some newer plop plunk goods

Cayetana's a three piece from Philly that apparently Tom May did a lot of salivating and interpretive dance propaganda for. I dunno. He gave them positive press, anyway, and of course, as the significantly less interesting songwriter for The Menzingers, you can bet your bottom dollar the people listened.

Cayetana's demo started flying off the big box store shelves late 2012, but I didn't end up hearing them 'til somewhere mid last year, right before I dove into the traveling vortex and forsook the nurturing teat of internet news. The demo, while solid, didn't really sink in much, and I mostly forgot about the band 'til the Hot Dad Calendar 7' was announced back in March. Emphatically throwing my hands up and uttering "oh, what the heck" with a canned asshole laugh, I tracked it down and was actually really impressed. The band's definitely not doing anything flashy here, but much like my favorite band ever, P.S. Eliot (to which the band could be compared), once the thin, flattening production loses it's potency, there are some totally great, endlessly relistenable songs under there. This here single features the title track and a re-recording of the best track from the demo, Ella, and their jangly indie-punk sound really hits home. Points go to the boldly simple-yet-effective songwriting, the emotive, forceful basslines, and the singer's lovely, quivery voice. Give it a go, and then, assuming you don't hate the shit out of it, keep a tongue out for the band's first LP, Nervous Like Me, in August this year.

BONUS ROUND:

Hey, remember when I made that post on how randomly throwing a bunch of female-fronted bands together to make a comparison not only makes you seem like an idiot, but a reductionist/sexist idiot? Because this one takes the cake: 

Gary Sleith ie "some guy on bandcamp": I love indie of this nature, FFO Hop Along, Lemuria, Big Eyes etc I LOVE THIS EP!! They've signed to Tiny Engines, can't wait to near more Favorite track: mountain kids.

Maybe you're not familiar with these three, so let me be direct here: this might be the most ridiculous conglomeration of bands I've ever seen used as a descriptor ever. Ever. Not only do none of these bands play the same style of music, none of them sound even remotely alike at fucking all, nor does Cayetana notably borrow elements from ANY of them. What the fuck is the unifying "nature" here? The vaginas? I mean, seriously, Hop Along sounds so, so unlike Big Eyes it's like - why it's like there was no actual criteria for making this comparison at all!

This is kind of a surprise. I was planning on writing up a positive review of this album, heralding it as "an unfairly ignored blah blah my ass" or something, but then, upon re-listening to it for the first time in a while, it's actually kind of... not my thing. Like, at all, actually. I could tell you why or just move on, but hey, let's be a dick about it for a literary exercise. BASICALLY: are you a man in your mid-20's to early 30's? Do you have a beard and drink fairly often and to excess? Maybe your politics lean more into libertarianism than anything that requires much self-questioning or action? Do you dig later Hot Water Music, Jawbreaker, and Dillinger Four? Then you'll LOVE three thousand bands that synthesize this exact same mixture of elements without adding much of anything to the cannon! With lyrics ranging from quoting Vonnegut to toasting to losing your best gal to vague political commentary to a hamfisted homage to Furi Kuri, you can almost smell the beard oil and Evan Williams through the speakers.
I'm being mean but I can't believe how many bands still sound like this. Some of it's passable, some of it's cringe-worthy or eye-glazingly dull, but holy shit, that complete lack of hooks. And those vocals. Fat Mike levels on unnecessary enunciation on the standard issue Midwest drunk beard guy vocalist makes for not the best time ever. The track "Irish Coffee" is kind of enjoyable, at least. Give it a listen here if I haven't douchebag'd you out of potential interest.

I checked this out because some random guy in the comments section for punknews was like, "Beach Slang is good". SIR ITS A DEAL. Strangely enough, this actually is really, really good, and apparently has an equally good pedigree. I had no idea of this, but apparently the band's made up of members of Ex-Friends, the insanely good NONA, and is helmed by ___ Snyder of Weston. I've physically owned Weston's Got Beat Up for, like, 5 years now, and it just occurred to me I've never even heard it once before, likely because it of the ULTRA POP PUNK cover and song titles. Like "Retarded". Remember the 90's? When that was an okay thing to not only say in public, but title a song as? Looks like I finally have some incentive though, 'cause Snyder's throaty, Paul Westerberg-y vocals and surprisingly heartfelt, yearning, reveling lyrics are the metaphorical shit, and might even be good enough for me to not hate Weston and their (entirely presumed) reliance on "wuh-uh-oh"s and "light-hearted" misogyny.

Who Would Ever Want Anything So Broken? is the band's debut, and apparently only dropped a month back, making me topical for once. The 4 tracks here are a fantastic smoothie of 90's power pop a la Gin Blossoms and uh, fairly early Goo Goo Dolls (the whole planet's doing the whole re-sanctification of the shitty 90's bands, so this is now permissible in punkland) poured through a Jawbreaker sieve, replete with Paul Westerberg-Blake Schwarzenbach hybrid vocals. Look, that description kind of makes me do cloying "pfft" noises, too, but trust me - and trust Pitchfork, because me and Pitchfork, we're one in the same on this one. Yes, reliably tight bros 'r' us, all giving Kanye West rave reviews on our respective sites and nodding off as the car continues running in the sealed garage when hyperbole just isn't enough to express our academical snobbery on music that will sound dated in 5 years.
But yeah, this EP is ridiculously good. Check it out here.

