FIDELITY CASTRO: Grisha Shakhnes

Grisha Shakhnes
leave/trace LP
Glistening Examples GLEX-1301

With my discounted scotch sittin proper, let's talk tape dudes right quick. There are a shit-ton of em at work around this green world, some content to run the TV in the background and leave us to figger out the motives behind they's smothered mishegas. Some finna conceal they sources like folks stow tacos in they bras on the way into a movie megaplex. Others, the best of the species I reckon, leave just enough murk and squalor as-is and let the rest ride plain as a daylight drive-by; tuggin yer coat with seductive detritus but leaving enough wind and ungreased swingsets on which to stable yer soundholes. Grisha Shakhnes, ya mighta deduced, be in the latter crew. Born in Moscow he now be operatin' outta Tel Aviv (Is there even a regional context for this dude? Alla the Youtube footage sees dude settin' up in a cluttered apt whilst Endtroducing... of all thangs bumps on the stereo). Earlier releases came under the nom de sumpthin-er-other Mites: mostly a grip of CD-Rs and the occasional cut on a comp of drone and [oh the barf I've postponed at the sight of this word] "experimental" shits, but otherwise scarcely catching a quaff of heat outside the relatively small clan of field recording heads. Ya can count me as one, low profile though I be keepin'. Though you mighta also deduced I'm a touch jaded on the whole scene. Like so many thangs in this age, instant grat has lead to underdone loaves ya can just as soon form back into raw dough. And so few of the deserving cats at work in this area is makin' enough raw dough to release reasonable editions for the [admittedly mostly potential] masses.
This is Shakhnes's first release under his IRL handle and hoo boy yo, this is quite the entrance. As anybody what heard the Mites recordings can say, it ain't so much the sourcing but the deft hand workin that there mixer box machine into elevatin' and harnessin' the limited fidelity for maximum heft. I ain't just talkin' what mosta these folks cater in, i.e. texture and atmosphere. Like almost no other ferrous oxide peddler in my Rolodex, Shakhnes reduces music to shifts in volume and fundamental techniques (reversing, bass boosting, overlap, the blush of a good slow fade-in) most overlook for superfluous fireworks or aimless irreverence. It's a tall task but he conquers it like Jerusalem the chickpea. I'd throw some contempo parallels or ideological antecedents in yer maw but instead lemme put it to ya plain: Jason Lescalleet runs Glistening Examples what put this out. That there is stamp of approval and and context all cuddled up and spoonin' together. Most impressive, inspired and inspiring thang in this canon that's graced my house since The Breadwinner. Get at it before errybody else on ya block does samesies.

THE SINGING NONE: One of You discography

One of You
One of You LP compilation
Little Axe LA-009
2013

Finally got to spend an XL chunk of time with this record, comprised of all three of One of You's self-released singles and a whole side of unreleased demos in her native lengua. The anonymous lady behind the name was/is a Czech immigrant to Canada who apparently found the whole experience super-alienating. Made with a tiny organ, some acoustic guitar (on the home recordings), a low voice so small you mightcould fit it in yer fifth pocket, and little else, these songs speak on big thangs that come in frail wrappings, like displacement and isolation. And so frail and slight is the execution, it took a baker's dozen listens to convince me I wasn't playin a pitched down version of Sœur Sourire or the Carnival of Souls score. It seemed to drift by as light as campfire ash. But I hung in, lovin' the befuddlement and admirin' the quiet chill that descended upon my sloppy lodgings every time I dropped the needle anew. If'n the past few reviews is any indication, tis the season of the grow-er not the show-er. For fans of Desertshore, Janet & The Johns, and Księżyc, or any folks lookin for something to unravel.

SOOTHSAYING SOUNDS FOR BABY

Primitive Motion

Worlds Floating By LP

Bedroom Suck Records 2013

Apparently my blind spot is bigger than I thought--though, don't hip the RMV to that lil admission. This pretty lil wonder's been gettin more play in the Sniper's Nest (He means his third floor walk-up-the-back-way apartment. --Ed.) than all the current tenants combined-like. It's a convenient historical intersection, too, reminding me in equal parts of HaHa Sound, Essendon Airport and The Limp's Marked Man 7" whilst bein' a thing independent of alla that. Leighton Craig formerly of Lost Domain (or have they not belched their last?), whose LP Unnatural Act I had on the hob for a write-up years ago and let burn well past even the Cajun threshold, and Sandra Selig of Fig. (also co-starring Mr. Craig) on a plethora of audible plunder (asst'd winds, drums, and vocals and cuz this sentence needed more parentheses and ands). Though they've been at it for a few years and have a few albums behind em, it may as well be a week-old project to my oblivious ol' ass. Glad them dark days is done did for me! But, it should be said, the line above about this affair bein' pretty don't mean it's necessarily sittin' that way, too. Up in these grooves also lie the longings and misgivings of the heartbroken, uptempo twitches, and straight up disrobed and spot-lit pain. Which is to say, the reveal you get on the third or fourth go round (hey, it ain't but three-quarters of a hour and lends itself to flippage; you got a packed calendar or sumpthin?), even if them listens was stacked like an indie wrasslin' tournament, is pure reward. This lil' lantern got mad rubs left in it. And it'll be blarin' in my kitchen tonight while I braise collards just like it has all week--and probably will for a minute.

