Label: Pure Acid Mixtapes - WAR-093 Format: Cassette Mixed, Promo Country: US Genre: Electronic Style: Acid, Hard Trance, Trance
Like any Korean meal, it came with several small plates of spiced, seasoned, and pickled side dishes, with one of the side dishes always being kimchi. I love her voice, I love her performances. Andrey Henkin. I popped in and asked for bulgogi again. After I took my malaria medicine I somehow made it back to my room and slept the rest of the night. Such is the democratic, go-where-you-want vibe of the largest free jazz festival in the world.
Enthusiasts included students of the Sunday school run by the Jewish community and members of the Youth Club, headed by Mikhail Wainer.
Even the cloudy weather could not keep the youngsters away from this excursion, which turned out to a rather joyous event. Raffle participants can choose whether their ticket will help fund international programs run by the foundation, or activities at any of the more than campus-based Chabad Houses nationwide.
Participants need not be present at the drawing, which will take place on July 7 during the annual Chabad on Campus International Conference. Chabad 5 Towns Summer Position. We are seeking: Married or single women with preschool experience. Are you Seeking: A summer job in a friendly, relaxed environment in beautiful Cedarhurst, Long Island.
Competitive salary, prepared schedules, only 35 minutes from Crown Heights, transportation provided. June 25 — August 15 - 9: Hadassah chabad5towns. July 17th — Aug 19th What are you doing this summer? Great accommodations, good pay, fun and exciting camp with a warm community. If you are interested in a position, please email me yosaifg msn.
Name, phone, age, previous camp experience and 2 references including phone numbers. Looking forward to hear from you soon! Sources in Washington said that Rice expressed her opposition to the approvals to be announced today, and several other approvals for projects in other towns, notably Beitar Ilit.
Prime Minister Ehud Olmert is scheduled to visit Washington this week. In the last few years, Djerba has also become a tourist resort for Jews from outside the country, especially as the government now allows Israeli citizens to visit.
This year, more Jews than ever visited Djerba: Rabbi and Mrs. With the help of the Chief Rabbi of Tunisia, Rabbi Chaim Bitan, they set up tefillin stands outside the shul, and on Shabbos they organized minyanim and meals for thousands of tourists. The shluchim also gave shiurim at the local yeshiva. Evening classes 4 week course Course includes learning and hands on experience For more information call: Yehoshua ben Levi then asked Mashiach]: Yehoshua returned to Eliyahu, who asked him, "What did he say?
He has deceived me! Rather, "today" describes the state of a people of whom it may be said, zachu - "They are meritorious. Why, then, has he not yet come? Likkutei Sichos, Vol. The banquet that followed signified the end of a year-long program designed to prepare these youngsters to fully lead a Jewish life. Jewish girls and boys, aged 12 and 13, who are not enrolled there also take part in the course.
On this life-changing occasion, each of the participants received a medal to remember this ceremony. The walls were decorated with a portrait of each of them. Chief Rabbi of S. Petersburg Menachem Mendel Pewzner congratulated members of this group. After the feast, during a friendly competition, the youngsters demonstrated their knowledge of Jewish traditions and history. With their parents, grandparents, community leaders and other members looking on, this indeed was a proud day for the entire Jewish community of S.
Petersburg — a member of the Federation of Jewish Communities of Russia. Remembering King David. The celebration went on until the early hours of the morning.
Before the Tehillim were recited, Mr. Boymelgreen read out a letter from the Rebbe Rayatz that emphasizes the importance of saying Tehillim at the tomb of King David. IL Shluchim: Order now receive by Tuesday-Wendsday. The first course will be ready in time for this coming Shavous and can be ordered on our website. This program, as well as our other up coming courses, contains handbooks created especially for the students and teachers. Click Here Sample: Click Here For more info.
Rabbi Glauberman described what each Chabad institution does in the town and the need to expand and renovate the local mikveh. The minister also watched a brief video about Chabad in Ramat Aviv, presented by the director of activities for girls, Mrs. Merav Tzippori. They praised Chabad for its activities in Ramat Aviv and promised to do what they could to help the local institutions to grow and develop. D, and the number is rising, worrying officials. Suicides are on the rise and more expected.
Things can be overwhelming at times. Not all the news is bad. For some there is light at the end of the tunnel. For example, the space exploration community is jubilant. Imagine, we sent a space exploration vehicle million miles from earth with a travel time of days to check on the possibility of life on Mars.
Here on mother earth we lose our homes, teachers for our schools, health, lives are in jeopardy due to lack of funds, but what we are worried about is Mars.
Sason and Claire Dayan of S. The couple flew in especially for the occasion, accompanied by S. The hall, designed to accommodate up to guests, will be used for various simchot including weddings, brisim, and Bar Mitzvot. The hall is located in the original Machon Alte building on Jerusalem Street. Although the donors modestly declined long speeches, Mr. Dayan said he had one request: The very purpose of the hall was exemplified with beauty that same evening as two Machon Alte students celebrated their engagements with the guests that night!
And just a few days later, the first bris at the new hall was scheduled to take place! Kol Simcha! A Jewish Soul: Orthodox Outreach and Interfaith Families. One of his students is the president of a traditionally Jewish fraternity. He regularly attends Chabad events, often brings his fraternity brothers with him and mentions his grandfather-the-rabbi. But because his mother is not Jewish, Chabad and other Orthodox organizations do not consider him Jewish. Another student, a freshman with an Irish-sounding name, is Jewish to Chabad, even though she was raised Catholic.
Boys Summer Program in August. Mendel Reizes Davened Shachris the Umud downstairs. There were 7 Chasanim. Tully Silberberg spoke before Mussaf. Chazzonim update to follow. Little did the year-old rabbi realize that his rabbinic specialty was about to be born. Working with Chabad of Boca Raton, he began leading support groups and organizing Torah study sessions for addicts. He also helped open a halfway house for women and, with his wife, Frumi, organizes Sabbath dinners in his home for 40 people in recovery each Friday night.
Kessler hopes to open a halfway house for men this summer and is looking for a Boca Raton storefront to start a gathering place, to be called the Jewish Recovery Center. Chicago Shidduch Group Teleconference - updated with access code. Contact imformation will be given.
No names. The panel will update the families on any developments. We are big believers that happy Shluchos make happy children and community members.
Contact rabbizalmy sbchabad. Blowout Sale! Multi Directional, Stretch Caps and all Colors Any questions? Do you need a Mohel? I rolled in around 9 am. A skinny young man with trendy glasses was at reception. I gave him my reservation, and he looked very intently at his ledger. He stood and looked at a calendar behind the desk. He scrunched his face and handed me a key. All this was done without exchanging a word. The key was for a room right next to reception. Reception and this room shared a wall.
