The Railway Club isn't the most relaxing place to be on a Saturday night, but I toughed it out last weekend in order to catch some hard-rocking bands. I went solo, but ran into some of the usual suspects at the club—the alliterative quartet of SR Jones, Sim, Snappy, and Shockk.

Victoria's Crown the Wolf were on first, with a set of solid songs in the Kyuss vein. Hey, who wouldn't want to sound like Kyuss? The singer/guitarist had a great voice for this style. Nice job!





Black Betty is a band I've wanted to see for ages; ever since I came across them at stonerrock.com and checked out their tunes at MySpace. Jonas and Ana's pummelling set—mixing the weighty riffs of Sabbath with the good times vibe of, say, Grand Funk—didn't disappoint at all.






The only letdown was that there was no merch to be found; I need their album. I don't do enough local bands for Unrestrained! (Antiquus and SYL/Devin Townsend have been the only Vancouver-area acts I've covered, I think), so I have to get in touch with them at some point.



Mongoose were on next (Sprëad Eagle headlined the night, but I had to hit the Skytrain before they went on). These guys have logged a million kilometres in the van since I last saw them, and their music's progressed way beyond the catchy punk bursts found on White Plastic Deer. Although they've gotten a lot more "rock & roll" and added a lot more diversions and complexity to their material, they still exude an all-ages basement show energy that's a joy to witness. This lineup—stalwarts Shockk, RC, Johnny, and new drummer Radar—is their strongest yet, and I hope they get a chance to record a followup album really soon.

Guapo—Elixirs (Neurot)
Elixirs has some unexpected twists and tangents. The British outfit’s previous two albums, Five Suns (Cuneiform) and Black Oni (Ipecac), which formed the first two chapters of a trilogy (a notion that the band likes to downplay because of its obvious prog-cliché nature), were steeped in aggressive complexity in the tradition of King Crimson and Magma and full of eerie, muscular music. Elixirs eases off to an extent that’s immediately apparent, and incorporates a lot more guitar work, vocals, and varied percussion. Overall, though, they haven’t changed their style all that much; they’ve just tweaked some of the dynamics and shading. A track like the opener “Jeweled Turtle” shows a lot of restraint over its nine minutes of simmering menace. Compared to Five Suns, where every lull led to an explosion, this piece refuses to pander to that expectation. “Arthur, Elsie and Frances” returns to the jagged rhythms and dynamics that abounded on earlier albums, but with a little less aggression than before. “King Lindorm,” the closing epic track, contains some of the most exciting passages on the album, with a compellingly slow buildup over a repetitive but complex piano figure and a satisfyingly weighty release at its climax. A pair of very interesting tracks occupy the middle of the album. “The Heliotrope” and “The Selenotrope” were previously released (as instrumentals) as the Twisted Stems EP and are a kind of yin/yang pairing, one with male vocals (by Alexander Tucker), one with female vocals (from Jarboe, who’s keeping pretty busy these days); one in a minor key, one in a major key. Both are very much in the vein of recent Ulver or old Brian Eno—sparse late-night ballads in no hurry to get anywhere. Elixirs doesn’t end the trilogy with a bang, but not quite a whimper either. If you’re already a fan, you won’t mind at all.

I’m not really into April Fool’s Day, and jokes where you’re made to feel gullible are the most terrible thing on earth to me. I remember Terrorizer magazine’s prank from about 10 years ago when they awarded Album of the Month to a black metal band called Arktyk, unknowns from Alaska who’d just signed with Relapse. The album’s description, something like extreme black metal mixed with Pink Floyd parts, sounded right up my alley—and, alas, they were entirely fictional. For about two hours I was all set to order their album before I realized I’d been reading the April issue. I was crushed. At least these days I can listen to Deathspell Omega, who basically fulfill all my progressive black metal requirements.