Swans keep on truckin'

"blog blog bloggin' up a reader-less storm HAAY HAAAY HAAAY HAY YEARH"

This ^ has been violently assaulting my psyche to the melody of "Knockin' On Heaven's Door". But like, the Guns 'N' Roses version, not the Bob Dylan one, so it's smothered in Axl's "holy shit that can't be serious" vocal cadence. I don't know why I didn't realize that Guns N' Roses' version wasn't the original until recently, but it probably has to do with the fact that the Dylan version was released in the swamp of bullshit betwixt Nashville Skyline and Blood On The Tracks. That, and the fact that the cover version was so omnipotent throughout my teenage years (not with my consent) that "researching" this shitty band has never really been on the menu.

THE POINT, though, is that I'm trying to write like crazy to get myself back on the train to Selfworthland, so won't you join me through external validation? As a stand in for unweatherable internal validation?

Swans have been a beloved band to moi for ages now, and one who's recent reunion near blew my cynical mind. The fluidity and willingness to grow and change the band has always displayed is baffling, especially when one pulls out cross sections from each era. Try stacking up Cop next to The Burning World and wrapping it up with Soundtracks For The Blind, for example. Still, a 15 year hiatus followed by a new album is pretty much never a good thing, and I figured, while the prospect of hearing the band in action again was tantalizing, the new stuff would almost definitely be a pandering retread or a mere extension/re-titling of The Angels Of Light (not necessarily a bad thing). As it turned out, I was just being an annoying music snob, because not only did the band deliver solid material, but they delivered it from a path they'd never really tread before. 2010's My Father Will Guide Me Up A Rope To The Sky was a much different beast than the overly-experimental, post-rock behemoth they broke up with, and delivered 8 slabs of uncharacteristically raucous, cagey, looping complexity that fell somewhere in the influence field of Glenn Branca and Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds. The Seer followed it up in 2012 with a monstrous triple LP that pushed the band even further, and here we are two years later with another album clearly stating "NO SRSLY WERE A BAND AGAIN". I mean, I think so. I've only listened to a few tracks on a stream NPR was releasing from it's urethra a few days back.

That said, let's dial back to the album that gave me the official branding of fandom: White Light From The Mouth Of Infinity. If you don't know the story, Swans essentially evolved from a pounding, joyless nightmare of a band cutting right between the industrial and no wave scenes (yet far more singular and artless than either), and found themselves years later filling the unlikely descriptors of "bombastic" and "spiritual". To emphasize the sheer size of this overhaul, you could probably trace back a lot of inspiration in the more deadening, drone-y quadrant of doom/sludge metal to the band's oeuvre from 82-86. Starting with 1985's Greed (and with the enlistment of Jarboe), the band slowly began shifting away from the agonizing, minimalist trudge that characterized earlier discs through a sort of vague, "gothic" augmentation. While not a radical overhaul by any means, it was the first spark that led to 1989, the year the band found themselves signed to a subsidiary of MCA of all places, and went for a full embrace of that aforementioned augmentation, releasing the widely panned The Burning World LP, an unfairly loathed lead weight of a sales figure that lost them a lot of fans. That's where White Light... comes in: the band's "comeback" album they released in 1991 after they were dropped from the label like a potato no one could stand to hold. Likely because it was a registered sexual offender and we are a very Draconian people.

White Light..., to be sure, is one cheesy beast. The production on here is not only immaculate, but so ridiculously expansive, multi-layered and fucking magisterial it could be mistaken for a Phil Spector parody. Beyond that, though, the songs themselves are bombastic, po-faced slabs of REDEMPTION and PAIN - to such an extent you have to wonder whether the band were snickering behind the scenes or actually as deadpan as the music might entail. I know I'm not really selling this for you, but one might benefit from awareness of these attributes before they dive in, especially if you're making any great leaps in the catalog (me, I went from Cop to this, so there were definitely some tilted eyebrow grimaces involved). 

If you can embrace these aspects, however, you're left with some of the greatest Swans material out there. 12 tracks spread over 2 LPs, and I wouldn't say there's a dud among them, and it's every aspect stated above that really pushes this album up the ladder for me. Bright, ethereal keyboards and heavy guitars merge into a dense Wall Of Sound ™/Sheet Of Sound ®, with Gira's big, ridiculous basso profundo voice and Jarboe's near-incomprehensible warbles narrating to the tune of failure, why are we alive, and being better than you, the assaulted listener.

See what I did there? Those are song titles I repurposed as descriptors because I'm always one step ahead of the game of hilarious. Anyway, listen to this triumphant wall of bombast:

Also, does any band have more double-triple LPs than Swans? Seriously, there are, like, ten. This is one of the best, though, so if you happen to like shelling out tremendous amounts of cash, even the CD version of this will likely run you 50 bucks.

American Steel

I was thinking of covering some current shit, but fuck that reasonable noise, who needs a higher likelihood of reader potential when you've got regressive, stab-in-the-dark chance encounters on your side? I mean, I could cover the new Menzingers, or new-ish/unsung stuff like Beach Slang, Worriers, Sourpatch, Cayetana and Arms Aloft (and probably will), but I just pulled out the first 2 American Steel albums for a reappraisal and gawd damm they are excellent. I covered their self-titled debut way back at the start of my last blog, but I am also marginally better at what I do now, and thus, we're going from Ang Lee's mediocre Hulk to Louis Leterrier's mediocre The Incredible Hulk.