I went in and found an en suite single with cable TV. I took the two steps back out the door to see if this was right, as I had reserved a room in a person dorm. I spent the rest of the day sleeping off my travel on the three thin mats laid on the floor for me. I woke up in the late afternoon and was fiercely hungry. Bulgogi marinated and barbequed beef strips has always been my favorite.
So I headed out on a quest for bulgogi. Although the hostel was near a large road where the bus dropped me off it itself was on a narrow street only wide enough for a few pedestrians. But this is not uncommon for this part of Seoul, which is called Insadong. It one of the oldest parts of the city and still has a lot of 19 th century buildings which are linked by vast networks of little nameless roads, making it an easy and fun place to get lost.
On one of these nameless roads, not much wider than my shoulders, I found a little restaurant. I asked if they had bulgogi. By ask I mean I said bulgogi over and over with big animated gestures. They then looked at me and said something in Korean.
I just nodded and sat down. Apparently in the exchange I had ordered tripe dumplings. Although not bulgogi it was very good. Like any Korean meal, it came with several small plates of spiced, seasoned, and pickled side dishes, with one of the side dishes always being kimchi. Kimchi is salted and preserved cabbage.
A museum exhibit I would see later explained that kimchi was an essential source of sodium and other nutrients in feudal Korea. Rural populations survived during the winter on the preserved cabbage.
Modern kimchi is a little more elaborate. It is heavily spiced and rather tasty. But over this history from being an essential staple to a tasty morsel, kimchi has remained a part of every Korean meal. Food was to be a recurrent theme throughout my time in Korea. I had to go in. It was small but interesting — mostly mannequins in tableaus with plastic food. There was a lot of written information but it was all in Korean.
One exhibit was in English and explained that the coming weekend was the fall festival for Korea and traditionally families make a food called tteok , a sort of sweet, rice flour candy. The exhibit went on forever showing how to make boiled, grilled, stewed, pickled, and anything else tteok.
Of course I needed to try it. I got a little round ball with a green tea leaf delicately placed on it. I sat outside and took a bite. Sweet is not the right word to describe it. Perhaps starchy is better. The exhibit opened with a proverb translated into curious English. It read: From the museum I somehow found my way back and slept again for hours. I woke sometime after the sun had set. I decided to go back towards the palace and see the city by night. Armed with my camera I walked the quiet moon-drenched alleys.
To the north lay a large but gently sloping mountain range. Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of a moonlit peak between buildings. I sat on the stoop of a church for a bit. Korean children played just down the street in the bright yellow aura of a street light on the otherwise blue darkness of the road. It was almost 11 and I thought it great that children could play in the streets of Seoul safely until late. I continued walking.
At many intersections groups of men gathered around steaming carts and ate rice cakes in pepper broth from plastic bowls. Skinny boys in shorts gathered around televisions set up on the street and played video games in the brisk evening air.
I eventually broke through the labyrinth of little roads and emerged near the Grand Palace and the National Museum. Opposite me stood a row of hulking skyscrapers crowned with giant video screens silently playing commercials on loops.
I crossed the intersection in one of the many labyrinthine underground passages. Outside a few hundred women sat quietly in the shadows of the office gate. They had banners and placards propped up against the curb and they seemed prepared to be camped out for the night. It was some form of sit-in or protest, but I was unable to tell the cause.
I stood and watched the sleepy protesting women from behind a garbage pile of food wrappers and drink bottles that had accumulated. From the size of the garbage pile they had been there a while. I continued my walk along the now skyscraper lined streets. At one point I stopped to watch a vendor press a ginger root the size of my arm and extract a juice he then mixed with seltzer. Eventually I turned homeward again. It was very late and I stole past the skinny young man at reception as he dozed on his ledger.
The guesthouse provided breakfast. By breakfast I mean white bread with jam and a sweet yogurt drink served in vessel the size of a shot glass.
A hand-written sign declared in militant print: In the small breakfast nook I met a Singaporean woman and two Vietnamese sisters who had all just arrived in Korea for sightseeing.
I had an appointment at a cartoon museum that day, but we all agreed to meet later in the night to get Korean barbeque and, we hoped, bulgogi. I then set off to the Korean Cartoon Museum and Archive. I jumped on the subway for what I thought might be a short ride. But after the 2 nd hour on the train I realized this was a bigger mission, showing just how vast Seoul is and how expansive is its public transportation.
The subway eventually emerged from underground and raced along through residential blocks. Korea has a negative birth rate and has had one for many years. It was explained to me that it is just too expensive to have children, so young couples prefer not to. In any case, Korea has an aging population. Walking the streets you can see this. The elderly are a sizable and visible population in the city. And parks are full of old men sitting on benches in the warm sun.
On this ride I rarely got to sit because there was always someone older than me in need of my seat. I had flashes of America as the baby boomers really hit retirement. In a few years perhaps it will be impossibly impolite to sit on New York subways. Others stood with me and watched movies on their cell phones. After a few hours I got off at Bucheon station. I had e-mail from the museum outlining directions in questionable English.
It instructed me to exit the station and find bus 3. Unfortunately this station had six exits onto different streets. After finding no bus stops at the first three I went into a post office.
The man behind the counter spoke no English but a man in line instructed me to once again cross into the station and take the 17 bus to the station. Just then my stomach got the best of me and I slid into a little restaurant next to the post office. As far as I can tell, all Korean restaurants are very similar. Silverware is kept at the table. There are always metal chopsticks and spoons. Water is kept in a cooler at the front of the restaurant with metal cups stored along side.
There is always a man who seats you and takes your order from the photo images of the food. Then there are two women in aprons behind a counter preparing the food. Always one man and two women. I witnessed this more often than not.
It was just after the lunch hour and before dinner so I was the only one in the shop and as I ate my dumplings the man who seated me sat at an adjacent table intently watching me eat.
When I took a bite and gave a thumbs up in approval, he proudly smiled and returned with a plate of small salted fish for me. I tried to ask people on the street but no one would or could understand my questions.
Eventually I just followed a stream of buses none of which were 3 or 17 until they pulled into a largish terminal about a mile walk from where I had started. There a bunch of smoking bus drivers were crowded around. I showed them the address I wanted to get to, and they put me on yet another bus all together. I rode this bus for almost half an hour before being told to get off at a construction site. I wandered aimlessly for another 20 minutes until I found a police station.