I did go out and have a hell of a time on Tuesday anyway. After work I headed to the Railway Club for Jen Currin’s book launch. Her latest collection is Hagiography, and my first impression is that it’s her most accessible work yet. Her poetry can be a little tricky and elusive (for want of a much better word), but I like it because every line is a surprise. When Jen reads, she reveals the amount of care and humour she puts into her work, and it becomes even more impressive. At times during her set I’d get derailed by a particularly brilliant line, like “He’s old enough to be her mother” and have to force myself to quit pondering it and rejoin the poem already in progress. The first poet of the evening, Bill Stobbs from Wisconsin, went over really well too. It’s a shame he sold out of books (he only had four copies on hand) so quickly.

From the Railway I went straight to La Casa Del Artista on Main Street for Stitching and Unstitching, a monthly jazz/improv event that Jeff Younger helps to put on. I don’t think I’ve mentioned Jeff Younger here before, which is a damn shame. He’s a sick guitarist with a twisted mind. Jeezly talented. You’re never quite sure what’s burbling beneath his gleaming pate, but you know it’ll inevitably express itself in some really cool musical way. He’s also a top man, and fighting the good fight in this here town. Last Tuesday’s Stitching and Unstitching featured Jeff doing his Devil Loops project and The Sukha Trio. Devil Loops saw Jeff, his guitar, and various digital confabulators and doohickeys work through a few different pieces that flowed really well, from mellow to skronktastic and back to mellow, building up layers (i.e. these newfangled “loops” alluded to in the project's name) with delay and stripping them down again. Despite what Jeff said between songs, none of it sounded like Santana.

The Sukha Trio consisted of Jared Burrows (guitar), Stan Taylor (drums) and Colin MacDonald (saxophone) and Daniel Hella (flute), Hella also threw in occasional toy accordion, bells, vocals, a noisemaker thing that looked like a Big Gulp cup with a wire hanging out of it. They set themselves up two-by-two on the floor in front of the stage, facing each other across the floor with a video projector between them. The projections showed blurred/abstracted footage of birds and planes, kids playing in water, and pots boiling. I’m a sucker for live music and visuals (slides or video), and The Sukha Trio’s presentation worked out nicely. Sometimes the video segments would finish before the music did, but with their loose-seeming arrangements I can’t say they were really intending to time everything to the exact second. My only real quibble would be they went a little long (I was tired, I admit, full of poetry and beer), but I’d definitely like to see them again, especially if they work up a new set. I feel pretty lucky that La Casa is right down the street from me. I’ve seen some cool things there recently, including a triple bill of punk rock (including moviecore monsters Graf Orlock) where I was undoubtedly the oldest dude in the room.

Woods of Ypres—Woods III: Deepest Roots and Darkest Blues (Krankenhaus)
Inspiring, uplifting and positive aren’t the usual adjectives you’d associate with a ragingly superb black metal album. So let’s say the third Woods of Ypres release is also dark, fierce, and uncompromising. The Toronto trio have reworked black metal conventions—especially in terms of lyrical subject matter—to create a style that’s very individual and not a little brave given its plain-spoken openness and shunning of anti-Christian, pro-pagan themes. Musically, despite guitarist/vocalist/drummer David Gold’s self-declared status as a “black metal being,” I wouldn’t even say this is pure BM. WoY instead offer a hybrid of black and doom and the dark melodic Scandinavian sound of Amorphis and Katatonia, over which Gold alternates clear/harsh vocals as the music shifts pace and mood. It’s a bruising combination—don’t expect watered-down ear candy for goth kids—that allows for healthy variety in songwriting approaches and a satisfying flow of material across this lengthy album. Gold’s view of the world is a mite vengeful and intrinsically Canadian (more on that later), yet he exists in a moral universe where hard work and self-belief are rewarded, and the weak-willed are cast aside. He’s got a lot get off his chest—the four years since their last album, the similarly lengthy Pursuit of the Sun and Allure of the Earth, must have seen some mighty struggles—and delivers years worth of spite in his copious lyrics. When he roars “Suffer!” on the crushing “Iron Grudge” it’s not directed at the Lord or his followers; he’s castigating some weak soul who obviously screwed the band over—perhaps an ex-bandmate who showed up late for practice one day. I personally find that the most affecting tracks are the mid-paced ones. “December in Windsor,” for example, has a memorable tune and acoustic guitars that ring out in stirring fashion. Looming majestically over everything, however, is “Your Ontario Town is a Burial Ground,” a melodically infectious yet vicious potshot at small-town apathy that I’d like to declare our metal National Anthem for 2008. As for my “intrinsically Canadian” claim, the penultimate track “To Lock Eyes With a Wild Beast” explores our uneasy relationship with nature—as Canadians, we’re surrounded by it, celebrate it, brag about it, but we ultimately fear it. We build suburbs ever higher up the mountains, then shoot the bears who wander down to sniff the household garbage. Gold’s Beast isn’t the one from the Revelations; it’s the one lurking just beyond the trees. As the song’s pathetic protagonist is chased down and eaten alive, Gold scolds, “You wanted nature? Nature wanted you as well.” I know I’ll have some pepper spray at the ready next time I go for a hike. Woods of Ypres continue to provide a powerfully original and articulate voice in a genre where so much clamour and misdirected menace often amounts to nothing. Woods III is a triumphant conclusion to their first trilogy of releases.

