Wednesday, September 11, 2013

DARK SIGHED OF THE MOOB: The case for Floyd boots

Pink Floyd
Water's Gate (aka "The Man" In Paris¸Champs Elyses, Mothered Man, Work in Paris, ad infinitum)
bootleg LP

Years back I was tossed down the Pink Floyd 67-73-era bootleg cavern by a particular member of Wolf Eyes, as I'm sure many of you "innocent" (read: woefully naive) bystanders was, in his Listed article for the oft-respectable Dusted Magazine. In it, many a wacked out behemoth live set was touted, under one of the scores of names pasted on the endless n-th generations thereof, as a primo cabbage shredder. And lo, the man spoke the truth. As a teen finding my way through stacks and crates, my puzzler ached whenever some gray-hair told me the Syd era wasn't the only good bit; that I oughta pick up Atom Heart Mother or Meddle. With the notable exception of Ummagumma, they all seemed somehow more overwrought and pretentious than the King, Court and Aristocracy of Crimson combined. Apparently, something about the recording process cheeseclothed the jagged, sweaty, shrieking combustion engine they were as live act into so many paisley snuggle-ups and well-mannered whispermints. Double shame.

Lots of Floyd headcases call Water's Gate the worst recorded bootleg of the era, but don't listen to them. They eat their morning eggs off Dark Side picture discs still in the shrink. They're after clarity; minor alterations on a tenaciously gripped theme. Combine the forces of the Theatre Comedie des Champs-Elysses acoustics, 1970, the alledged first performance of Atom Heart Mother, a warbling tape and a French radio broadcast, and you get a ping-ponging, nauseating, smudge of a performance. Sometimes the waning frequency adds a much-needed whine here, and sometimes a French broadcaster prattles there. Cooing vocal sections sound more like cardboard sitars and heavily-treated percussion improvs manifest as train yard maintenance calamities. As a listening experience, it's at least as harrowing as (for contempo analogs) Blues Control's Puff, insofar as the blues sits awkwardly but amicably beside righteous blat-n-squirm. Now that I've made an already muddy pit all the more muddy, go dig for the cheapest Pink Floyd boot of the era. Oh wait. Give me a few weeks to secure another copy first. Thanks.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013


The Bibs
Waiting for Alex c18
All Gone 2013

This here is one tiny, crumbling brick of stanky cheese. Am I allowed to call it a cassingle? Am I beatin' the vogue to the pose by bringin that term up? Either way, there's just enough of a bite herein to give a gent the proper willies as to the potential of this Bibs outfit. America needed it's own Mad Nanna, and Car Commercials just ain't quite doin' the business of late, at least in my camp. But really what they're riding on is the dusty, nappy, folky fringes of the Acid Archives tattered rug; a kinda Carr & Kahl or Crandell & Bartels for early 21st century Detroit abandominiums. The four originals have all the stumbling, dorky squiggle of early GBV (I'm thinkin Same Place the Fly Got Smashed specifically, but maybe that's the boozer vibes this also happens to exude by the hectare) tempered with some properly alienating darkness. Was that an organ or a violin with chronic congestion? Alla that's peachy and perfectly welcome in my hovel, but givin the Red Crayola a run for whatever passes for currency in TX with a cover of "Transparent Radiation" that sounds like it was performed lying down in a pool of Everclear--THAT is pretty damned impressive. Not to mention a good and smart-mark way of distinguishing yourself in an age when cover selections sometimes seem like implied wilderness rather than actual wilderness.   As to what this outfit is like with a drummer, maybe you got one up on me? I'd surely like to know.

Still some left at All Gone for the lurkers.