IF YOU WANNA WORK THE DIRT
I've spoken about the Davenport Family before, but this recent-ish release is their first, I think, (self-titled?) album-sized excursion into the world of vinyl and more than merits a mention:
Available on Not Not Fun, it'z packed full o'the dirt-encrusted musikal murk that I'm totally diggin' rite now. Muddier than a nekkid bath in yr local clay-pool, these is a fistful of tribal invokations and ragged ragas designed to fill yr head w/ righteous black light. This is truly great shit, but uptight nay-sayers will no doubt have problems w/ barbituate-flavoured astral-lullabies with mumbled lyriks about worms and slugs. But, hey, they can go fuck themselves, yeah?
Distant harmonicas, whispered voices upstairs, something scuttling in the attic...a synthetic metallophone drone wobbles gently beneath the floorboards...a dead child playing in the bath, humming softly to itself...clicks, clacks, rattles...music that takes its time, expaaaaaands out into a kazoo-driven Mid-West nasal mantra...layers of sound hover and swirrrrl: wordless throatsong, worldless monkeysquall: elemental rock-ape howls as simian occult-avengers assemble at the mall, throwing handfuls of excrement at hapless pedestrians, smeaaaaring it on the window of Starbucks; hissing and spitting at security guards, they scamper up shop-awnings and urinate on the braindead zombie window-shoppers below...sonorous percussive clnnnngs and squealing feedback babies hungry for more food, more beauty, MORE LIFE! Vowel-less post-beatnik protest-chants over flanged guitarthruummmm and hand-drum clatter: the 1970 Kent State demonstrations relocated to a cave, but this time the good guys win.
Call down Old Harry, hobo railroad diety of lost desert-towns...Arizona, 1953: crumbling track-side sheds, diners abandoned to dust and spiders...Blue Oyster Cult played at 16rpm accompanied by air-raid sirens...loose tonal mind-jams replayed in the Red Basement: c'mere, baby, I gotta an itch I can't skratch, y'dig? This guitar's playin' all weird like someone sped up my ears: the tape's all wrong...where did those Apache wimmin come from. Apache gypsy wimmin who hang w/ the VU cica '66, but it's...I dunno, I can't tell no more. More monkeys arrive w/ ratchets and electric screw-drivers, and hypnotised me w/ their languid guitar stylings and pencil-case percussion: someone tore up my note-books and locked me in the cupboard while they burnt them.