Here's a lazy ol' YouTube post to ease back into this. Black Mountain did the business on Conan's show the other night...


Before the sweater and the beard, Steve McBean used to play in Victoria's Mission of Christ, a great metal band who mixed DRI, Slayer, and Celtic Frost into a caustic melange of deathly goodness. I regret I never got to see them; I didn't have any thrash metal buddies in the late '80s.

Oh, the humanity! (via Metafilter again).

Check out this thread on Italian prog at Metafilter. You know you want to. The beards, the bombast—fantastico! If the Banco link doesn't frighten you, nothing will.

I spotted this at the entrance to the Hard Rock Cafe in Niagara Falls. Alas, I didn't heed Keith, Greg and Carl's call—we checked out the Casino slots instead and lost it all. A Lucky Man I wasn't.

Some bad pictures taken from inside a moving vehicle.

Niagara Falls is extremely classy, with many amenities for the discerning gentleman.


One of the last vestiges of the Guccione empire? Needless to say, next time I'll stop in for a Caligula Calzone or maybe a Corinne Alphenburger.


I don't even want to imagine the kind of sick stuff that goes on in here.

Planets—s/t (Distile)
The avalanche of quality math rock continues. I’ve never encountered an incompetent math rock band—some have clearly mastered more advanced math than others, but none have out-and-out sucked. Maybe all the potentially lame bands realize they won’t cut the mustard before they commit their naïve arithmetic to tape and embarrass themselves. Releases like this can provoke that kind of harsh self-contemplation. Planets are a number-crunching duo from Napa, California. Paul Slack handles bass, while Thomas Crawford covers “not bass,” which must equate to at least drums and guitar, based on what I hear here. I’d be interested to find out how the two of them wrote and recorded this stuff because the guitar is tightly interwoven with the rhythm section. If it was overdubbed onto bass/drum jams, it’s impressively executed. Most of the songs are the kind of skittering riff farms to which any fan of Dysrhythmia, Upsilon Acrux or Ahleuchatistas would be attuned. If I can pick out any distinguishing attribute amidst their undeniably excellent musical execution, it’s their commitment to rocking out. They’re not afraid to linger on a particularly blistering riff for a few seconds, or ride a groove for a couple minutes (as on “Return of a Dead Man”). The sound is suitably chunky as well. Rest assured, Planets will scramble your synapses (12 varied, intense tracks over 25 minutes will do that), but on a number like “Exercise!” they show they can write a tune you have a hope of recognizing on your second or third listen. The disc comes sewn inside a cloth pouch, so have scissors and a clean pant leg (to wipe the lint off the playing surface) handy if you get yourself a copy. The music’s well worth the extra prep.