CAN'T TAKE ME KNOW-WHERE KNOW-HOW: Live Review

Good Area, Christian Mirande, Patrick Emm, Sophie Dickinson, The Greys
@Smokey Bear Cave, 1/18/2014

A crippling work schedule cooped me up for months, but now they let me get out on occasion to stumble bare-ass through the streets of my early 30s. Ok, I landed two weeks off; at least it wasn't on a dirty mattress under a light bulb, ya know?
Smokey Bear Cave throws a half-grip of shows a month in their otherwise-undisclosable Allston basement for equally small clusters of humans seekin' the gruff, the modular, the warbly, and other assortments of inexplicable clatter and gunge. And fuckin' bravo to that! And a handful did turn out that night, braving the winter's awkward waiting room, to see some locals and a few Philly folks making the New England rounds and playing wherever the beer is recently-chilled and the armrests disturbingly frayed.

The Greys opened, still wet from birth and presenting (like mandrills, though that's pre-mixing metaphors...) their Porpoises into the Fourth World Future of yeah you get it. Field recordings of winged blabbermouths (yeah yeah, it's dawn, we know cuz we're still awake and creepin' yo) cleaned their beaks on hushed hums and synth swells only to run headlong into a screwed copy of "Nothing Compares 2 U" before a few Mexican Summer moments and a timid end. Something to be said for a first-time set that runs under 20 minutes. And that something is promising, if still in admitted infancy. I'm sure I'll be seeing them again.

Christian Mirande, Good Area's touring partner, followed shortly and continuing the cassette moebius relay that enveloped the whole evening. Mirande seemed to have some technical problems midway which kinda skewed my impression of what he was up to. At work before and after were hefty reworkings of what sounded like a cardboard bailer (I heardtell a few of these Philly folks and I both work for the same grocery chain) in the throws of passion and humid, smothering drones that snaked about in lovely, oxygen-depleting ways. Worth a check out.

Good Area came on like Dutch sound poets in the throes of a serious fever and with faint whiff of their fellow Philly resident Code Money's sense of repetition but with taped recitations instead of the "Fresh" sample. Maybe I'm readin' too much into their mishegas. Great fun. The trumpet and shortwave, both aimed at the front row and loud enough to be heard over the PA with nary a bissel of assistance threw the whole set into a galactic sound space Anthony Braxton wished he thought of first. More folks should play the guitar like dude, too; but then again, it'd make it less special and we just can't have that. Welcome rock salt to chapped ears, no matter how dapper the delivery system.

Sophia Dickinson's set of tape recordings, harp and occasional vocals, were small enough to barely be heard in the hollow of a tea cup pressed to yer lobes, let alone whilst disinterested crusties exchanged brags of how much coke they could pack into the filter-end of a Parliament Light met the overhead creak of Converse on rotting stairs. Shame, too, as it warmed our scruffs like welcomin' window candlelight, it did! Forthcoming Feeding Tube release whispers?

Patrick Emm's studious set ended the evening, but thankfully brought a shit-ton hissy warmth and almost-breezy Roland synthwork. A thoughtful middle ground between socially-troubled New Age synth classics (i.e. JD Emmanuel) and Vanity Records tape decay.

Oops! Ran out of beer. Time to skedaddle back into the slush and hush of night. But I'll be back, I said, knowing only the Mass Pike were listenin'.

I DON'T WANNA DO TOP TENS ANYMORE DEAL WITH IT

Hand Grenade Job

s/t tape

self-released

summer 2012

Year+ late & a cliche short, but it bees that way sometimes. "Featuring ex-members of Turboslut (best sludge band of their generation?) and Problems," ain't really gonna prep you proper for what this tape contains. Lifestyles & addresses change & art is a lonely hunter, nahmean? Gotta find a place for it to curl up, otherwise you might. Part of why I've been holding back on spittin verbiage bout this here is because I love it so much. Tryin to vacuum seal & compress it down into something I can plate up all pretty and concise for y'all sometimes sucks the fun outta the listening experience. I wanna do right by it. The music writing community crutches HARD on the sad tradition of comparing bands with women to other bands with women, whether they's relevant references or not. You can count down from the lead how long it'll take til you read "The Raincoats" or "Kleenex/Liliput" or even "Inflatable Boy Clams." Which is to say, dudes thinkin' women making music always sounds like other women making music; as if their audience needs warning. I ain't about to shovel bullshit like that.

What we have here are 6 songs about loss, creepsters, losers, witchcraft and social problems. The sounds move in shivers, hums and throbs, the humor and politics perfectly wed. At times it's painfully sincere. I felt a tremendous relief, a ball of acid finally dissolving in my gut, when I hit play and realized something like this could exist. It ain't fireworks, nor screams and snarls. But it ain't safe neither. Round the time I got to "Personhood," a reworking of "Miss Mary Mack" that contains the lines

"Your sperm will not

Make a lovely person

And I will not

Shelter deadbeats in my womb"

then fades out in a hail of laughter into what sounds like the Video Poker help line hold music, I knew these folks had backtracked over the steps that lead them here like Danny in the hedge maze. To hell with whatever they did before. If there's a tradition this comes out of (Lou Harrison? Femirama? Shit, there I go...), please holla at me. I need more.

Comes with an elegantly letter-pressed J-card to charm you right outta your kicks.

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.

THE MAN WITH THE BILE IN HIS EYES: The Bibs

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.