Saturday, December 15, 2007



Lovely pink n black hand-rolled on canvas-board cover here from Aus psychtribe 6Majik9 that looks like it's been, uh, cut from a much larger canvas; the music's like that too, deceptively small sub-sections of some bigger sonic picture whose boundaries are vague and ellusively effusive, leaving us to guess where someone might've planted a fence. I love music that unshowingly hints at wider musical pastures...

On "No Sense Being" a Boys Scouts marching-band mashed on ether attempt an Ornette Coleman cover. But a minute or so in, it's like someone's craftily slid back the scenery and the music gently implodes into a wonderfully low-key faux-tribal jam. Electric guitars try to focus their double-visioned eye-sight into an ever-so-slightly banjo'd, one-note-every-13-seconds motif over swisssshnnnng cymbals and hand-drums.

"A Beauty that Needs of Blots" is like a slow spiral of small children playing tiny guitars that go round and round, the notes/keys/scales gently overlapping and chasing their own tails; a musical ritual involving fairy-lights, hand-made hats and blatantly false beards. There's an after-taste of Can and Duul at their most mellow, and what a pleasing after-taste it is too.

On "Outsider Basements" pump-action fuzz-organ and gtr fizzle on a spit, interrupted by indistinct noises and slivers of an ancient drum-machine: imagine cross-sections of a song by Egg left on the dissecting-table to dry out, then reassembled like slices of ham by a blindfolded reverse-butcher. Sounds seem to surge in and out of focus as if they're being carried by an invisible wind. The soundtrack to a drive-in movie being shown somewhere just over the hill, but (like in a dream) you never quite get to see it. Later, the track picks up a drummer-boy and marches itself off out into the desert with a platoon of ant-men acting as scouts, scurrying here and there, while Dave Stewart (no, not the one from Eurythmics) attempts a keyboard solo, but someone's chopped off his two middle-fingers.

"Exterminaed Bridges" (sic) is Sunburned Hand of the Man staggering home after a two-week flange-binge, their trousers and shirt-tails flapping in the breeze. A gang of bandits ambush them on pogo-sticks while someone plays the most sickly sounding gtr-solo want to take it home and put it in bed with a hot-water bottle and call the doctor. Still, it makes a quick recovery, aided by some sprightly Jaki Lieberzeitesque rim-shot play.

"To the Inverse One" hits a peculiar Krautrock spot for me in particul-r, hinting at past alliances with early Popul Vuh, Klaus Schultz when he still played drums, etc - can't help myself, I'll always be a sucker for certain tropes from 69-73...


Thanks to the mighty Doppelganger for sending me this recent ish of Venue:

"The New Masters of The Croft" - LOL! That's the next album title sorted out, then...