OM—Pilgrimage (Southern Lord)
OM are one of those high-concept bands that proliferate nowadays. The duo—Al Cisernos and Chris Hakius (ex-Sleep)—plays stripped-down low frequency vision-quest music, with bass and drums leaning heavily on each other during longform spiritual journeys towards a kind of ambient-metal Xanadu where pre-Dark Side Pink Floyd and Black Sabbath commingle in a space/doom void. All in all, it's quite a contrast to former bandmate Matt Pike’s maximum rock and roll approach in the equally righteous High On Fire. OM's compelling power-through-minimalism approach also stands in opposition to more assaultive duos like Ruins, Hella, or Lightning Bolt. Judging by this and their previous full-length, Conference of the Birds, OM releases straddle a format between album and EP. Pilgimage lasts about half an hour, so OM are either careful composers or ruthless editors...probably both. Each of the four tracks serves a purpose and resides comfortably in the running order. We’ll not hear any complaints about “value for money” because such materialistic concerns have no place in OM’s realm. This particular saucerful of secrets opens with the title track (also reprised in shortened form to close the album), a hushed affair, with delicately plucked bass and muffled tom work, sounding like Waters and Mason jamming circa 1969. Cicernos’s whispered vocals work a stream of consciousness vibe ("Witness from mind and psychic sheath a guardian sun restrains the world projection") as do the riffs, which have an idiosyncratic internal logic that encourages acceptance instead of analysis. “Pilgrimage” fades to make way for the distorted churn of “Unitive Knowledge of the Godhead.” This startling transition, bridged by a mellow passage that plays with a few notes from the previous track, is my favourite moment on the album. Having delivered a quiet one and a loud one, “Bhimas’ Theme” mixes the two dynamics, making for perhaps the most approachable, deliberately structured piece on Pilgrimage. While nothing on the album quite matches the superb and memorable “At Giza” from Conference of the Birds, the overall flow and variety of the tracks shows some significant progression, making OM’s third major release a satisfying listening experience. Pilgrimage is a testament to their staunch focus. If they keep widening their field of vision, OM should be able to keep at this for years to come.

Cortez the Killer—s/t EP (self-released)
Here’s more proof that the Vancouver music scene has entered a golden era. Though they take their name from Neil Young’s slow-burning epic, Cortez the Killer’s own music is a turbulent headrush more akin to Botch, The Refused, or forefathers Fugazi and Squirrel Bait. This fiery quintet shares a member with A Ghost to Kill Again, whose debut album knocked me on my ass earlier this year. The two bands also share a fanaticism for unpredictable action rock, although Cortez favour a harder punk rock edge compared to AGTKA’s shameless prog tendencies. Where AGTKA are sweeping and emotional, Cortez are taut and pissed off on this five-song EP. Each track writhes with rapid-fire lyrics—cryptic yet clearly imaginative political tirades whose stream-of-consciousness presentation in the booklet perfectly reflects their delivery. “Cocktails Mixed by Molotov” reimagines WWII’s Eastern Front as a hockey game while “East Vancouver Heart Attack” laments those being swept aside in the name of civic development (featuring the genius line “we all desire change but have none to spare”). Musically, flurries of hepped-up Iron Maiden licks and double bass (drummer Benjie Nesdoly turns in a heroic performance) pepper the spasmodic song structures—structures that still leave room for hooks in the form of gang-shout choruses and other vocal lines that get catchier with every listen. The songs seethe with debut-release excitement, and once Cortez the Killer catch their breath and hit the studio again it’ll be interesting to hear them stretch out across a full-length release.

