There’s almost too much going on here to even wrap my feeble mind around (I’m a simple man).  Two separate recordings, one per channel, genius in its simplicity, 10x better than yr favorite band mashed with Jay-Z lyrics. But shit man its also on a picture disc! And if that wasn’t enough, it’s also pressed inside-out so the inner groove is actually the beginning of the recording!  And if that wasn’t enough, there’s also a CD with the stereo versions of the tracks and bonus tracks too! I felt like I was in an infommercial where they keep throwing bonus goodies at me.  I’m thinking woah, woah you had me at Snuggie, but hell yeah I want a foldable reading lamp.  But we live in a digital age now, and one needs all the stimuli one can get and my guess is the Fellowship is just trying to keep up.

On the left is Traum, a duo comprised (on this recording) of Ben Hall from Graveyards and infamous internet badboy Zac Davis who’s been involved in a plethora of noize, most notably playing in Lambsbread and making xerox copies to glue stick on cdrs and calling them Maim and Disfigure.  (WARNING: Honest nice guy insert coming up.) I’ve seen Zac Davis twice, and I must say his reputation precedes him, a ripoff douche he might be to some, but if you ignore the internet rumor-mills, you’ll see he’s a pretty decent guitarist, shredding scumwalls that melts the resin right off your bong.   However, none of ZD’s distorted axe ruckus to be found here, as Traum opts for a cleaner sound that seems solely focused on the interplay between Hall’s drumming and Davis’s clean electric.  Ben Hall eschews conventional drumming rhythm in exchange for the unbridled free-jazz sounds, while ZD plays along with restraint unthought-of from him, plucking strings, working scales, putting on his business suit.   The duo plays off one another nicely, at times working the call and response, at others drifting into one another’s spaces.

On the right channel is Bark Haze, a duo of some nobody named Thurston Moore and the legendary Andrew MacGregor from Gown!   (Ug, I’m jesting all over.)  Hate to say it, (though I’m not sure why) but TMoore has an undeniably distinct guitar sound  His metal on metal tones are the beef to these pieces, while A-Mac is the thick stew underneath dropping long soupy drones.  The two seem focused more on layering than playing with one another, but it works.  Not the most interesting tracks in the world, but dude it’s the guy from Sonic Youth (!!!! or at least I think that how most approach the Mooreman, but not me man, I think he’s a hack…. j/k dudez, he played on daydream nation, luv the guy).

Luckily the best is to come, as while I can listen to Bark Haze or Traum solo (thanks to the bonus CD), the name of the game is melting the two together to create one unknowing supergroup.  Now, I’m not sure if these guys heard one another’s tracks, but the final mix of the two is beyond all expectations.  Had I not known, I could’ve pictured the four players all in a room together, sparking one and jamming.  Maybe it’s the minimal nature of both sides, but the blend is superb, with each musician taking on a distinct sound and role in the mix.  Traum provides a nice backbone for Bark Haze, who thicken the sound with the drone and chaotica.  The almost 20 min side is broken into three jams, the first two take their time in unraveling, each musician seems to be exploring his respective axe/kit, unperturbed by empty space.  But the listen is far from a calming stew of layers, its jagged and introspective listening (and surely way too boring for the modest SY fans).  And  in case it wasn’t obvious enough just to prove these dudes are noisers at the core, they lay down a almost required freak-out at the end to show (these dudes are noisers at the core) you the listener their wild side.

Picture disc is a painting of one of the final scenes in 2001: A Space Odyssey, astronaut Dave, aged and dying, with the monolith at the foot of his bed.  Flip side has a pic of the gas giant, Jupiter, complete with its gnarly giant red spot.  I gotta say, I love the idea and the execution, top notch.  Not sure what the connection is to the tunes (maybe you need a GED for that kinda insight).  Recommended on all fronts. Hot wax.  Edition of 500.