I had ridden the train to another city all together. Bucheon to be exact. Together we hunted on the map for my destination and found it to be only a few blocks away from the police station. I thanked the policewoman with much bowing of my head and waving. I walked the rest of the way in high spirits. I was eventually greeted by an archway dotted with large fiberglass cartoon characters.
This gateway let unto a sports arena, and I came to realize the museum was in the basement of a soccer stadium. Not sure what to make of it, I made my way into a little dark glass door behind the entrance for grounds crew.
I had had correspondence with someone from the museum and had planned to meet him or her. All I had though was a name on the e-mail. I had hoped to show up and have a chat. I showed the scared young woman the name and she just looked at me blankly.
She retrieved an older man and he gave me an even blanker look. After a long awkward silence I just gave up and entered into the museum. This was really something. It was expansive and had a section on cartoon history in Korea tracing its origins back to early cave paintings and later screen painting.
It then went through a detailed time line of the 20 th century outlining changes and trends in comics, animation, and political cartoons. I was in heaven. The displays were new and I was so impressed that there was demand for such a place in Korea.
A few families and a few older men walked though the halls with me. At the end of the exhibits was a mock up of a 19 th century Korean newsstand with reproductions of graphic media art from the period and alongside this was a large room of comfy chairs book shelves full of comics. A few white-capped old men dozed in the seats with comics opened on their tummies.
As I left I tried one last time to find my contact. The man running the gift shop was called over by a young guard and all of us just stood awkwardly until I thanked them and left. I was impressed to see how well archived everything was, how well designed it all was, and how there was a clear popularity for cartoons in broader Korean society. On the way back to Seoul, just before I jumped onto the train, I ducked into a grocery store.
Just my luck — it was sample day! All the sample servers were young women in gogo boots and mini skirts. It was an odd visual juxtaposition to see Korean grandmothers being handed kimchi by these done-up young women. I bought a new notebook and then jumped on the train. Again it took 2 hours and I arrived back at the hostel right about dinnertime. The Vietnamese girls had just returned from sightseeing and we were all hungry despite my many samples tasted.
We headed out into the dim narrow streets of Insadong. We eventually settled on a brightly lit diner with glass tables. We sat down and as usual my request for bulgogi was met with confusion and refusal by the server. The server then suggested something else in Korean and we all shrugged and said OK. Soon we were brought two bubbling stone pots of seafood and spicy tofu, a sizzling platter of spiced ground beef and an entire grilled fish studded with garlic.
Not what we were looking for but absolutely delicious, and quite the feast. The two girls are sisters whose family had moved to Canada when they were teenagers. Now one works as a nurse and the other works for Exxon.
They were touring Korea, China, Japan, and Thailand. They had spent last summer backpacking in Vietnam and got me excited about the possibility of visiting. They had some very interesting things to say about returning to Vietnam after so many years and how they felt like absolute outsiders and were treated as such by the local Vietnamese. After dinner we somehow still had room for more food and as we wandered back towards the guesthouse we stopped in a little convenience store.
We wanted ice cream but found in their freezer only two types of deserts. Of course we tried both. They were exactly as they advertised themselves: A bean and a cheese frozen novelty. There really is nothing like biting into a frozen clump of lightly sweetened beans. They were leaving early in the morning for Beijing and we said goodbye in the lobby, which incidentally was also my doorstep.
I drifted off to sleep with a full stomach of too many things to even remember. The next day I felt I needed to see the proper touristy sights of Seoul. So I made my way towards the royal palace of the last dynasty. I kept passing gallery after gallery and inevitably I got drawn in. There was a lot of forgettable abstract painting but some lovely resin sculptures. The most interesting was perhaps a gallery doing an exhibit of 20 th century American Art.
I had no idea that Seoul was such a hub for art and for high-quality, highbrow art. It was Saturday morning and lots of Korean students my age seemed to be wandering the galleries.
I got a coffee and it cost about six dollars. I had been warned that coffee in Korea costs more than a full meal. The warning was right. Eventually the sun returned, however bashfully, but for the rest of the day would often duck behind clouds.
I made my way to the vast grounds of the royal palace. I passed the guards done up in 18 th century costume. I got a close look and saw their false Fu Manchu mustaches falling off just a bit. One could clearly see the strings of gum attaching the false hair to their upper lip.
Japanese tourist snapped pictures of the costumed guards as I passed. I rarely saw any western tourists. They seemed to be exclusively Japanese or Singaporeans, with the exception of the Vietnamese girls. The palace was everything it should be. There were refined pagodas behind lovely ponds. Each building was an exercise in refinement and design, a sort of antithesis to the ostentation of the Thai palaces, but equally impressive.
Attached to the palace were several museums. The most interesting to me was a museum housing the archives of the last dynasty. There has been for centuries a government ministry to record history and to document the lives of the royal family. Granted, it serves a political historical function to write your own history, but when I compare it to East Africa where there is no history written at all and where archives are non-existent, it was fascinating to come to a culture where they have been meticulously recording, saving, archiving, and sorting information since the dark ages in Europe.
Just to walk the grounds and take in the exhibits took all day. So I just took advantage of the time to read and do laundry. I had been intrigued by the comics museum and wanted to see how modern cartoon art intersected with modern high art in Korea. Like the cartoon museum it was far out of town and in a strange special context. I had to walk past roller coasters and swinging pirate ships to arrive at the museum. The whole ground floor of the expansive museum was being dedicated to a special exhibit of a survey of Korean art of the last 50 years.
It was all already hung on the wall for me. I was so impressed by Korean art. This exhibit blew me away. There were abstract expressionist artists who rivaled any of the big names in the west like Rothko, Pollack, or Dekooning. You name it, it was done in Korea and possibly better. Work of the last 20 years really spoke to me: Fantastic institutional critique, great identity politics pieces, and then just amazingly simple and brilliant conceptual pieces.
I just walked around shaking my head in disbelief. I tried to communicate with him. How are you? How do you like the coffee? Are you happy here? That was one of my first meetings I had. The Minnesota Star Tribune reported on December 21, Moussaoui then became belligerent and evasive about his background, Congressman Oberstar and other sources said. In addition, he seemed inept in basic flying procedure, while seeking expensive training on an advanced commercial jet simulator. Even the great Mossad could not have foreseen such a coincidence!
The real Atta would have been able to respond to his instructors German small talk and the real Moussaoui would have been able to respond to his instructors French small talk. Atta just walked away and Moussaoui threw a fit! Neither responded because neither could. They were impostors, whose faces were probably disguised by a make up artist.
Their mission was to frame the two innocent Arabs who were probably targeted by the Mossad at random. Mossad agents, posing as "art students" were arrested after conducting some type of operation in Hollywood, Florida, the same small town that Atta stayed in!