The Benzene Ring—Breathing Water in a Dream (Vortex Gang Records)
New York’s The Benzene Ring are easy to enjoy yet difficult to describe. The band appears comfortable with the “indie rock meets prog” tag, so, even if it doesn’t do them sufficient justice, let us go with that. (Aside: I often find that bands are their own worst enemies when they label themselves—there’s a local band that describes themselves as “alt-country with a hip-hop backbone,” a phrase that nearly sends me screaming and flailing into oncoming traffic whenever I see it tacked up on a poster in my neighbourhood.) The Benzene Ring have their own musical hybrid figured out, integrating all elements seamlessly enough that you barely notice transitions between fresh-faced poppiness, sinister ‘n’ sinuous Steve Hackett guitar lines and Tool-worthy heavy sections. Hometown boys Bend Sinister are operating in similar territory, I think, albeit with a different set of styles and influences. The overall approach is guitar-based and economical, refreshingly free of the musical bloat that affects too many bands these days. The murky CD cover offers no clues to the wonders within—I thought the colorful, detailed painting on the back of the booklet would have done a better job of conveying the music's sensibility. There might be a concept underpinning the album, but I‘ve become so clueless in my old age that unless the booklet is
emblazoned with “Welcome to our heavy concept album,” I’m oblivious. Who has time to figure it all out? Songwise, The Benzene Ring have a flair for the mini-epic, such as on the 7-minute opening track, “You and Me in the Absence of Predators” which travels from a sprightly catchy opening to a noisy guitar duel to a placid, watery section before reprising the introduction, producing a nice déjà vu effect. The second track, “An Old Man Dies and Finds Himself in Hell” is equally strong, a rapid-fire REM-to-Genesis-to-points-beyond structure, with a nice use of the devil’s interval during the song’s latter third. The vocals are particularly good throughout, as they manage to work in some strong melodies no matter how eccentric the instrumental backing. The album then fragments into abstract pieces and semi-songs—the sort of thing that got me thinking “concept album”—deep-space whooshing and hissing or Eno-esque ambient diversions. Of the semi-songs “The Magical Road” is a favourite of mine—just a single lyrical mantra chanted against a driving guitar riff, a quick guitar-solo release, then back to the chant, which builds and builds to the end; all done in just over two minutes. The album finale, “Pretend I’m Not Here,” has kind of a Canterbury feel (with Leslie speaker vocal effects straight offa Camel's Moonmadness), for a time at least. If they added a slightly harder edge to their sound, this band would be perfect for an adventurous label like The End. These songs, each a humble triumph of imagination, go to some interesting places, and I’d be pleased to see the Benzene Ring go places in the next few years as well.

I was at Progressive Ears this morning, reading an unspectacular thread on power trios, when someone threw up a link to November, a Swedish trio who released three albums between 1969 and 1972. Holy crap—these guys were right up there with Night Sun in terms of obscure early '70s heaviness, and definitely on par with more famous acts like Captain Beyond and Budgie. I can hear a lot of their sound in Witchcraft as well (speaking of whom, I've been waiting for a review copy of their new album The Alchemist for a while. I'll probably just buy it, because hey, new Witchcraft!).

Here are the Top 100 Canadian Albums, as voted by our nation's critics and documented in Bob Mersereau's new book. No list is perfect, and lengthy lists drawn up by critics are especially suspect, but this one avoids total blandness with some worthy and surprising choices. Here are some notes on the ones that I own.

1. Harvest, Neil Young (1972)
Strange that this would prevail on a critics' list, even if it is his most popular album. I thought the rock-crit junta preferred scragglier Young albums, like Tonight's the Night. As Sam Inglis writes in his book on Harvest (part of the 33 1/3 series), "...it would be fair to say that Harvest was a hit despite the press, rather than because of them; and it's not only rock critics who have expressed distaste for Young's most successful album. Ask serious Neil Young fans to name their favourite album of his and you'll hear votes for any one of ten or so, but Harvest is unlikely to be among them. If you love Young for the searing rock 'n' roll of Rust Never Sleeps or the raw emotion of Tonight's the Night, Harvest is too safe, too bland, too popular."

I think Harvest is a fantastic album, and a very worthy #1.

2. Blue, Joni Mitchell (1970)
Truth is, I bought this used from Neptoon's bargain bin because I wanted the original version of "This Flight Tonight." It gets a fair bit of early morning play here.

3. After the Gold Rush, Neil Young (1970)
After Harvest, this is probably Young's most hit-filled album. It's hard to beat that initial stretch of songs on side one.

9. Moving Pictures, Rush (1981)
Again, what a killer first side! An easy selection for the top Rush album here; Moving Pictures had a huge impact on a generation of basement-bar and backs-of-car dwellers across the country (sorry, I'm referencing the wrong album there). "Tom Sawyer" is pure jean-jacket poetry, while I'll always have time for "The Camera Eye"'s 10 minutes of elegance on side two.

16. Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, Neil Young with Crazy Horse (1969)
"Cinnamon Girl," "Down by the River," and "Cowgirl in the Sand" probably use up over half the running time on this album, the first Neil Young release to showcase the shambling, jamming side of his musical personality.

17. 2112, Rush (1976)
The album that pulled them out of the dumper...jeez, it's all about side one again. It always bugs me when it's called a concept album, or even when "2112" is called a side-long epic. No, it's seven little songs that tell a story that can only be properly discerned when you read the 'tween-song "narration" between the lyrics in the gatefold. Duh, you guys.

19. Whale Music, Rheostatics (1992)
I'd place Melville first in the Rheostatics discography myself (see more below). Whale Music has "Self Serve Gas Station," though, which is a whole movie's worth of depressing, soul-destroying, suicidal drama in five minutes.

22. Rust Never Sleeps, Neil Young & Crazy Horse (1979)
This album is badass, though I don't think it has the depth of the previous NY albums on this list. I do think "Powderfinger" is one of his best-ever songs, and I have a soft spot for "Welfare Mothers."

30. Tonight's the Night, Neil Young (1975)
I got this after reading all the critical hoopla in one of those special Rolling Stone issues ("Best 8 Million Albums of the Mid-70s" or something), but I've never really gotten into it.

31. Decade, Neil Young (1977)
A greatest hits package makes the list? I have this, and I like to open the triple gatefold up and look at it. I rarely put it on.

38. Melville, Rheostatics (1991)
This is my favourite Rheostatics album. They were ON for this one, just brimming over with piss 'n' vinegar. "Record Body Count," "Aliens (Christmas 1988)," and "Horses" can reduce me to bubbling goo. Capped off with "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," it's a Canadian classic.

39. Love Tara, Eric's Trip (1993)
Great to see this underrated band make the list. This was their first album for SubPop, and the follow-up, Forever Again, was even better, IMO.

40. On the Beach, Neil Young (1974)
I really really liked this album when I first got it, but looking at the song titles, I'm hard pressed to remember most of it. I reviewed it briefly here back in 2004: "It’s Neil down in the dumps in 1974, dressing down Lynyrd Skynyrd (or perhaps Crosby, Stills and Nash) one more time ('Walk On') then embarking on a series of more stripped-down numbers, some of which are quite beautiful. 'See the Sky About to Rain' and the title track are two of my favourites right now." Some penetrating analysis there.

47. Harvest Moon, Neil Young (1992)
Having attained iconic status after Freedom and Ragged Glory, it was time for a sequel to Harvest. Like most sequels, Harvest Moon doesn't quite recapture the magic of the original. The subsequent Unplugged album was great though, and remember that video with Dale Crover as young Neil?

51. High Class in Borrowed Shoes, Max Webster (1977)
"a foot in the kitchen/a foot in the door/but the foot in your mouth/is so u don't get bored." Yeah, Pye Dubois is the people's poet, fuckin' A, and this is Max Webster's most rockin' album. Thanks to Martin Popoff's books for pointing me towards their catalogue beyond the s/t debut—five records and about 10 bucks got me endless hours of enjoyment.

56. Si on avait besoin d'une cinquieme saison, Harmonium (1974)
I remember our French teacher playing us Harmonium songs so we could read along with the lyrics. Little did I know at the time that there was such a thing as Quebec folk-prog, and that I would be buying Harmonium albums 20 years later when there was no other progressive rock left to buy.

62. The Trinity Session, Cowboy Junkies (1988)
I think I liked the idea of this record more than the record itself. They were well ahead of the mope-rock curve, as evidenced by those MOJO tribute albums where cutting-edge artists of today turn ebullient works like Revolver into dirge-fests.

64. Nothingface, Voivod (1989)
See, this is where this whole Top 100 exercise justifies itself. Voivod! Nothingface! Cyber-metal masterpiece at #64 with a bullet(belt)! I guess that "Astronome Domine" video really burned a few impressionable brain cells back then.