American Steel formed in the East Bay back in 1995, which is a great place to form if you're into being magically imbued with excellence. They pretty much dropped an EP, toured like psychos, and then bedded up with New Disorder to record their s/t in 1997 NOT 1998. I don't know why I keep seeing that all over the internewt. While I'd throw American Steel's entire initial run in the "what the fuck why" basket of underratedness, even with the critical and fan-based aplomb their 2007 comeback received, "the kids" still seem to throw the self-titled out with the bathwater the self-titled was soaking in for some reason. (I don't know if that was the proper cliche to even fux wit.) The consensus seems to be thus: American Steel really only got good on their Sophomore LP, Rogue's March.
This. Is false.
Unless you find a descriptor like "a mash up of Crimpshrine, Operation Ivy, and Grimple" really unappealing, I guess, which a lot of people might considering the same could roughly be applied to early Rancid (like, real early. 1993 Rancid). Also, the ska element - while diminutive - is a thing that exists here in the form of a few scattered tracks with upstrokes. Look, I'm as over ska as everyone who isn't a hopeless manchild born in 1987, performing at small venues alongside washed up hair- and nu- metal bands and refusing to accept the cruel reality that the 2000's dawned on, but this shit is great. Y'know how you presumably don't think Operation Ivy sounds super dated despite birthing a wave of ska literally no one will ever like again? This is in the same ballpark of miraculously unembarrassing ska-adjacent music.

To reiterate, this sounds very unlike the rest of the band's catalog (which you're most likely more familiar with). The levels of grit are pushed way da fuk ^, the speed is high, and the tempo changes are powerviolence spontaneous (sorta). That level of punk-ness claimed, the sheer mass of hooks here is astounding, and a huge hunk of the appeal is how the dirty, ugly rawness entwines with the lipchewing beauty. Kind of like Unfun, to use a current, grody pop-punk example: on one hand, the crunchy, gravelly guitar tone and the gruesome post-nasal nightmare vocals; on the other, cathartic leads and breakdowns with heartfelt lyrics that make you bunch up your chin and stare unflinchingly ahead, eyes watering so stoically, so chained to male socialization BUT STILL ALIVE IN THERE SOMEWHERE.

I seriously could go into describing every track on here I love this album so much, but to sum it up, there literally isn't a single throwaway or half-baked idea. This shit is awesome, just like how you'd use the word to describe the pyramids of Giza and Marcel Proust's body of work, and easily one of my favorite punk - or music, in general - albums of all. This is worth noting because my taste is outwardly objective reality.

TRACKS TO CHECK OUT: "Cheer Up", "Landmine Lullaby", "Latchkey Kid"
CONS: you need to do shameful record collector stuff to find a copy, probs

ENTER EXODUS. They had a few good songs, I think. But enough unprecedented heights of hilarity. Rogue's March is the band's second LP, released on Lookout! back in '99 while guitar/voice guy Ryan did the whole "leukemia" thing with his chest guts and shit. It's often that one might apply the "pack a day" descriptor to pretty much any band in whatever constitutes the whole "beardcore" scene, but Ryan LIVED IT. That's not the most sensitive appraisal.
Anyway, around this point you can shove off most of the previous comparatives, as it's a pretty huge leap stylistically. Toning down a lot of the 'turned to 11' ultra-grit, frantic pace and dual-Strep throat vocal stylings, this is when American Steel started reinventing the SoCal sound, synthesizing The Clash, Leatherface, and early Samiam through a folky Americana lens years before Brian Fallon began firehose-puking Velveeta cheese all over creation. Considering the pure 'East Bay decoction' of the last LP, this really only finds clear precedent in one track - "Beatdown" (which I probably should've mentioned in the last assessment) - with it's less immediate hooks, deeper melodicism, and longer running time. Otherwise, this is the kind of magical between-albums evolution that signifies that a band contains actual musicians with vision and stuff.

I'm gonna go ahead and do the lazy hyperbole thing again: this album is pretty much as flawless as the first, but with stronger individual identities in each of the tracks. If you've heard scattered tracks before and aren't totally sold, give "The Parting Glass" a listen. Those closing harmonies in the third chorus cycle are the harmonies dreams are made of.

TRACKS TO CHECK OUT: "Every New Morning", "Got A Backbeat", "Parting Glass"
CONS: that album art. I mean, if you're not a critical asshole it's nice and moody and probably thematically relevant somehow, but man, look at the size of that cigarette held by nothing. Look at that ambiguous grasp on anatomical proportions.

After this, the band released one more LP I've never been too hot on, broke up sorta (if you can call dropping one member and renaming 'breaking up'), and reunited in 2007 to receive oral pleasures from everyone in the entire world. I'm not sure, though, I haven't heard any of that shit in a long while. Probably when Dear Friends And Gentle Hearts dropped in 2009. That was, as my friend put it, the moment American Steel "finally shit the bed". As for the above two, I couldn't really give a higher recommendation. These are total fucking classics, up there in the pantheon of decreasingly modern melodic/pop punk greats like Discount, The Broadways, Leatherface, and Dillinger 4. Just incredibly great, prescient stuff.