To quote his grief stricken father: So who, if not the "19 Arabs" was on those planes? There are a number of alternative scenarios. Could some Israelis have been fanatical enough to have volunteered for such a suicide mission?
Odd as that may sound at first, it is not out of the realm of possibility. The fact is, hard-core Zionist extremists have proven themselves to be every bit as fanatical, more so , than Arab extremists.
A nation which can produce thousands of bloodthirsty Zionist extremists, Irgun war criminals, Mossad terrorists who blow up occupied buildings, assassins who kill Israeli Prime Ministers in full view of policemen, and crazed killers who have carried sickening massacres of Arab women and children; would surely be capable of recruiting a few fanatics willing to sacrifice for "the cause".
This theory becomes even more plausible when we consider that only the pilots would have needed to know that the planes were on a suicide mission.
Have you already forgotten the case of Dr. Baruch Goldstein?. Goldstein was a New York doctor and resettled in Israel. The name, which comes from a New York Post headline on the war in Afghanistan, is probably the first thing that gets them noticed.
During their first tour, the pair was without a moniker, and the suggestion stuck. Since then, Talibam! Recorded over 48 hours, Boogie in the Breeze Blocks is the closest thing Talibam! One might not think of Talibam!
The specifics are in the name. Oysters Await. Boogie in the Breeze Blocks is among other things a protest against the condofication of New York, for breeze blocks are the cinder blocks that make up much contemporary urban architecture.
Pioneering improvising guitarist reissues epic Lucifer Rising box and continues to make music from behind bars. By Jay Somerset. This call is from Bobby. This call will be monitored and recorded. To accept this call, dial 5 now. Bobby BeauSoleil: Convicted murderer. Specifically, his two newly released anthologies on the Mexican Summer and Ajna Offensive labels, the latter of which put out a definitive, four-LP box set called the Lucifer Rising Suite.
The music, recorded in the mid- to lates, was retrieved from a dusty box of tapes stored by onetime Orkustra violinist David LaFlamme. And us. Unbeknownst to BeauSoleil, experimental filmmaker Kenneth Anger was amongst the crowd. BeauSoleil agreed to play the part so long as he could compose the music.
BeauSoleil shared a house with Anger. Things were intense and criminal elements started coming into the Haight. At that point I left. Living on a ranch surrounded by young, beautiful women, Charles Manson allured many, including BeauSoleil. Not yet 22, BeauSoleil made a misstep that would change it all: This single, horribly botched act landed BeauSoleil in prison.
Soon thereafter, Manson and his followers painted Los Angeles blood red in a series of savage, unprovoked attacks, forever bonding BeauSoleil with the Manson name. Finally, after three years, a recording was sent to Anger, and in , the film was released. For some of us, there is a distinct lack of moral sensibility in a conclusion that consigns the protagonist to perpetual disgrace and despair.
Story by Shaun Brady. Photos by Michael Galinsky. Well known as a boxing fanatic, who has spoken and written on the common instincts to be found in pugilism and jazz, Shipp is also a lifelong fan of professional wrestling. Neither is Matthew Shipp, though at times it seems he aspires to be. He cites the examples of Bud Powell and Thelonious Monk, ascribing their gifts, at least in part, to their struggles with mental illness.
His central nervous system was an open reception station to everything, mainly because he was crazy. I think it takes an openness, however that openness is created.
I know somebody that got hit by a bolt. And other people operate outside of that somehow. The new disc immediately follows a period where Shipp has been concentrating on his group with guitarist-turned-bassist Joe Morris and drummer Whit Dickey, which offered a skewed, cubist take on the traditional piano trio. Most of the standards are tunes that Shipp has recorded before, along with some of his own compositions.
In its original quintet form, the piece seemed to ebb and flow, its tempo washing tidally from hesitant to ecstatic. Alone at the piano, Shipp takes the tune at a steadier pace, spiraling into the music methodically, exploring it from the inside out. I thought I could gather the whole world in my range and manifest all the disparate elements together in a solo piano CD. That type of epic psychosis. Shipp refuses to discuss the reasons behind the break-up, but the implication is clearly personality clashes among his bandmates— both of whom he continues to work with,.
And to me, language is a particular equation of energy, so therefore music is a language. The study of mysticism is the study of the genesis of any structure. Tracing his own lineage, Shipp sees himself as part of two separate but intertwined threads—the jazz piano lineage that leads through Ellington, Monk and Powell, and a mystically inclined tradition that includes John and Alice Coltrane and Sun Ra.
The same with Sun Ra—he merges Greek figures like Pythagoras or Heraclitus with Egyptian mythology through the prism of the black American experience. Coltrane and Sun Ra had two wholly different ways of going about having a mythological premise for the generation of a jazz universe.
So I see WWW. Raised in the Episcopal church, Shipp states vehemently that he does not consider himself an orthodox Christian today. To me, what mysticism is ultimately about is the quest to understand existence, which is energy, which is language. So from the time the first caveman banged a bone against a tree, on some level music is about everything.
One aspect of that is the quest to understand yourself and what you come out of. His mother was a nurse, his father a police captain who became a professor of criminology after his retirement. My mother went to high school with Clifford Brown; my father worked as a police officer with Lem Winchester, a vibist who played with Ramsey Lewis.
So there was constantly jazz mythology around the house. They crossed paths once, when Washington encouraged the young Shipp to call for an audition, which might have led to a very different history. The extreme self-confidence, some have said prickliness or worse , for which he has become in famous was present from the beginning. After an unsatisfactory year at the University of Delaware, he studied with Dennis Sandole, the famed Philadelphia-based educator whose students included John Coltrane and Pat Martino.
It grows of its own accord given the proper nutrients to unlock that garden. I had these headaches, then I went to sleep one night and had all these dreams of mathematical equations, and I woke up and had it. There were hints of it before, but now it was an effortless thing that was always there after that point. Joe Morris encountered Shipp even earlier, becoming aware of him during the year Shipp spent at NEC, and getting to know him once he arrived in New York in That individuality, Morris says, was already present.
It was obviously different and I noticed that instantly. He just figured that he would work on building a new scene for himself out of the alternative music scene—and he was very clear about what that meant and how to do it.
Most other musicians in New York seemed scared to express their contempt for these guys—not all of whom were bad or bad to all of us—who seemed to be disregarding what we thought was important. Ware Quartet—but in both cases he played an integral part in shaping the music, rather than playing a subservient role to the bandleaders.
In other words, I sought out every musical experience I could prior to when people know me on albums. Why would I want to? So what if I played with Wayne Shorter? How would that improve me? All the people that now exist who played with Miles Davis— say Kenny Garrett or Marcus Miller—their language is not any stronger than mine, so what is there to learn from playing with a famous jazz icon?
