Sunday, August 19, 2007


Track 1:

"Hey, music!!!!

Like cowboys....and, um, drums, I think, and, like, a whistle. It's very much like a cowboy and it's fantastic.

And I give it Ten out of One!"

Track 2:

"And this's very good. And it's fantastic. If I was a judge I would give it the same thing (as the other) because it sounds like a cowboy on a horse and it's, like, something I haven't heard before.

It's a new music for me."

Track 3:

"It's a stupid band. It's very loud and it's very stupid. The voices are stupid. And loud. It's sounds euuuuurgh and gives me a headache. And I've no more to do."


Splinter-fingered guitar-lines and hestitant organ-chords roll over bumpy, uncertain hills on weird wooden sledge-like contraptions, brushing aside bushes and unwelcome shrubbery - look out! Here come The Ray Pacino Ensemble!

Sweden's finest elite no-wave fractured-folkists hit some sort of zero-gee post-Beefheart sauna-bar, swinging off creaking, badly-hung pine doors, inhaling steam and beer-fumes as they trigger every Casio pre-set imaginable and crank up their banjos to, uh, at least Mach minus-Five.

At Kid Shirt, we sooo totally salute Ray and the boys.

Retarded boy-scouts swarm thru the meadows and pasture-lands to join them, still wet from a swim in the lake. It's alfalfa for breakfast again! In Järna, the brothels slam their doors shut w/ terrified shrieks: "Oh, no - not them again! Betsy's still walking bow-legged after the last time." Broken gtr frottage and whimpered vocals drift up to the balcony above: "Awww, c'mon, girls, we jusss wanna play our songs..."

How the fuck did he do that with his harmonica?

The Blues get disembowelled. And glued back together again.

Teeth chatter as the Aurora Borealis shimmers overhead (Crackle and hissss of St.Elmo's fire; there's frost on your beard). Dylan turns in his grave. Fuck the Neverending Tour. It just ended. The campfire just went out, baby.

Pre-Punk bucket-playing bolsheviks just invaded the play-pen. Eeeeyaaaah!

"Why are all these people sleeping in my bed?! Enuff already: get yer £*c&ing elbow outa my eye!"

In a secret tunnel under the village, there's a bunch of shrunken, flag-waving Shriners wading through the sewage playing some sort of insane lurching march. They'll never appear on "Pop Idol", thank God.

Pop Odol?

"Did you sayyyyyyy something," asks a slurred voice. Then someone plays an oily slide-guitar that's soooo slippery that they fall off the end of the song. Stuttered vocals, hiccoughs and a plea for luuurve.

Sluggish slug-beats from a decaying drum-machine somehow go out of time w/ themsleves, lapping a tinny wannabe Wurlitzer organ and collapse into tape quaaaaaak...and kuhziiiizzzsssp into muttered, semi-whispered vocals over a one-string gtr. There's something strangely touching about their mutterings, as if they're reaching towards some unknown OTHER TRUTH...a frantic strummmmalong accelerates and deaccelerates up and dn the scale, propelled by a malfunctioning tape-recorder.

Oh, God, this next song is too much...hahahahahahah, yeah, too fucking much, man... I...hahahaha....I...jeez...

Sorry, I've got no words to describe this.

I'm writing this backwards sdrawkcab siht gnitirw m'I. No, really.

There's a bunch of stuff on here that I'm unfamilar with ("Golden greats"? - Was that a CDr, a cassette? Dunno...), plus tracks from their semi-legendary "Be My Lonely Night" css from last year wh/ seriously brightened-up 2006 for me. Revisting some of these tracks (but now actually able to play them thru me Wharfdales rather than tiny Walkman h/phones) is a big fucking thrill. If you've never heard "America Woman" you've never lived. TRPE whip up totemic spazz-jams that sound like Swell Maps hitting on Dr. Mix and The Remix ...elsewhere there's a sort of Swedish skittle-alley version of a lost Fall B-Side circa 1981 done with a drum-machine plus adenoidal nose-vocals and a detuned guitar. It's so endearingly addictive.

But you can get all this stuff on one glorious dbl-vinyl from Lal Lal Lal. With a fantastic screen-printed cover by Jelle Cramer featuring one of the most beautiful greens I've ever seen. Even the labels are screen-printed. It looks great/sounds great/tastes great. Buy it or punch yrselves in the face: the choice is yours. There are only 330 copies of this in the world or something equally ridiculous. Soon people will be killing each other with nut-crackers to own a copy of this. C'mon, what are you waiting for, ya doooofuses?

This is Ur-Punk...Ponk...Pank...Plank-Rock...Pluck-Rock...Plunk-Rock...Fuck-Folk...FoPunk...Fur Punk...Puke Fulk:
brittle/scabby/abusive/spunky/salacious/drunken and spotty...impossibly, on one song, TRPE somehow accuately simulate the sound of a mouth-organ going down a bath plug-hole: how is that possible?

(Astonishingly, the stuff on their MySpace site has 'proper' drums, bass-gtr, production values, sounds waaaay different to the album; like a rowdy version of Material or a No-Wave band gone semi-rustic...)

Anyway, did I already say this is a double-album...? A double album! Two pieces of vinyl - TWO! WHOLE! PIECES! OF! VINYL!

(Thanks to Roope for sending me this ages ago - I can only apologise for not writing something sooner.) This comes with the highest possible recommendation. Seriously.

Are The Ray Pacino Ensemble the greatest band in the universe?

Well, maybe.

Just maybe.