Also, look how cool I am with my identity affirming objects:

Ramshackle Glory and some folk punk rambling

Folk punk's one of those niches that I figure'll end up filed in the forever-out-of-vogue bin, right next to third wave ska and that vaguely metallic brand of skate punk that was really big in Southern California. Y'know, the kind of music there's likely too little irony left on Earth to resuscitate once the decade closes on it. That said, folk punk was really my gateway into the world as a late teen. For most of my sheltered, white adolescence, I had all the necessary tools at my disposal to form obnoxiously strong opinions on things that didn't affect me perceptibly (crust punk, grindcore, powerviolence, hardcore, etc.), but something about the whole affair just struck me as inaccessible. A bunch of loud slogans on police brutality, western imperialism, and totalitarian rule don't have a lot to do with growing up sad in a tiny middle-class commuter town, no matter how worldly I may have wanted to seem.
Also, the incomprehensible vocals. I will never have the dedication to learn whatever the lyrics are to those gurgling and screeching noises.

Folk-punk, however, came into my life at just the right time. It's perfect blend of existential angst, cries from the queer gutter, and radical politics hooked me hard, and labored under a much more relatable, sensitive guise than the stone faced relatives in my regular agitprop-auditory diet. Bands like Defiance, Ohio, Mischief Brew, early Against Me!, This Bike Is A Pipe Bomb, and Andrew Jackson Jihad won me over to varying degrees of obsession, and even, uh, Ghost Mice was involved at one point. They may trigger my gag reflex, but Europe is still a pretty cool storytelling album, and it definitely inspired me to travel when I finally gave up on normal shit.

Nowadays, I have little to no interest in the scene nor the music, but there's still a few bands out there that catch me off guard every once in a while, namely Days N' Daze, Songs For Moms, Wildebeest (yeah I know, [genre argument]) and Ramshackle Glory, with the latter crowning the whole heap. Or well, their debut does, at least. Let's get going before further analysis unravels the whole thing:

Remember Pat The Bunny? And that awful, nihilistic shit he released under the Johnny Hobo And The Freight Trains moniker? And how dumbass train kids still talk shit over the fact that he never really hopped trains at the time? Because that's a form of thriving currency to anyone with actual concerns? Because Ramshackle Glory is his most recent project following a few year absence for personal reasons, mostly involving rehab, I'm pretty sure. I've never really cared for the aforementioned band or almost any of the Wingnut Dishwashers stuff, so I was really surprised when Live The Dream dropped in 2012. Standing in for the cringeworthy REAL TALK bullshit and shrill, preachy politics (with a dash of Plan-It-X cutesiness, of course) was a far more relaxed, optimistic, yet bitter approach, and where the earlier material was either entirely solo or sounded like the it was written solo, then later embellished upon by studio musicians, Live The Dream has the tr00 full band feel. While Pat's immediate approach is still the core of each song, the addition of regular percussion, horns, accordion, piano, violin and singing saw feel completely natural and up the emotional impact significantly without ever getting soggy or smirk inducing. I mean, for folk-punk standards.

It's hitting me again just how difficult it is to critically assess albums that hold such emotional weight for me (which is why I've spent three blogs talking up The Broadways yet have never reviewed Broken Star), but I suppose there's nothing to do but harp on that angle. What strikes me again and again, despite having flogged this for the past three years, is just how emotionally affecting these songs are. "We Are All Compost In Training" hits me like a train every time. It's a much fuller (and superior, imo) re-recording of the last song Pat wrote under the Wingnut Dishwashers Union name before he entered rehab, and it sounds painfully caught in the moment. The themes here fit distinctly into the timeline, with lyrical concerns revolving around recovery, sobriety, reflection, looking for meaning, and of course, the standard anarcho-critiquing we all know and make love to, all passionate and deeply consensual. While I feel a creeping desire to hail this as a 'perfect album', it's really just testament to the strength of the best material on here. Otherwise, there's "Of Ballots And Barricades" and "Bitter Old Man" to contend with. The former of which is just kind of unmemorable but the latter is a lethargic Voltron of No Hooks, Changing Into A Totally Different Song At The End For No Reason, and Too Great Of A Running Time For So Few Ideas.

It... it doesn't have legs because I ran out of things to fit into the metaphor.

CONCLUSION: 8 fantastic, endlessly re-playable sing-a-longs of surprisingly posi ex-junkie/nihilist songwriting goodness and two clicks of the fast forward button. I realize it's kind of an obvious choice for an example, but this has to be the most immediately catchy song on here, so check it out:

This is where things get a little sour for me.

Pat in the beginning of Intro: "We think it's important to mention that this album contains stories about people's experiences, including suicide, racism, sexual assault, addiction, and violence."

Me: Alright. *takes headphones off*

Is it possible for something with no thinkable comparative to become the ultimate cliche in one stroke? Because while I've never heard an album begin with a spoken trigger warning before, it's undeniably the most folk punk-y thing I've ever heard. Who Are Your Friends Gonna Be? kicks things off with a nearly formless, 4-and-a-half minute instrumental introduction over which a quasi-comprehensible woman's voice speaks of personal reflections on rape and peer suicide in the radical and traveler communities. Why wasn't this relegated to the album's insert or a .pdf on their bandcamp page? I have no fucking clue, but hopefully you like the merger of these two things because this album is littered with them. There is over 11 minutes on here entirely comprised of that one shitty instrumental and various people telling muffled stories over it. This album isn't even 30 minutes long. Hmm.