That whole trajectory means nothing. William Parker, David S. Ware, Guillermo Brown and Shipp in December, Shipp with Rob Brown at the time of their first recording session, circa He arrived in New York along with saxophonist Rob Brown, with whom he made his earliest recordings. The two were seeking out a select few mentors who they felt they could enter into a dialogue with—chief among them,. It just seemed to me that it could coexist in both worlds equally.
I thought that if we got in with this guy, he could take us somewhere and we could take him somewhere. When I agreed to play with him, what attracted to me to Matthew was his vibration—he was vibrating at a very high level, and his presence was very illuminated. Behind the philosophy and science is his belief in the unbelievable.
Matthew is a preacher, and his church is music. When we play together, bass and piano are equal, never accompanying the other but independent, moving on two tracks that are really one. Ware Quartet. Although the drum chair changed several times, the unit was remarkably long-lasting and influential—to many ears, the most important jazz group since the classic Coltrane quartet. But we actually coexisted. What was great about it was that he was of an older generation, but he really allowed me to have a big part in the music.
He had the maturity and the belief in himself that he could accept a younger person into the band and just give me free rein to be myself, as Miles did with Herbie and Wayne and Tony Williams.
But for that to happen, somebody has to really understand you. I think Matt and I have a completely telepathic connection when we play, but I know I base that on understanding what he is doing musically and understanding how he thinks. Matt has a very idiosyncratic sense of sequence. Matt plays like someone throwing a ball at a moving object.
He has to rely on impulse to feel how to hit the object but he trains that impulse with hours of practice, and the object is always moving really fast, so it seems like he sees it like a hawk watches his prey.
Time slows down and then he make his move. So his playing is intense all the time but the motion in relation to that intensity is often slowed down. He was introduced to the label. Wynton Marsalis and Stanley Crouch, unsurprisingly, come in for especial condemnation for their restrictive views. But the same currents of electricity that animate the universe exist now that existed in , so why should something be more authentic because some fucking niggers went into the studio in and did it?
If you listen to the way Neil Young plays guitar and his idiosyncrasies—only he could make that music. The same as Monk. My central nervous system emerges from the universe, so anything I could create has just as much authenticity as Charlie Parker or Bud Powell or anything else. It was very much from the gut and emotional, and they shared that common charge into the market devoid of commercial considerations. It made me see that jazz actually has a place in contemporary music, which was kind of shocking to me.
I just thought it was meant to be neatly packed in the corner, respected, where you could look at all of the greats against smoky backgrounds on stage in coffee table books. He completely breaks down all the notion of segregation of styles and thought and merges them all together simultaneously.
Coming out of discos at night and being wasted as shit, I would have these hypnagogic images. Another thing, my wife is really a trip-hop fan. I can masquerade as a jazz musician with a trio. We can always resort to that jazz sound, even if the actual language is something completely different. With Parker increasingly busy with his own projects, the time had come to introduce a new bass voice into the mix. So I have to be ready to re-read things in their new rendition each time and expect that the sequence will be altered because of what just happened.
So playing bass with Matt is a great challenge and a really rewarding one. But for the immediate future he intends to concentrate on his solo performances, the most direct form of access to those inner voices. So I have to be completely open to the moment, which means being empty. Thought is not mellow. Behind the most laid-back, cooled-out person, there are all kinds of conflicting emotions. This planet is based on non-equilibrium, complete dysfunction. If you define an angel as a photon or a pure stream of light, Bud Powell is the purest stream and Monk is close, but if they actually became that pure stream, they would disappear.
His point seems to be that music is the means by which the components of the so-called cesspool can become something transcendent. So my own creative imagination can take in anything and come up with some abstract concept that I can use.
I might not even be able to put it into words, but I can look at manure and learn something about the structure of the universe that I could extrapolate in my own way. Every one of us is our own unique take on the universe, and the idea as a musician is to have your language really scream out this unique take. This is his first feature for Signal to Noise. Story by Jay Somerset. Which one, I can never guess. Beaming with excitement, I race up the stairs, cut open the box and pull out a seven-inch.
The cover shows a blissedout longhair strumming an acoustic guitar. Never heard of him. Titled 2 Sides Of, the two-song single is numbered from a limited run of OK, so this is Trimble. But while the internet has allowed mail-order labels to thrive, the manner in which the music arrives—weeks or months later, at your door, on a bulky, non-digitized format—forces a slowdown of our neverWWW.
After all, in an afternoon you can fill your hard drive with hundreds of albums. But then what? In a recent interview with The Quietus magazine, Chasny tells a story about coming across a long-out-of-print Sun City Girls record. Why download it? Just to say I have it, that I have heard it? I wish we could have made a documentary about that summer and given that to Keith to release.
Like all clubs, membership created a feeling of exclusivity, like you were privy to something special. Other labels and smallpress magazines had a similar mindset revolving around the mail. It was such a killer zone. Mail-order was, and is, a fantasyland populated by fringe artists.
For example, there was, and still is, the largely unattainable Nurse With Wound List. Nowadays all it takes is a quick Google search to reveal and download the List not counting the fictionalized entries, of course , but back then, it took digging,. Back in , Chasny received a call from a young law student in North Carolina.
Six Organs, along with Bardo Pond, Mick Turner and five others, each contributed music to the first Three Lobed series, released between and Plus, like many of us, they also like to get new music in the mail. Likewise, the artist can come to the label with music that seems tailor-made for the imprint. People who dig records with more than a casual fever usually cross paths with us in some form at some point.
Each seveninch is split by two bands, with Britt and Amanda often pairing disparate sounds. Working out of their apartment, the couple do all the silkscreening, label-making and special touches that go into NNF releases. Not everyone is so keen on such a broad range of music; some focus in on a particular artist, sopping up every recording—the more limited,.
I miss a ton of records. But why worry about it? Or was it? I was torn. Luckily, I tracked down a sole, reasonably priced copy online at Piccadilly Records in Manchester, U.
A month later the album arrives. I put the record on the turntable and sprawl in a chair. I fondle the sleeve, No. It sounds good. That I just had to have it. And then I recalled something Chasny said: Photos by Eden Batki. Do they insist on that? That to me would be perfectly legitimate. Key texts are his legendary Song Cycle and Discover America albums—but bubbling underneath the conversation are references to other records: Or his arrangements quick checklist: But all of this burns away in the infra zone, the bed upon with Parks bases his almost aleatory drift across the whys and wherefores of his relationship with music.
