it's 'raging torrents of life'
Das Menace had to play a show at 8pm, and I was loathe to leave Barcelona proper and enter the performance area. I had been to one too many festivals to get
excited at the prospect of sharing a chemical toilet with 15,000 drugged up proles.
I was having my 4th 'Estrella' of the day, when I realised it was time to make my way over to the grounds.
The usual flotsam and jetsam that attend these kind of things were swarming towards the entrance, and I stole myself for the task of becoming one of them.
Once inside, I made my way over to the appropriate stage and waited for Das Menace to appear. The band who played directly before them (who's name I don't recall) did at least two punk versions of Phil Collins' ode to the homeless 'Paradise' and I was beginning to lose the will to live when a grinning female flower child standing next to me handed me a damp brown joint with a vacant grin. At this stage in proceedings I was extremely happy to take it and inhale deeply.
It soon became apparent that this was what our friends in America call 'some serious shit' and my bearings were soon lost. I saw all kinds of terrifying things -
balding, potato like, minor rock stars in lumber jack shirts, someone who looked like a taxidermied version of Alan Vega, a huge inflatable cucumber wearing nipple clamps - - - who knows what was real and what was not!
Das Menace's psychedelic spew took me by the balls and shook! - I felt molten waves of violent otherness cascading over me, and I looked at my hands only to discover they were voguing. I laughed (what else could I do?) and turned around to see the original colonel from MASH standing behind me in a bondage mask (I don't know how - I just knew it was him) Things were beginning to get a bit intense. I looked up at the stage to see Dan shooting me daggers - -there were green luminous things coming out of his eye sockets that looked like those little pasta bow ties, and I decided he was definitely trying to kill me with his guitar. Tony, Letha, and Matt all seemed to be ganging up against me too, and I was convinced that they were all trying to finish me off with their respective instruments. Notes shot out and stung me deep in my synapses. It was not very enjoyable. After a particularly queasy shard of sound from Tony's keyboard lodged in my lower abdomen, I made a break for the porta-potty where I vomited extensively and exhaustively. I immediately felt better, and made a mental note not to accept drugs from strangers anymore. Had Reading 93 taught me nothing? Apparently not.
It was an early night for me.

Day 14.

I was a little sheepish after the day before's meltdown, but wasn't sure that any of the band had noticed. I was fairly concerned that they might have.

The gig for the day was in a beautiful park about 10 minutes drive from the hotel. We sat quietly in the van until Dan started to make some awkward jerking movements and everyone burst into laughter. Obviously they had seen me. I sunk my head in shame. Things were quiet for 5 minutes or so, during which time I remembered that my Mother had told me that the best way to discourage mockery is to laugh with your detractors - so I did. Unfortunately my giggles turned into maniacal laughter and finally tears. It was not the result I had been looking for.
Everyone slunk off into respective corners of the park and I went to the food trailer where I ate two packets of crisps and several tiny jam sandwiches.

The show was a good one, but I made sure to sit perfectly still as they played. No more dancing for old Nigel. I vowed I would never dance again.

We made our way back to the hotel and bid each other awkward and hasty farewells.
I had to get on a plane at 7am the next day, so I decided to stay away from town, and make do with lounging around my luxury (paid for by Primavera) hotel room. Everyone had been ranting on about the 'amazing showers' in the rooms - but being a bath man (I prefer to marinade in my own filth, thank you very much) I partook only briefly in it's supposedly mind boggling attractions. I then fell asleep while watching a spanish game show and woke up about 30 minutes before I needed to be in the taxi.
My luggage was mislaid on the way home, and I finally got back to my house late that afternoon to find that no one had watered my plants like I'd asked them too.

In closing, I think it is safe to say that I never got to pen the expose of the seedy nether regions of the 'entertainment' industry that I was hoping to.
However, I did learn a few things in my time on the road -
1. Constipation is unavoidable on tour.
2. Never engage a German in a conversation about the New Bomb Turks.
3. If you are going to have a drug meltdown, have it in your hotel room.