The thing that sucks even worse is the fact that the actual *songs* on here are pretty good. They might even be great, but it's sort of hard to tell since the production here is literally the least sympathetic I've ever heard. I spent a big chunk of my life listening to shit with the auditory finesse of a 4-track held up to megaphone, but at least with all those goregrind demos from the 90's, the sound quality actually suited the griminess of the music. Here, though, it sounds like the band may as well have recorded their parts on different continents for how little this sounds like a convincing full set. For instance, the drums sound like they were recorded on an early 2000's cell phone, encrypted several times, and then played through another cellphone sitting in a metal bowl so to amplify the sound a little while you wash dishes alone in your dive-y apartment. Have you ever heard the first Suicide album? Pat totally sounds like Alan Vega on here. Which is to say: a ghostly, echo-y voice significantly cleaner and louder than the rest of the instrumentation. No weird breath shit and "HOO" noises. If you need an example, try this:

Skip to the 1:20 mark. This is a pretty good song, but it's also keen how the acoustic guitar sound practically unaccompanied despite the crashing symbols. I realize I've only really focused on the production and filler tracks here, but this has to be one of the most challenging albums to enjoy I've heard in a long time.

CONCLUSION: some pretty solid songs on here, but they're almost all ruined by the samples and worst production ever. Give it a go if you love Live The Dream, but don't be afraid to hit skip, either. I don't want to diminish the weight of the experiences spoken here, but I kind of listen to this band to hear Pat articulate these issues with lyrics and melodies, not randoms reciting Tumblr posts over one drone-y, recurrent instrumental for a third of the record.

Here's a kyewt little somewhat relevant story you can skip if you want:

Back in real early 2011, I'd started to pick up the socially crippled, directionless shards of my life and began confronting all my insecurities head on. I'd been socializing with strangers for the first time in my life, and ended up in a collective of likeminded kids who did the whole weekend social justice thing I was warming up to. Sometime in March, they'd organized a benefit show for the local Anti-Fracking (hydraulic fracturing, if you're not from the NE) committee, and I attended to great affect with my typical wingmen (ur, adderall and booze. I was really anxious and awkward otherwise. Enough to italicize "really"). Somewhere in the night I met up and chatted with this cute, sad-eyed tomboy who sidled on the sidelines, but exuded a lot of confidence when we spoke.

When I went home that night, the encounter made me pull out my journal for the first time in months, and I wrote something along the lines of "Dear diary, I'm a lightly reverbed, disembodied voice narrating this entry for the viewers and tonight I met someone for the first time in three years who I felt anything for in my cold, rotting cabbage-like heart. I can't imagine anything coming of this, but it's good to know I'm still alive in there".

A few meetings later, and I ended up at my first house party with the denizens of our collective and some random free radicals (fnar fnar). One 40 oz in, I found her sitting alone, sipping a little too lightly to socialize with the teeming mass of ineligible drivers. I sat down next to her and the ragged old Ghost Mice patch on her hood sparked a long, rambling conversation where we swapped our favorite folk-punk bands and talked until the party cleared out. A few days later she invited me to hang out and blah blah blah we traveled and lived together and helped each other turn our lives around.

I still don't know if I'd recommend hitting the folk punk trails in 2014, but hey, sometimes you get a long term partner and a series of life altering events out of it. Good luck.

new Joyce Manor in July

Joyce Manor's one of those few bands I imagine will get righteously elected in the 2010's canon of classic pop punk somewhere down the line. For me, the band's main draw has always been the fairly uniform minimalism, from the brevity of their LPs, the artwork and shirt designs, and especially the songwriting: everything's said confidently and concisely with no great embellishments or soon-to-be-dated production techniques. It's extremely refreshing to have a chorus hit without 10 "gang vocal" overdubs thrown in to heighten 'the emotional impact', in other words. It's just great songwriting speaking for itself.

Finally, after 2 years without a single split or EP, the band have announced the release of their third LP this July, Never Hungover Again, and I'm excited as fuck. It's pretty much never that I swoon embarrassingly for a band's debut and then love the follow-up just as much, but both Joyce Manor and Of All Things I Will Soon Grow Tired are equally great "long players", delivering the goods in very different ways. I've heard this one'll lean more towards the sound perfected on the self-titled instead of leaping into weirder pastures, but that's totally alright with me.

You can read about it here and check out the new track, "Catalina Fight Song" here. It's an itty bitty minute of greatness that cuts off just in time to frustrate you that there isn't more available. Also, I feel weird inside about accepting Epitaph into my life as an occasional source of greatness, but I guess it'll eventually fade into ambiance like puberty or that time you hydroplaned and learned that driving was technically really dangerous.

Also, there's Frances Quinlan of Hop Along on the cover for no discernible reason!

Lemuria's The Distance Is So Big

"Hey, so I have dranketh a beer and now I'm wheeeeeeeee making a blog post because I've been stressed and unable to be as creative as I'd prefer on a regular, sober basis. So hey, how about a half-assed shOOpety shot at the past few week's Lemuria consumption? As you are incapable of responding because you are not a spectral being inside my computer or the part of my consciousness telling me to go to bed instead, I think I'll just do this shit."