70. Love Junk, The Pursuit of Happiness (1988)
Moe Berg was clearly a young man relishing the prospect of a mid-life crisis when this CanCon power pop classic was released. While nobody needs to hear "I'm an Adult Now" ever again, there's a bunch of other songs here to pick up the slack. "Hard to Laugh" kicks pretty hard, as does "Killed by Love" (Berg's reply to Motörhead's "Killed by Death"?) and the immortal "Looking for Girls."

86. Smeared, Sloan (1992)
There were other Sloan albums further up on the list, but this is the only one I own. "Underwhelmed" (their own "I'm an Adult Now") is on here in its speedy incarnation, which I think I like a bit better than the lumbering EP version. I have to say the thrill of those days—when that DGC logo accompanied epochal releases by Sonic Youth and Nirvana, and our own Maritimes lads got in on it too—is long gone for me.

100. A Farewell to Kings, Rush (1977)
I remember getting this album from Woodward's and having it melt my face even when played on my folks' old faux-Victorian woodclad all-in-one phonograph/radio hi-fi (or mid-fi) unit. Only "Madrigal" flounders here, like "Tears" on 2112, and it doesn't matter anyway because "Cygnus X-1" tears apart every nerve afterwards, obliterating its feeble predecessor like so much space dust.

What about these, eh?
It would have been cool to see these albums make the list:
Nomeansno—Wrong
Sons of Freedom—s/t
SNFU—And No One Else Wanted to Play

"I was trapped into being alive." The Guardian profiles Robert Wyatt and his partner Alfie. As someone who has tried to sing in the past, I enjoyed this passage:
"Wyatt is brutally modest about his voice. Described by Ryuichi Sakamoto as 'the saddest sound in the world', it is limber and beautiful - yet Wyatt once likened it to Jimmy Somerville on valium. 'There's no deliberate or conscious input into the way I sing,' he says. 'It's more like damage limitation.'"

I saw his new album Comicopera in a store a couple weeks ago, and I stupidly didn't buy it right then and there.

I'm having problems managing my time and being productive these days. I start every day with the best intentions—get some work done in the morning, get out of the house before the hordes of SFU students swarm my transit route(s)—only to fritter away the time here at this machine.

This morning the time wastage was worth it, though. Check out this Metafilter thread about my second or third or fourth favourite band. It boasts a healthy 88 comments so far too, most of them witty and fond, e.g. "I enjoy annoying my sister, a huge Rush fan, with random outbursts of 'SALESMAN!'"

Now I must get dressed.

Roland Kirk with Jack McDuff—Kirk’s Work (Prestige)
Reading the liner notes to this Rudy Van Gelder remaster, I learned that Roland Kirk had a bit of “novelty act” stigma. I guess the sight of a big blind guy blowing on any number of wind and brass instruments out of any number of orifices was difficult for people to take seriously back in 1961. All I know is Roland Kirk rocked really hard. His flash, showmanship, and pioneering spirit definitely appealed to certain players on the adventurous fringes of rock in the late ’60s. I’m thinking of Ian Anderson, who borrowed Kirk’s vocalizing flute style and adapted a couple of his signature tunes, as well as the Kirk-style twin-sax attack of Van der Graaf Generator’s David Jackson. Rock music and Kirk’s brand of jazz also shared a blues foundation. It doesn’t get any more down and dirty than “Doing the Sixty-Eight” or “Funk Underneath” off Kirk’s Work. “Funk Underneath” is an especially interesting track, with its shifting moods. Kirk leads off on flute, tentative and coy. When Jack McDuff takes over on organ, working overtop the marauding bass line, the tune toughens up and turns into something that I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. McDuff shares billing with Kirk, and his Hammond lends a pervasive sense of menace laced with ’60s cool. (I’ve discovered recently that jazz organ is one of my favourite things on earth. Larry Young, Jimmy Smith, Jack McDuff—they’re all killer. I’m up for more recommendations.) The double shot off the top of the album features my favourite tracks. “Three for Dizzy” sounds like the theme to a spy flick, all dramatic sax stabs and slinky melodies. In contrast, the version of “Makin’ Whoopee”that follows defines the word “peppy” and I’ll throw in the term “shit hot” while I’m at it. It’s the kind of live-off-the-floor mayhem that makes you want to throw down your chosen instrument forever, knowing you’ll never rock that hard. At a little over half an hour, Kirk’s Work is like the Reign in Blood of jazz albums, making for the best jazz fix I’ve had in a while.