Signing off,
Nigel Rees-Moog.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Axemen's '3 Virgins' Double LP NOW AVAILABLE

FINALLY! After a couple of years in the RE-making, the Axemen's legendary dbl lp '3 Virgins, 3 Virgins, 3 Visions' (hereafter known simply as 3V's) is available for order. Originally seeing the light of day on the Flying Nun label in 1985, 3V's is a broad canvas of sound, seemingly channeling other likeminded cornerstones of fringe rumble such as 'Trout Mask Replica', 'Exile On Main Stree't & 'Tago Mago'. Just like last time (remember?) this is a limited edition run of 600 & housed is a stunning full color gatefold sleeve. Prices are as follows;


Add to your order both previous Axemen titles; 'Big Cheap Motel' lp + Scary,Part III double lp for only 15$ more! No extra shipping cost either!That's 3 more lp's! What a bargain!
(Just make sure to mention when ordering).

Paypal to; sltrx@pil.net


Check out this AMAZING 3 Virgins promo film shot back in the day by Lawrence Lens (Nux Vomica, Portage mastermind);

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

New Record, Archival Recordings.....Vacuum S/T 7" ep-GONE!

Although they only got a couple of spins around the earth's axis, Vacuum were the band who wrote the clay tablets from which all great Christchurch groups worth a plug would glean substance to formulate THAT sound. Originating in 1977 & consisting of members Bill Direen, Stephen Cogle, Peter Stapleton, Peter Fryer & Alan Meek, Vacuum perfected an aural symmetry that fused classic Nuggets, Roxy, Elevators & Velvets moves as a template & this unique plonk would become germane for all that sailed after. Deep collectors will recognize these tracks by name from various prior releases, but these particular recordings-culled from 78/79 rehearsal tapes-are being made available here for the 1st time, EVER. 'Kicks' would go on to become an early staple in Direen's Builders discography, but the guitar on this version is particularly & wonderfully unhinged. The beautiful serenity of Cogle's 'Shade' - masterfully driven by Meek's keyboard--is as crisp out of the gate as the later honed version familiar in the oeuvre of the Victor Dimisich Band. The real thunderclap of the bunch is 'Accident' (another take can be found on The Builders 'Beatin Hearts' lp) where it sounds like someone spiked the Tia Maria with peyote & as a result, the band has psychically disemboweled 'Heard Her Call My Name' & fed the guts to Amon Duul. I've said it for years, electric liqueurs don't lie!
One time edition of 300. File alongside; Six Impossible Things, Pin Group, Builders, Victor Dimisich Band, Above Ground, Scorched Earth Policy, Dadamah & Terminals.