But then, after fumbling around endlessly in an attempt to marry words with meaning, I actually did just go to bed.

Here's the sober continuation:

 

2013 was a pretty fantastic year for pop-punk and everything falling vaguely beneath or adjacent to that banner, with bands like RVIVR, French Exit, Worriers, Swearin', Direct Hit!, Wringer, and The World Is A Beautiful fuck it releasing some of the best dynamics heavy, emotionally obvious jams I still love despite no longer being 16. And yeah, you can throw Lemuria's The Distance Is So Big to the top of that heap, while you're at it.

Looking back, it's kind of strange that I've pulled out the keyboard for Lemuria as often as I have. Beyond my love for their half of the split LP with Kind Of Like Spitting, I've always just sidled along the positive face of the fence with them. Even overlooking the white-hot rancidity wafting from scattered tracks like "The Origamists", "State Lines", and "Different Girls", there've always been a few too many moments of hookless 90's alt rock monotony to get me truly excited. When Pebble dropped in 2011, the cold, yucky J. Robbins production and the "turn-for-the-mature" diminution of the band's previous energy levels pretty much un-sold me entirely, leading to a full embrace of the shrug of apathy I'd been harboring for years.

When the "Brilliant Dancer" single streamed somewhere around the 2nd quarter of last year, I was pushed to hear it more out of compulsion and routine than any real, unshaken faith in the trio. Some part of me figured I'd do the dutiful thing and keep following the band's exploits, and hey, maybe I'd get to write some smarmy slag piece on them if I was feeling unlikeable or whatever. Skip forward a few days and I've pretty much drilled the song deep enough into my psyche to hear it soundtracking my PTSD flashbacks. The fact that the production was the best it's ever been struck the first blow (ala ditching the moody reverb-cave bullshit of Pebble), but it's the fact that the same can be said of the songwriting that really hooked me. Skip ahead another week or so and - thank fuck - the same can be said of the album's entirety.

Having officially hit the year mark since it's release, I feel pretty safe in stating that this has now officially dethroned my previous favorite Lemuria platter, which is no mean feat. The Distance Is So Big is, track by track, an incredibly fresh, color-saturated brand of vaguely punk-ish pop-rock esoterica, shedding a lot of the previous years' reliance on plodding, simplistic alt-rock riffage, but never resorting to gimmickry or sloppy genre dabbling in it's stead. I'm actually tempted here to go down the dark and loathsome road of "track-by-track descriptions", but I'll refrain for everyone's sake and just point you to this stream here. What I will say is this: prior to pulling out the keys and getting all hyperbolic and untrustworthy, I gave this album three consecutive spins through the ol' critical reviewer's lens, and was actually really surprised that it passed on a "technical" level as well. The balance of super TURNT UP pop ("Public Opinion Bath", "Dream Eater", "Chihuly"), dark, broody angst ("Survivor's Guilt", "Bluffing Statistics", "Ruby"), and that classic slice down the center ("Paint The Youth", "Scienceless", "Congratulations Sex") is nearly flawless, and had me pulling the smarmy, impressed asshole nod the entire time.

The Distance... isn't so much an overhaul as a complete refinement of the band's greatest strengths and most unique attributes. The melodies and moods are insanely well developed and varied, the percussion is more complex and texturing than it's ever been, and the songwriting is fucking great throughout. Even the cutesiness one could level a bit of derision at doesn't waft over you like someone puked in the heating vent this time, and trust me, I don't have the highest tolerance for any kind of twee-ness. I think I'm pretty much out of ecstatic bullshit to gush, so let's close with my favorite song on the album, "Paint The Youth":

You can pick this up on LP and CD on Bridge Nine's page, of all labels, for a reasonable 10-13 bucks. Also, browsing their page is pretty bizarre. When did their lineup become such a weird fucking mess of unrelated styles? Weren't they a kinda bro-y hardcore label since forever?

Also also, should I feel bad about liking some of the Candy Hearts stuff on their page? 'Cause I think I should.

please stop comparing every female fronted band to Discount

I dunno if this needs to go much further than the header, but I have time and feel successful when I write a full post, so there's that.

Alison Mosshart ca Discount by moi

"FFO: The Anniversary, Tsnuamni Bomb!, Heartsounds"
"FFO Discount, The Unlovables. Fifth Hour Hero, etc"
"FFO Lemuria, RVIVR, Caves"
"FFO Discount, Lemuria, Tilt, Cheeky, The Measure [SA], Little Lungs, P.S. Eliot etc"

“FFO gritty, female fronted pop-punk”

I see this sort of shit fairly often from lazy reviewers, and while it might seem a little ridiculous and buttpanged to get on my soapbox about this, I feel it's a bit more insidious of an action that just being a shitty critic. I've seen this sort of half-assed routine pulled jillions of times, but I'm pretty sure the first time it really struck me was in the review header of a band called Dead Ringer. I can't remember what it said verbatim, but it was definitely in the ballpark of the above quotations, throwing around a bunch of irrelevant names as comparatives. Look, those are all great bands, or widely beloved ones, at least (especially Tilt and Discount), and I totally get using them as an advertising basis. Here's what sucks, though: almost none of those bands sound like each other, like, at all, let alone the bands they were referencing in the original articles. To continue with the example,  Dead Ringer sound like a throwback to those bands that'd get signed to Epitaph or Fat Wreck back in the 90's. Y'know, the classic "Epifat" sound - a world of sound particularly distant from bands like Lemuria or The Measure [SA], right? So what is it that adjoins them? Not a whole hell of a lot if you overlook the fact that they're all fronted by women. Even if you somehow sidestep criticism of the punk scene's astoundingly unchecked sexism (which I will sidestep here for the sake of brevity), throwing all of these bands in the same basket is not only incredibly reductive, but also comically misleading.