As a matter of fact I like to say, the older I get, the better I was. I went to New Orleans to produce, and I met a fellow by the name of Nocentelli. Allen Touissant was to me one of the greatest pianists of my life.
I also liked Lincoln Majorca. I played for Allen, he remembers that: Allen Touissant, a rhapsodist of the highest order, and a man of great economy and power. Of course I was interested in things like Bix Beiderbecke, W.
Handy, the people who have followed him like Willard Robison, who I commend to any interest you may have in street cred orchestration… I spoke to the man who touched the hand of the prophet. This great illumination from this old music. He insisted that he and Satchmo were old friends in their youth, etcetera, and so forth. But who knows what it means, or what it can mean, or whence it has sprung. The hell with my yipping! But the legend of his recording career rests on two beautifully quixotic albums from the late sixties and early seventies—Song Cycle and Discover America.
One example: And I said, yes. An example: A very dedicated man… he found a lot of people with a lot of problems, following the German atrocities. So—Song Cycle was touched by that idea, that I was in a generation that had a debt of honour to the generation before. It just occurred to me that I have to be faithful to myself and find myself in this effort. Parks cocks a metaphoric eyebrow: The grooves are infectious, but the rhythms are never pressurized or driven, instead coming off as sheer celebrations of being—a graceful dance in one spot.
The group has a markedly different sound from other Dutch bands, despite some personnel overlap, because of its borrowings from country and folk musics.
It begins with a joust between Delius and the leader, a genial display of extremity high freak notes and gross low notes that suggests a showdown between David Murray and Bennie Wallace. Nate Dorward. Nothing wrong with that, especially with the collective level of care and heart Bevel put into it. There are 14 songs in about 36 minutes —all models of winsome, rainy-day pop perfection.
For those days when staying indoors under two or more layers of blankets in the only option, Phoenician Terrane makes for an ideal companion. It was among her last great performances.
My wife has always been fond of her, so I bought the LPs and later amassed a small collection of her CDs. Holiday was clearly a genius: Most jazz singing simply irritates me, but Holiday is something special. Is it the drawl or the richness of the high harmonics which bubble effervescently, a complex sound that seems so much more alive than other voices?
The grit—the rasp —of the later, damaged voice is the low-register mirror of those ambient highs. In recent years the Holiday oeuvre has become as ubiquitous as it is brilliant. I hear her in bookstores both the chains and the independently-owned that play the local jazz radio station. A few weeks ago my wife and I were browsing a warehouse sale filled with cargo container household merchandise.
Playing over the sound system was Billie Holiday you could buy cheap knockoff compilations of her work there. And then it struck me, the continued centrality of Holiday to the contemporary experience: If I wanted to be, I would probably spend a good deal of time at www. The best part might be the statistics. The most remarkable?
The home page claims to contain the contents of albums; contrast that with the total of complete issued music tracks— Yes, there are substantially more albums than individual tracks, giving some sense of the extent to which Holiday has been packaged and re-packaged, marketed and re-marketed, both by companies with legitimate claims and by bootleg outfits.
Steering well clear of the studio recordings, it has live club and theatre dates, usually originating as radio broadcasts, and there are her appearances in films and on TV talk shows, complete with introductions and patter. Anyone new to Holiday gets a sense of the entire sweep of her career; anyone familiar with the often superior studio material gets an excellent portrait of the Holiday career in context.
Stuart Broomer. This, combined with the single-minded pursuit of one hundred shades of grey found in his music, hailed an artist whose aesthetic was assiduous in its unyielding tenor. His recent return to the recorded realm has been patchy though, with too many discs leaning on new age synth presets. The more predictable elements, such as the opening crackle of a needle stuck in a run-out groove, appear to come from Uggeri and Bergero, which suggests Bianchi may need to reign in his collaborators.
Furthermore, the whole set is coated in a little too much slick reverb. Saxophonist Michael Blake has turned in some cracking recordings over the past few years, but this latest release might be his best yet.
The title track opens with some aimless electronic frippery but the threads are picked up by Gestrin. As ever with such compilations, mileage may vary on the value of specific tracks and instrumental combinations. And there is an awful lot of music to sort through. Jason Bivins. His small legacy is really with piano rolls, those perforated things that spin inside player pianos to produce pre-recorded music.
Nathan Turk. Japanese experimentalist quartet Hijokaidan have been strutting their underground stuff even longer. An unholy, shrieking cacophony brews, then scalds: This began a life-long fascination with the composer, claimed by Brant to be the greatest of the 20th century.
Published in but sketched as early as , Concord is an ever-changing juxtaposition of extraordinary complexity with heartbreaking simplicity. It was no. The separate instrumental forces that grace the third movement are combined in the ecstatic scherzo, written in homage of Nathaniel Hawthorne.
The first and fourth movements, Emerson and Thoreau respectively, are treated with equal care and obvious study, each change in mood and dynamics wonderfully orchestrated.
As the low-register ostinato that ends the fourth movement disappears and the gentle close fades, a sense of having journeyed is palpable. The conducting and playing are superb, and the long ovation is justified on all counts.
Anthony Braxton is one of the most-recorded musicians of the most-recorded era, with each season typically bringing a handful of releases and reissues. The best musicians document themselves relentlessly: It presents a quartet that might unjustly be viewed as transitional, with trombonist Ray Anderson, bassist John Lindberg and percussionist Thurman Barker. Finally, his direction of the Orchestra of the University of the Streets, as well as the large ensembles he conducted for the Institute of Black Music Studies at Bennington College, remain without commercial recordings.
The piece sounds vaguely Ra-like at the outset, Sound of Joy as a rhythmic springboard for the inventions to follow. Dixon has become environmental in his approach to physicality. The second version has the leader entering earlier, in flurries, strokes and jagged gestures, filling in corners around the fourmember rhythm team.
Dixon is the primary solo voice, blowing delicate tightrope structures of half-valve smears, guttural growls, and entire areas made of subtones. The commentary from the ensemble—walks, counterpoint—is an extraordinarily subtle use of an orchestra as a living, breathing thing. Bill Dixon is an extremely unique voice on his instrument, not to mention one of the most influential composers in contemporary music.
Consequently, settings created for his instrumental voice are extremely rare — Mazurek obviously understands his humanity and his art in a way that few people do.
Clifford Allen. Themes include boppish and march-like figures while the solos explore moods from manic intensity to outside playfulness. The same melodic and sonic inventiveness extends to Barker, a drummer who moves readily from chamber music textures to full force. While the Braxton canon is remarkable for its consistency, this is a stand-out.