Sunday, May 08, 2011

Mothers Day Poppies.....New Books By Michael Hurley & Byron Coley

In my time I have told many Canadian jokes, knowed many Canadian jokes & quaffed many Canadian beers (even 'skunked' Mooseheads) so I think I can say without equivocation that the Montreal imprimatur, L'oie De Cravan, ain't none of these things. To prove as much, they's has up 'n flug out two great collections of written words by a couple've fellas that's know more about what happen's at third base than either Brooks Robinson or Eric Weber. And that's a lotta ground, hombre, so take notes.
First up is a slim volume by Michael Hurley, one of America's most well loved rascals.Everybody's crazy about him, from Cat Power in NYC (whose covered a tune're two I's been told) to Esto Setty over near Lynx Prairie (who sold him some cider blocks what I seen myself). And since I know's you's all know's who he is, I ain't gonna ramble on about his discography 'n such. It is without peer. This book what's title in English, (bein that these bks is from Montreal-the hub of the QC-they's also French translations as well, viz, bilingual) is 'The Words To The Songs Of Michael Hurley' & it couldn't a more handsome chapper. L'oie De Cravan done this up swell; alls calligraphed by Doc Snock himself + what's also occasionally accompanied by colorful illustration're two. My favorite'd be 'Ohio Blues' what's from the 'Sweetkorn' cd. Why? 'Cause I's been to Portsmouth O-Hi more'n enough times in my life & if Snock don't nail the grimness of that river town (& the desire to flee), then I ain't Kentucky's most forgotten boy. Dead on forward notes by Byron Coley too.
And speakin of Mr. C, this next book's all by him! It's name is 'C'est La Guerre; Early Writings 1978-1983' & it is a tottlin ride through the LUSH green pageantry've the Samuel Pepys of Amercian Punk. This fella damn near single-handedly chronicled EVERY vinyl spurt what was in the buddin years of Hardcore, not to mention carryin on about all manner've noise yokes what almost no one else gave shit, let alone champion. Neither Bushwacker nor Jayhawk, he seen the intrinsic GOOD in most all comers-no matter they's burden-& any what followed his hunch was better for it.What you's get here is some letters, photo's 'n illo's, cherry picked reviews what was run in NY Rocker, Take It! & LA Reader, basically an all encompassin tableaux into the burgeonin (yet already keen) mind of one the best set've eyes 'n ears ever to peep 'n pop in the dank culture of anyone's Underground. I would've liked to've reread that Flesheaters diary though, maybe next time.
Mike Watt waxes poetically in the introduction like the imaginary son of Jack Kerouac what ate one of Robert Creeley's Sunday chickens. I was near driven to a fricassee, but in honor've all's, I opted instead for a cauldron've poutine (extra curds if you will, Garcon! Gravy too!) & a confiscated keg (my people's in all the right places) of L'amere A Boire pilsener. After all, it is Spring. Gotta start thinkin LIGHT.
Contact via; lent@oiedecravan.com & http://oiedecravan.com/

Sunday, May 01, 2011

Divots In The Tarmac.....Mad Nanna S/T 7"

Before rock-fluff wimps had to codify it as a genre so they's & other likeminded weakings could come to terms w/the phenomenon known as Guided By Voices (primarily), 'Lo-Fi' was just an accepted outlet of expression. It didn't need no definition, it weren't a miracle, simply, it was just another anonymous workin stiff in the musical milieu. Some's referred to it as DIY, but that acronym was usually slotted for UK bands from a specific era. Shamblin, theadbare, amateurish, these was all traits what could be associated w/self released records 'n bands, even now. But since the mid/late 90's, 'Lo-Fi' has become alternately both a blessin & a blight when it comes to Pop consciousness. By it's very existence it has suffered (both pro 'n con) the idiocy (& fools) of musical gentrification. It can't just BE, it has to BE SPECIFIC. Branded if you will, the final insult. It is the way of the world, you can't get around it. Well, one can, but they'd have to come live here with me. Which one can't. 'Cause if that happened, they'd soon disappear & unlike "Lo-Fi' the chances of anyone ever hearin from you again would be nil.So go put that in your Fader 'n smoke it.
Lordy me! Am I ridin a high horse or what? Must've gotten up on the wrong side've the hammock today. But it ain't like I'm spoutin bullshit. I reckon the worst part've the whole business is how now you's got bands tryin to purposely sound shoddy cause they's think it's hip. But what do I know? I'm an island dweller & couldn't give a goddamn about any of it. I like what's I like cause I like it. How's that for defined?
And you's know who else's of the same mind? Mad Nanna. They's function in the Albert's Basement universe down to Victoria, Australia 'n the spuzz they's released on this 7" is a dandy. Even in a country w/a scene that's blowin up like the Oz one is, still ain't no one what sounds like'em. Imagine if that band, Even As We Speak was struck by lightnin & on account, forgot all's they ever knew. Upon relearnin to play, they's used a cassette recordin of File Under Pop's 7" for inspiration which went beyond therapy 'n became THE GOAL. It also kinda sounds like a Falling Spikes bootleg what had been caked w/mud & laquered onto vinyl. Definitely Lo-Fi, doubtfully hip. No matter, it's still a glass what's half full of life's lemonade that's sweeter'n a Soave spritzer. Glug, glug, glug.
Find out more here;