I think Mitch Clem put it pretty succinctly:

"Punk rock, that's where you decry hip hop for it's sexism and then never talk about a female-fronted band without mentioning gender."

Nurse With Wound List #3: Come

Oof.

Wait. I think I remember MLA format for this:

"Oof." [Contraceptron, Steve. "Listening To Come's Rampton A Bunch Of Fucking Times: Managing Your Desire To Listen To Something Else." Listening To NWW List Garbage. My House, New Windsor. 19 April, 2014. Boredom.]

I think we can all agree that didn't add anything to the post.

As Nelson Mandela taught us, we must embody a certain fluidity in our posturing, and allow ourselves the space to negotiate even in the face of our most virulent and unyielding opponents. Simultaneously, we must ensure that the establishment of consent amongst parties is weighted by an understanding of the context and conditions of these negotiations, lest insurrection occurs. In the case at hand, the conditions described were tragically unmet, and under a law of such myopic tyranny as the internally imposed "I Need To Listen To Every Album At Least 3 Times Before I Review It" principle, violence erupted. With hindsight as my guide, I could posit that my rigidity and ignorance during the establishment of such stipulations could only be met with me listening to this shitty album like 4 times even though I totally hated it after the first time and then getting really bored and annoyed with myself. I dunno, fuck you this album blows.
I've kind of always liked buying into the zAnY mythologies of "legendary", "crucial", "groundbreaking" "slabs" of "historical importance", mostly because it's fun to get excited over stupid shit like "lost" records and super obscure record collector junk. In this case, Come's Rampton LP/CS is pretty rare and sought after for being the predecessor to Whitehouse and You're Interrupting Me Scraping Foetus Off The Incorporated Symphony Of Corruption (or whatever words surround "Foetus" this week), and I was really excited about hearing this. But then I listened to it a few times and... wrote that stupid opening paragraph.
Come is made up of William Bennett, J.G. Thirlwell (under some pseudonym), Peter McKay, and Daniel Miller (also under some pseudonyms), and is pretty much what you'd expect from such subversive, visionary deconstructionists of polite Western civilization when they were, like, twenty year old kids. It's basically just some rudimentary "industrial" fuzz guitar, a bloopy synth bass of hilariousness, and Bennett making funny "whooOoooEeeeEHhheeeee" noises on top. If I had to describe the vocals, I'd probably put them somewhere between leprechaun surface noise (like if a leprechaun was giggling and brogue-ing 30 feet away and you were recording it. And then played it through an echo pedal) and someone babytalking to a cat they like to an uncomfortable degree. I always kinda liked Bennett's vocals in early Whitehouse, 'cause they provided a human counterweight to all the screeching, pointless machinations going on, but here I'm not really sure what the intended effect was. They're definitely not an interesting foil to the high school basement post-punk riffs, anyway.
For a second I was having one of those thoughts that seemingly everyone who explores the NWW list (ie 'why is _____ on the list but not _______?') (though seriously where the fuck is Sun Ra) but then I saw the cover of the LP version and it kinda made sense:

I mean, that's totally Stapleton's art, right? And he did put Whitehouse in the To The Quiet Men... list, too, and they did do that pretty solid collaboration with Bennett as The 150 Murderous Passions a few years later. Were they buddies way back in '79? I guess I could figure this out with ten seconds of internet browsing, but I also wanna go make dinner right now.
Come apparently have a second LP called I'm Jack (whose cover might be the second of three gajillion Bennett-related releases to feature Peter Kurten), and apparently it's more in the drone/noise vein, comparatively, and is a bit more prescient than this shit. I haven't heard it yet, but I'll be sure to update this once I do with the EXCITING CONCLUSION.

Also, I can't embed Come videos here for some reason, but if you'd like to hear this shit for yourself, here's a great link for that sort of thing: www.youtube.com

Okay, here's a less smarmy link.

Nurse With Wound List # 2: Robert Ashley

SO:
I've been on the road, drinking around New Orleans with all the crusties and fly hunneez and radicals, and missing the sweet embrace of a proper keyboard for the past few months. Fortunately, in that time I not only consumed lousy malt liquor, but also consumed lousy malt liquor while tunneling through the seemingly endless obscuritan cornucopia that is the Nurse With Wound list. When the dick was the last time I blogged about something other than pop-punk? I guess August when I took the world to my loving breast and whispered to them the secrets of Australia's fucking goregrind scene, for some reason. As far as the avant-garde goes, I'd probably have to flip back a few pages...
Regardless, I've found a LOT of amazing, totally out of time, forgotten music through this pursuit, and I'd like to share some of my favorites. There's a shitload of resources for exploring the NWW list out there, but most of them lack a distinctly personal, experiential touch, and seriously, I'd rather read -as well as dole out - a hundred inherently flawed opinions than another dry, genre-dividing shopping list of this stuff.
On that note:

Robert Ashley's been on my mind for a few years now (that handsome devil), and seeing as he just passed on last month at nearly 84, I figured this'd be a good place to restart the blog operation. Ashley was an composer of experimental, vocal-based electronic music and opera, both of which tend toward the harder-edged, more academically buoyed half of the avant-garde spectrum. As such, I can't even feign authority on the subject at hand. I've always putted around the Henry Flynt camp rather than the Stockhausen one, if you catch my drift, but let's give it the ol' "fuck it" try, anyway.
I was first exposed to his compositions through the recommendation of a helpful Soulseek user; he purported that Ashley's archival collection (and specifically the 1964 title track), The Wolfman, contained the earliest pieces of power electronics you could find. Being in a strictly unlovable, armchair "music historian" phase at the time, I masturbated furiously to this idea just like the dipshits who liken Sound Of Imker's "Train Of Doomsday" to the birthpangs of hardcore punk [if you're unfamiliar with this, I think it was based on something Jello Biafra said in an old interview. Ignoring that aspect, it's a pretty rad, unique song]. At this point, I'm pretty sure it's just an ridiculously prescient anomaly (which is backed up by the fact that this never saw a formal release 'til 2002) or maybe just a logical continuum of the Futurist scene or whatever. This is where the whole "not qualified" thing shows up. Either way: holy shit, what an insane piece of music. Rather than describe it in depth, I'm just gonna point you to the video featured below. The track is basically comprised of tape loops, manipulated feedback, and Ashley's roaring drone of vocal intonations, and yeah, had it been distributed back in the day (rather than just performed) I could definitely see it taking the "missing link" throne internet music nerds propose it to hold.

Oh... but considering this is supposed to be a NWW list-related post, let's hit up a few pieces that Stapleton may've actually heard/been inspired by. Part 1:

Released on Italy's Cramps Records - home of Area and all those DIverso improv LPs - Ashley's 1974 album, In Sara, Mencken, Christ And Beethoven There Were Men And Women might actually be one of the weirdest depths related to the whole 291 artist list. Consistent of just some squiggly, bubbling synths and Ashley's gentle monotone, In Sara... is a full, 40 minute reading of the 1944 John Barton Wolgamot book of the same name. Apparently, Ashley and a friend became obsessed with said book, staging readings and spending years hunting down the author for clarity and fanboy-ism. It's actually a pretty fascinating story [read it here], and totally worth a look even if you haven't found a shit to give throughout this entire post. The recited text follows the model below over the duration, and swaps out the three groupings of names and the active verb consistently:

“In her very truly great manners of Johannes Brahms very heroically Sara Powell Haardt had very allegorically come amongst his very really grand men and women to Clarence Day, Jr., John Donne, Ruggiero Leoncavalo, James Owen Hannay, Gustav Frenssen, Thomas Beer, Joris Karl Huysmans and Franz Peter Schubert very titanically.”

Apparently Wolgamot found that names were the basis of all rhythm, and as rhythm is the cornerstone of all locomotion, names are uh, apparently the basis of all things. I don't know. He also proposed that when one repeatedly recites Anna Karenina's name aloud, it clearly telegraphs the fact that she would be killed by a train, so that's cool. Pretty embarrassing reveal for Tolstoy, though. Like, come on, man.
Ashley recited these lines with a single breath a' piece, then cut the tape to remove the pauses, creating an uninterrupted, insanely hypnotic, weirdly soothing drone to space out to. It's an oddly beautiful thing, though maybe a bit too claustrophobic to imbibe the devil's marijuana to. I can't embed a link here for some reason, but check out the entire piece here on youtube.
Lastly: I don't know why a drawing of a comic book covered in Marvel characters is the cover of a 40 minute Moog drone album based on a book that features one sentence 128 times, but there ya go.

Okay, one more.
The above clip is taken from Ashley's 1979 LP, Automatic Writing, distributed by Lovely Music Ltd., and it might actually best In Sara... for sheer fucking strangeness. Being a glass half full kinda guy, Ashley decided to take the involuntary murmurs resultant of his mild Tourette's and turn them into a compositional tool for this piece, allowing himself the space to speak at random jaunts in front of a microphone for 48 minutes. The rest is just about as unsettling, with a Moog simmering and creaking eerily above the ghostly slicing of an organ drone, all the while elaborate cut-ups of French whispering permeate and mesh with Ashley's groans. Apparently this also counts as an Opera for some reason, which is fitting, seeing as unforgettable characters such as Tourette's Syndrome, Moog Squiggle, Chopped-Up French Woman Voice, and Really Quiet Organ bequeath a remarkable narrative when they get togethers. This might be another example of my lack of qualifications rising to the surface, but I'm also kind of thinking that Operas generally don't sound like this. And seriously, check wikipedia if you think I'm just being colorful - those 4 things are actually mentioned as "characters". Similarly fitting, the cover looks like some chintzy West Coast jazz compilation you'd donate to the Salvation Army or shrug off when it molds in your basement. Disregarding (or maybe embracing?) all of this, though, this is another incredible, bizarre album that completely makes sense in relation to the Nurse With Wound list.

I haven't really listened to much more than these three pieces, but I'd be willing to bet the rest of his catalog is equally worthwhile, though I can't say I dug Private Parts, much. I was gonna make a joke about the Howard Stern movie, but it seemed so not funny it astounded me.