Here the pieces are No and , each pressing on an hour in length, and the results are quite wonderful. Despite the instrumentation, this is far from the saxophone blow-out; instead, everything from sopraninos to contrabasses, clarinets to flutes, explores texture and contrast. The other discs present more recent solo alto performances. So who wants a world of routine coherence?
The very close recording often catches breathing sounds, emphasizing the profoundly human qualities—the song-like lines and emotional intensity—that drive this work. Almost forty years after the inspired performances of For Alto, Braxton is still a soloist of expanding vision. Ten years is a long time for any group—let alone a group of ten—to survive as a living, working, breathing entity. The last three recordings have emphasized his compositions over those of Ken Vandermark or the fiery directed improvisations of cellist Fred LonbergHolm and reedman Mats Gustafsson.
All this is to say that the band, as rousing as their live performances can be, seem to be falling into a bit of a stylistic rut. Molde concert, while offering balls, meat and a hefty dose of painterliness, often enters this very trap. Clearly, each player understands what will get the soloist off, and even raise the bar higher within the context. One Night in Burmantofts features a quartet performance in Leeds from over a decade prior to the Molde concert.
One Night in Burmantofts is obviously a one night stand to remember. Here, maybe, we have a warning shot across the bows of all those who regard unfettered technological progress as the key to all our modern day woes. Bryars has imbued his work with the sense that a great narrative, as well as the occasional sub-narrative, is being played out. The inhalations and reports of flutist Manuel Zurria suggest a palpable trepidation, as if he is weeping for those who lost their lives.
However, it is avant-garde turntablist Philip Jeck whose presence is most keenly felt and what separates this version of The Sinking Of The Titanic most definitively from its predecessors.
His inclusion here makes total sense; Jeck shares with Bryars an innate ability and desire to draw power from the artefacts of the past. Scattering vinyl crackle and static like fairy dust over the entire composition, he lends it an air of antiquity, of distance and, yes, hallucination, transforming The Sinking Of The Titanic into a marvellous documentation of mournful memories.
Spencer Grady. A posse of New York punks were punks and cowboys really so different? Reed player Steve Lehman has quickly established himself as a vital force in modern jazz, both as a leader and as a sideman in groups led by musicians like Anthony Braxton, Kevin Norton, and Liberty Ellman.
Studies with both Braxton and Jackie McLean have provided him with a rock-solid foundation in post-bop vocabulary along with a structural formalist approach to composition. Where his last release, Demian As Posthuman, found him fusing elements of hip-hop with overdubbed reed lines, these two sessions are all-acoustic affairs that grapple with jazz-based extensions. Manifold is a live recording culled from three nights at the edition of the Portuguese Jazz ao Centro Festival.
Both Lehman and Finlayson play with a torrid urgency and keen sense of phrasing and articulation, and Hebert and Waits are fully integrated into the collective approach. This is a music of four equal voices as focus continually shifts from one musician to another. This time out, Drew Gress and Tyshawn Sorey provided bass and drums and vibes player Chris Dingman was added to expand the group to a quintet.
Again, Lehman uses chopped and skewed rhythms and phrasing as the basis for his compositional forms. With, the quintet session, the ensemble sound is even more integral as lines are refracted across the various voices.
The compositions constantly explode any traditional notions of lead voice and rhythm section while still drawing on a free bop vocabulary and killer sense of swing. The group makes it all sound so seamless and familiar regardless of the underlying complexities. Every note fits in to the overall sound while still preserving a bristling dynamism. Gress is the veteran of the otherwise something group and his playing brings to mind his work with Tim Berne.
Drummer Sorey attacks the constantly shifting and subdivided rhythms with aplomb. And both are back and gigging today. Songs from various sources may have been tossed up and left to lie where they landed, but it works.
Unfortunately there are big gaps in The Slits timeline. Their raw, pre-Cut sound has since been filled in with Peel seesion and live releases, but the space between Cut to Return remains a missing link. But listening to it again, by way of this new reissue from Blast First, gives an opportunity to hear it on its own terms. What The Slits made out of that which punk wrought was a chunk of Earth Mother jungle dub—infectious, fun and heartfelt. The ideas and execution here are clearly theirs.
Tacked on the end is. Kurt Gottschalk. The age of the iTunes exclusive record seems to be taking hold. Her voice is recontextualised, the melodies broken apart and restructured to create a fractured mirror reflection of Murmurs.
Can you imagine Chris Hansen being good at billiards or Jello shots? Me neither. The rest of the sixteen tracks come and go like a shotgun blast in the face of musical competence and virtuosity. Tomas Ulrich is surely one of the most accomplished and intriguing cellists in improvised music, with a brilliant technical mastery and the ability to play prickly improv, jazz, classical, film music or pretty much anything he desires.
Three recent releases present Ulrich in various settings that demonstrate his considerable depth. The eleven song story cycle focuses mostly on classically-influenced terrains that favor tightly-written charts with some room for improvisation. While often soft-hued, cinematic works, the emotional content is still high and the challenge remains.
Fanous impresses at every turn,. Ulrich again emerges as a member of T. Focusing on chamberish improvised music, timbral excursions abound, with plenty of plucked strings, hand-woven slithers and a unified sense of being. Though the instruments vary in tone and color, they merge into a singular whole almost immediately, yet the spirited individuality of each player shines through.
Jay Collins. The first is a solo offering from turntablist Hong Chulki, comprised of two mini-discs one featuring his playing with cartridge and one without. With cartridge, he delivers two tracks of fine, Otomo-inflected sonic violence, filled with rough scrapes, jarring shifts, ear-bleeding howls, and the occasional recorded fragment, almost like something coughed up after being devoured.
Bracing stuff, like good ristretto. The second track opens like a whining drill bit, a sonic. It rides out with a chorus of tea kettles whistling in unison. Hong teams with Choi Joonyong for a long release pairing CD player and turntable, a less caustic affair than the above release. The long gaps and sudden spasms, contrasted with the watery drones that appear elsewhere, sound a tad derivative at this point.
Some chaotic noise, and lapping waves towards the end redeem the track. This, however, leaves us largely unprepared for the likes of Nothing Makes Any Sense, in which Cline, Giffoni, Licht and Ranaldo reach near-immediate consort without needing to scare each other out of their respective skins.
Rather, it allows access to a heightened awareness: In fact, the distinction between these two musicians was never so obvious. Koala, while far more marketable with his smooth blend of jazz grooves, virtuosic scratching and pop culture references, has never shied away from dissonance and abstraction. The relatively conservative structures at work on his tour-de-force solo outings should not take away from his daring compositional gambles and densely layered soundscapes.