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Sing A Song Of Sexpants.....Trophy Wife's st 7" ep

Hey now, I damn near missed this little record what had fallen outta that White Boy box! It's a mysterious private press looking thing by some outfit what's called Trophy Wife. Do tell! As a matter've fact, I'm oglin up a couple right now (my own, not the band). They was nice enough to include a press kit, jabberin about Spector girl groups, Gun Club, Birthday Party, Southern Goth.......oops, sorry about that. Had to take a break. Them real trophy wives needed some Woodbe time. Huzza!
Um.....oh, right, this Trophy Wife band has a cool detached sound, though none of them references they's claim to convey was obvious to my ears. Ethereal they is too. I's was transported to a parallel world, one where that Janet & The Johns was all Janets, Amos & Sara was Sara & Sarah & The Liggers was The Liggers was The Lexie Mountain Boys ('cept they really WAS boys what had they's dingle's snipped to sing high, you know, as in girlish voce).When you think about it like that, all the spooky talk of Civil War cemeteries 'n hauntin spectre's makes sense. If someone when 'n cut off part've my pecker, I think I'd develop some idiosyncratic musical styles too. But like I was sayin, there's them trophy wives just yonder that can tell you's I'm as healthy as a horse. But not now, they's sleepin, SSSSHHHH!
Trophy Wife can be contacted here;

Hard Headed Shredder.....White Boy & The Average Rat Band S/T LP

My eyes did a double take when I see this record perched in my mail trap (they's ain't got no word here for box near's I can tell). Good lord I was happy, only cause I'd been lookin for a copy since Robin Yount was a five figure Brewer. The writeup that Roach Records put togther kind've says it all, 'cept I ain't got a damn clue what's Lamour is (or was) or's this Meanstreak they's reference. I guess I'll have to get to investigatin'em! Wouldn't wanna miss out.
Some nimble-toed piker once tried to tell me this was the same band as Mr. Ott & Jake Whip had but I'd knowed that was a sack of shit 'n told him about it.He made a mess in his drawers what stunk up the bar to high heaven, but at least he's still around to deny it. The real word is the band ain't but one feller & he hired them others on the front to look all tough. It sorta works. Takes me back to some dumbshits what tried to tangle w/yours truly in Parkersburg, WV in the early 80's. None of'em even seen the blade they's surrendered to, let alone feel it. Ah, youth, to be wasted so young. Feel free to quote me on that.
So White Boy & The Average Rat Band.....hard to say exactly where they's (or he) was comin from but know this; when it wants to, this lp is as wild as a peach orchard hog. There's also some screwy ballads goin on ('Oriental Doctors', wow! Too bad Tommy Bolin ain't around to here THAT one) + an outta nowhere acoustic number too. Locked into some current that's more metal than punk, it ain't no joke, as funny as it may seem at times. In other words, Nig Heist it is not. I'm hip to the Kenneth Higney reference too, and Michael Schenker. It woulda been cool if Kenny'd aped Scorpions more than Cat Stevens, but he didn't & behold we's got both 'Attic Demonstration' AND this here White Boy lp. How's are any of us worse off for that? The best of both. Now if only that Higney lp would get rereleased.....
Find this brattled gem here;

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Strum The Four String Again.....TWO new releases from Bill Orcutt!