Kosmos—s/t (The End)
I don’t know if the late Carl Sagan liked rock music at all, but I think he would have appreciated Kosmos. Not only did this splendidly psych-rocking Montreal quartet borrow and mutate the name of the good doctor’s landmark TV series, they also make music that would have worked perfectly as that show’s soundtrack. I can picture Sagan guiding us around billions and billions of galaxies to the chilling Kraftwerk vibe of “Dream” or using the burbling synth raga of “Mothership” as a backdrop to a discussion of black holes. Kosmos play planetarium rock to be sure, but they pull in so many styles and musical colours that the album easily avoids becoming a drone-fest. Instead it’s a vital, concise cluster of Euro-prog explorations mixed with unexpected detours into heavy rock raveups and fuzz punk. Voivod drummer Michel Langevin powers the whole enterprise (along with copilots Jetphil, Alex Crow of Tricky Woo, and Vincent Peake of Grimskunk) with an authority befitting decades of laying down off-kilter rhythms for Voivod. He provides plentiful bombast and bluster for more extroverted tracks like album opener “Psycho,” “Messe Noire” and “Grand Grizou” where his bandmates provide thrills aplenty with their organ vs. synth vs. guitar battles. Some pieces bring to mind Heep and Purple sans crooning, as well as the vanished instrumental NOLA-scene side project The Mystick Crewe of Clearlight. Fans of Goblin, Zombi, Djam Karet, and Pink Floyd’s soundtrack work would also be advised to tune in and turn on. I suspect this album is the inevitable by-product of someone’s cool record collection and an attitude that anything’s worth trying once. From Red Giants to White Dwarfs, they’re all here in the Kosmos.

Neurosis—Given to the Rising (Neurot)
Neurosis have earned the right to do anything they want at this point. They release their own records, they tour when and where they want. If any other band was in this position, one might expect a certain laziness to creep into their music. This is Neurosis, however, so the only expectation is steadfast, indomitable excellence... Their releases since Times of Grace have seen the gradual introduction of a certain terse moodiness and quietude associated with post rock, a tendency that Neurosis acolytes Isis have embraced much more decisively on albums like Panopticon. The logical outcome of Neurosis's musical progression could result in an album entirely mellowed out and interchangeable with any mopey indie-rock outfit. But Neurosis music comes from the heart, so forget logic and the unimaginative reductionism that usually constitutes other bands' “artistic growth.” Given to the Rising slams the brakes on that stylistic trajectory with a batch of dark, heavy songs built upon riff after riff after riff. The album is full of those Neurosis terror moments, where a murky tangent suddenly explodes as the whole band unleashes one of those crusher riffs. This is nothing new for Neurosis, of course. The most novel aspect of Given to the Rising is that they’ve chosen to focus on the dark and heavy. They played one or two of these songs live when I saw them in November, but I was too busy trying not to die to file away the fine details of the new material. They’ve worked with Steve Albini again, who’s given them their best recording yet...perfectly spare and direct. Neurosis songwriting methods don't stick to any rules other than songs should have a beginning and end and be terrifying, so to try to describe the unpredictable tangents within each track would be the equivalent of spoiling the plot of a long-awaited film. I’ll just say that once you’ve experienced the opening title track—one of the greatest songs they’ve ever written—you’ll want, you’ll need, to stay seated and hear the rest. Those who’ve felt the exhilaration of a new Neurosis album know what I mean. You can write me afterward once you've recovered sufficiently and we’ll compare notes. With many bands of Neurosis’s vintage, the tendency is to point new listeners to an album four or five releases back, where the band made the big breakthrough. With Neurosis, however, their sense of quality control is such that you could start with Given to the Rising and immediately "get" what they've been about since they began their magnificent trek.

I'm guest blogging this week over at Heavy Metal Time Machine, where Metal Mark was kind enough to let me sound off on Voivod's Killing Technology.