For the most part, though, this concert captured live at the 22nd Festival International de Musique Actuelle de Victoriaville shows both turntablists pushing themselves into exciting new territory. The duo resists climax at every return, always ready to supplant boisterous laughter with gentle birdsong and robotic rhythms with serpentine horns.
But its dedication to the spirit of play, the sheer joy of experimentation at work, places it at the vanguard of turntablism today.
I love this record for what it is and for what it is not: Taking notes from many of her contemporaries, she manages to strike out a number of very personal sound spaces with Mirror Flake, most of them inspired by masked incidental sound and the sense of density within her mixes.
Uniting her more substantial song works with a flood of melancholic, but ultimately uplifting interludes, this record seems merely to mark the territories in which Cokiyu will cultivate her work over the coming years. It offers a pleasant introduction to a bedroom producer who promises even greater music on next meeting. Some musicians are meant for titanic amphitheatres, and some are meant to affect you deep down through the soft expanse of headphones, mainlining the sacred and the transcendent through the jack and up into that open-minded frontal lobe one forgets one actually has, from time to time.
Until last year, Cohen was a member of Deerhoof, an art-rock outfit who always seem to have a spanking new release; he left, supposedly, to devote more time to The Curtains. On the other hand, Dig That Treasure plays like a Broadway musical minus all the conversational stuff and supporting cast members and exposition, with Cohen and Torrisi at opposite, spotlit ends of a stage tenderly serenading one another: One takes a turn, then the other; harmonious duets erupt, in splendor. Their exchanges take place over a lot of sonic white space, as instrumentation exists as a guide, an accent, airport runway illumination: Improvisers have been mining the lower boundaries of dynamics, and densities for long enough that the vocabulary and strategies are no longer the radical affront they once appeared to be.
Rhodri Davies and Matt Davis are. For the live set captured on Hum, they are joined by flutist Samantha Rebello and bass clarinetist Bechir Saade for an series of intimately detailed collective sound explorations. The instrumentation is harp, trumpet and electronics, flute, and bass clarinet but of course that does little to describe the music.
Instead, what jumps out is a strategy of collective circumspection as the four assiduously construct spontaneous tracery. There is the clear weighting of sound and space; durations of tone placed against scrubbed and scraped textures; velocity of activity balanced with inky stasis.
While electronics are present, their use is understated, placing a much stronger focus on the acoustic interactions. Fluttering breaths, sputtered reed pops, bowed and scraped strings, strident flute overtones, and brassy exhales, buzzes, and valve clicks create a taught balance of density and transparency.
Their palate and attack eschews line for more of a sense of collective sonic choreography and it is here that they really develop their group sound.
For all the subtleties, this is not about muted silence. Instead the four have woven together improvisations full of variegated lucidity informed by careful listening and radiant interaction. Tempestuous is their third release, and their second live recording. Captured at the Huddersfield Contemporary Music Festival, the recording provides an intimate view of these masters. They each strip things down to the conical bore of brass or wood, the mechanical valves and keypads, or the vibrating striations of mouthpiece and reed, and build back up from there.
Having heard them live, they know how to play to a given room, measuring the acoustics and physical space and carefully gauging their use of attack and decay accordingly. They can stretch their instruments to extremes, but they are also comfortable letting pure tones slip in, whether popped tenor notes, quavering trumpet, or long woody clarinet hues.
Their improvisation is defined by an unhurried sense of arc with accumulated sonic events separated by pools of silence. Tensions are built and released as the three make waves of skirled textures and burred breaths.
As the piece moves toward its hushed conclusion, they have created a palpable sense of the collective process of shaping sound and silence into spontaneous form. Saxophonist Theo Travis became the latest addition to the Softs extended family when its current performing incarnation, the Soft Machine Legacy, recruited him to replace the late Elton Dean.
Lack of variety is a common problem with jazz CDs, but Double Talk goes a bit too far in the opposite direction—within its first three tracks it touches on ECM cathedral jazz, CTI jazz-funk and the raucous blues of McLaughlin-era Lifetime.
Reservations about the program aside, Travis plays with both a strong sense of melody and an arsenal of Brecker-ish scrambled phrases. Double Talk will reach fans of jazz and rock circa , but others may rather wait for a more integrated set with the rock role models less easy to spot.
Pat Buzby. The need to point out so obvious a stylistic choice, rather, seems to be code for explaining his lack of commercial success through politeness. But even a hint of commercial success has a way of shackling an artist, and for his sophomore album, Del retreated to the fold of his Oakland-based production collective The Hieroglyphics. Over three albums as collaborateurs, Del and The Heiroglyphics crafted a world-wise yet down-home approach to production, eschewing obvious Parliament samples for low-key strings and jazz.
Though dated, the production is still vibrant, full of bounce and swagger. The 11th Hour, for all its sincerity, is lost in the woods. Even a Soft Machine fan like myself will admit that the number of Softsrelated CDs has gotten ridiculously high in recent years.
Their music encompassed four distinct elements — psychedelia, jazz, English classical and minimalism; on their lesser recordings, one of those elements crowds out the others, but at their best the band kept all four in balance.
World music popcorn: Los Angeles six-piece Dengue Fever have long been identified by their Cambodian roots despite their major-league affectations for garage and psych rock. Synth till you drop—here was a true analogic for the times. Par example: Indeed, the world needs to hear more of Cohen, the consummate Easel bigwig, trader in a new millennium mogul thrash.
Darren Bergstein. The worst of these English tracks feature Nimon and Holtzman recounting banal details of a relationship real or imagined. I check my email. In Khmer, Nimon enchants, be it through phrasing or her humid, salty pipes. Andrew Gaerig. And you thought no one cared about you! Just imagine making difficult art or music in the thankless incest-ridden wastes of suburbia like Simi Valley.
When was the last time you tried to change anything in the world other than canceling your subscription to Playboy and switching to Knocked Up and Milky? The cover illustration is that of Kali, Hindu goddess of annihilation — a carefully chosen image that asserts the fact, and rightfully so, that spiritual awakening can be noisy and harsh and difficult just like any other form of enlightenment.
A lot of distorted sound comes out beautiful and a lot of beautiful sound comes out really jacked up. Your speakers will wish they were never born. Hamid Drake and William Parker have been one of the best rhythm sections in jazz since the early 90s, and they do nothing to discredit themselves here.
Yazz - Treat Me Good (Vinyl), First Gig 1987 - Candlemass - Documents Of Doom (DVD), Llama Del Altiplano - Los Calchakis - Los Calchakis En Escena - Las Flautas Indias Vol.5 (Vinyl, LP,, Surrogate Sigma - Slaves, Swines, Sinners (File, MP3)