Did you's know? Nope, nobody did! Had no idea these was to drop, but that's ain't such a surprise, givin my current surroundin's (at present I's is sittin tight on an outrigger in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, writin on a borrowed Polynesian Blackberry). And whose am I gonna share my enthusiasm with anyways? Ain't no one's on this boat, I can guarantee! They's all hopped up about a tuna run, so off I went, but weren't gonna let'em interfere w/my deadline. I'm a multi-tasker from way back.
So yeah, these 2 7"ers is ever rawer & more open then them previous 3 releases what's now artifacts've legend. Could've been done in a live setting (gallery style perhaps) or direct recorded in his studio (shoes optional I am told). They's seem to function as a set, or pair, HEAR YE, one's could even conceive of'em as twins. Like Remus & Romulus; suckled off the teet of a wolf, founders of Rome, the most famous Feral Children of all Mythology. Now's I ain't insinuatin that Bill's playin 'n vocal harmonizin is feral. But most of the cat's in my village is & when I was playin these last night after (ANOTHER) lobster feed, it was liked the feline doomsday clock struck twelve. Course you gotta imagine the superb resonance of guitar & moan on these dudes; cranked up (what other way would you suggest?) they's sound like battle scenes culled from a Kurosawa soundtrack (Throne Of Blood, for instance) but instead of human actors, they's REAL gnarled up old tomcats attackin rats across a vast landscape of ravaged sinew. Bearin that in mind, dig, that when them tunes hit the public airwaves (my DJ stint's here is already big stuff)it was like a collective panic set in, just about ever critter w/claws went screamin outta sight & into the bush for fear! It was so mind rattlin I was forced to stop playin'em. Chickens was runnin around, cluckin they's little, dumb, heads off, shittin everywhere. Cat's howlin from trees, dogs bayin from the cliffs. All the parrots 'n every other bird what could, lit out for some faraway island.I even found a herd've goats what had cut themselves off on a crag, CRYIN! Yep, they was bawlin like newborn babes. Who's have thought? So I reckon let this be a lesson to any pet owners out there; DO NOT PLAY THESE RECORDS BEFORE A TRIP TO THE VET. Hell, you might as well just feed'em a rasher of bacon & let'em check out happy. Because everybody loves bacon. Even a toad'll eat it.
So's anyway, I guess I ain't gonna get a repeat listen to'em anytime soon. Maybe on headphones, if I could get me some. I'd like to post photo's of what house these stupendous, Herculean efforts but I was told not to. Said so in the letter what come w/em, let me read it aloud;
"Hey Roland-
Here are new releases. The pressings are small on each. Right now they are being sold only at shows. No need to review them, but if you must, I understand. Just please no corresponding artwork!. Thank you Roland. Your thoughts count, most of all to you."
Not review'em? A leopard can't change it's spot, can they? I had to tell you's about'em! Shit, writin words 'n stringin folks along is what I's do best(internet speakin, that is)!
Which reminds me-Mr. Bill also included in his package a chocolate flavored condom. Now I can't say's if that's a joke, but considerin how he's the evil Dr. Doolittle, I say's he knows that the vendin machines in Kolonia ain't near what they's is in San Fran. Just goes to show that when some folks say 'fuck a duck", well, they mean it.
Contact Bill Orcutt via;

Monday, April 25, 2011

The Livin Dead, Indeed.....Violent Students 'Party Addiction' LP

It is to my great & everlastin dissatisfaction that I's never got to a Violent Students gig. But they was windin down in Philburg as I was gettin wound up. Anything about'em seemed to be word of mouth & ever now 'n again I might find a cdr or hear tell of this're that. A slim but prime discography to be sure. And who could ever forget the artwork to they's bigtime debut COMPACT DISC for Parts Unknown? Just about the LAMEST design to ever prance down the promenade! That is until The Chickens released they's work of 7" genius on a label but a stone's throw from this Blog. Oof! It pains my eyes to even think of THAT cover.
But I's always said Violent Students needed to have an lp, a crucial, vinyl document on how they's put their there there. And this 'Party Addiction' is just sucha beast. Evidently culled from a recordin of the final live performance + a recroak of the 'A Handy Magician' cassette, there's is two ways to hear 'n assimilate this masterpiece of gunk; as either wretchin your way through Cro Mags demo's played at half speed w/a tummy ache (too much veganaise on the non gluten tater tots will do that!) or as Hajokaidian convulsing in spasms from mercury poisoning while coverin Psycho Sin's entire output. No way to know how your wired friend, but from my culture bunker this is win/win all the way home. Dig it here;

Somersaulting Coincidences.....The Wonderfuls S/T 7" ep

There's been this fanzine what's sprung up down to Australia called Negative Guest List & it's got lot's of crows crowin. Which is a good thing. 'Cept I am a sad fuckin sap & ain't even seen an issue. Ever! The feller what's behind it, Mr. Brendan Somethinorother, seems like a straight shooter though, so's here's hopin such a glarin oversight is rectified soon. But then before I's could even get a gander at page one he's gone & released a 7", usin the street cred of the NGL name as collateral. Hmmmm, now where have I come across this business model before?
Anyways, the Wonderfuls s/t 7" is a humdinger & a half. Purported to be the work of 2 cousins-one's of which is mentally unstable (LOOK WHO'S TALKING?-Capt'n Siltbreeze)-these 4 tracks rank this hoss high amongst the recent Aussie imports. It has a deliciously skewered crackle that recalls 4 different bands what was citizens within the Terse Tapes universe 1 million art-noise punk years ago. I mean listen to it! At any given time they could be Holiday Fun, East End Butchers, Agent Orange, Pastel Bats, Invisible Boys, Wet Taxis, Lazio Toth, Lunatic Fringe, Mice Against God, Pissy Relay Switches, Mesh & Disneyland but never Bathroom Beans, Art Throbs, Mindless Delta Children, Junk Logic, Painkillers, Saxaphone Caper, Zzzzzzzzz, The Klu, Negative Reaction, Laughing Hands, JP Sartre Band or Disneyland. It's a slippery slope, you know? But The Wonderfuls sound like they's squiggle is just right.Let's hear more! Long may they swish.
negativeguestlist.blogspot.com, www.goner-records.com
& ineedinsulation.blogspot.com/
THIS JUST IN: Contact Mr. Negative Guest List here-dirtyalley@msn.com

Friday, April 22, 2011

Exit This Roman Shell.....Chora's 'Slates' lp

In a sort've amusin way, it's hard to know (or recall) if the phenom known as New Weird America simply ceased to exist ( vague Manson pun intended) or if the majority lit out in retreat w/all the grace 'n elan of despots forced into exile. Oh, they's some still out there, strummin away, talkin they's post Beat patois & you know...that's just fine. After all, them's what's still struttin, it's like they's was granted peerage. And you don't expect folks what go around believin they's some kind've alt/music Count(ess), Earl (ditto) or Baron(et) to just relinquish cape 'n septer & walk away, do you? 'Course, all this titlein was done by Straw Kings & I bet it was a grande olde time while it lasted. Now some's seem to be more or less banished (when was the last time anyone heard from Lambsbread? Ding!-rhetorical question) & lot's of would-be Lords 'n Ladies in waitin should breathe a sigh've relief they's boat sailed into harbor post facto(just about every occupant on the USS Not Not Fun for example). But in the end, it happened, & by the by, we's is all better off on account of it. Think about that for a spell. Go ahead, mull it over. No need to get back to me. I know the answer. Here's a clue-its true.
So how that gets us to Chora....well....I suspect they was present at a few banquets once upon a time, but you can't let petty grievances (like musical politics) corrode the whole kit & caboodle. Take this posit for instance; we wouldn't have no nuclear bombs're space program were it not for the help of Werner Von Braun. And you know what he was, don't ya? That's right-A SCIENTIST.
So bearin that in mind, my ears 'n nodes was pleasantly pixilated when I got the Chora lp what w/it's imaginative, textured & (seemingly) improvised rummagin. There's some great density goin on at times, also effective use of trance 'n drone, pleasant passages segue into harsh walls....I dunno, it's like if This Heat had created an lp specifically for the Shandar label. And if THIS 'Slates' (don't tell Mark E. Smith!)was recorded at Cold Storage, well then, pluck my chest hairs 'n call me David Cunningham! Neat stuff through & through. I look forward to hearin more.
Get it here; www.fusetronsound.com