Uton, the moniker of one Jani Hirvonen, has for a long time been a significant name in the Finnish weirdo-psych underground scene (is that even possible to say without sounding like a complete douche?).  The planet Uton first came to my attention via the superb Jewelled Antler Library 3” cdr ‘Zwuiji’ and has since been delivering consistently rad takes on organic drones and psych-based improv, despite sounds and methods that have vary wildly from release to release.  Maybe this inability to pin his style down is the reason it seems like he’s gotten significantly less international attention (or at least it seems that way to me) than Finnish contemporaries like Kemialliset Ystävät, Avarus, and Kuupuu, to name a few.  Regardless of prestige and acclaim, the Uton project remains one of my favs and this LP keeps the legacy afloat. Play on playa.

Two side-long themes to this needle tickler, Atopia/Utopia on the front/back respectively.  Atopia (the society without territorial borders) begins with a beautiful meandering drone, a soft wind-riddled hum that sinks gently into your pores.  But Uton never lets you become too comfortable in your drone-zone as scary flutes from hell, string plucking, slow hissing, and delayed feedback all find themselves weaving in and out of the mix. Next track leaves the drone at the footrest and hits on communal improv. Fancy the dude passing ‘round hot cups of Glögi, munching on cabbage rolls and rye bread after inviting the neighbors over for a jam on every piece of floating instrument in the house (and if Uton’s going at this one alone, it must have been overdub city).  My cultural experiences tell me unfailingly that after hippies fill their bellies, drum circles always bust out.  It appear it’s no different in Finland.  After a raw improvo-organo-jammer, we find untamed hand drums meet renegade flute soloist in the Atopia closer.  Bizzaro WTF!  Your music teacher is appalled, but she don’t know shit about letting loose, and fuck, you don’t go to Finland to hear some douche with a guitar and delay pedal… Flip it.

Where’s my Utopia?  It appears the neighbors have gone home to fornicate with sheepskin condoms (or my fav natural prophylactic the pull-out) and we find our man Uton alone with some moonshine, his gear and a mixer. I reckon you don’t realize how fucked up you are until your friends have all left and the spins hit… and  the sounds are now amplified, heavy and sluggish, so hit they do. Dark repeating murmurs chant until a looming buzz.  Time suddenly has gaps and the next track hits.  Suddenly, we find ourselves in Uton’s subconscious reverie processing the eve’s happenings… All those subtle freeflowing tunes we found in Atopia are masticated together with ferocity and chewed into a swirling sauna of demonic cloudbursts and verses.  This isn’t a floating fantasy, it’s his fucking harsh nightmare, get scared.  Ever so slowly, the clatter begins to mellow, the snow melts, bells jingle, birds chirp, its morning perhaps, and you’ve just survived a excursion into the (slightly tortured) mind of Uton, holy hell.  Makes me wonder, if this is Uton’s utopia, Jani must be one fucked dude.

Get a little cerebral on this LP and you’ll find its one of the more adventurous sojourns into the unique and enigmatic world of Uton.  Masterful use of the flip, as we hear two distinct sides, Atopia (music of the people) and Utopia (music of the individual), that make perfect sense together in spite of their entirely contradictory visions.  Not sure I know (or care) what the hell I’m talking about, but it sure is fun to pretend. Can’t say enough, quality all around.

Presentation is respectable. Black wax, not too thick, with double-sided folded cover.  Full-color art on the cover by the man Jani himself, acid-infused clown? Kinda funky, utterly weird, not spectacular, but fitting.   Some comic book drawlings and mostly indecipherable info scrawl in black and white on the inside.

Before even listening to this, I’m not feeling it, but to be honest when your obvious MO is making tropical beach jams, half the game is getting in the board shorts state o’ mind, and if I don’t want to put on the neon shades that’s my prerogative.  Ten tracks in all on II (maybe it only makes sense after listening to I?), six on the front-side, and 4 on the back, mostly lo-fi bedroom pop jams recorded on 4 and 8-track.  So tropical brah, totally mellow vibes, brah, like sessioning the most killer barrel.   Nah, I jest, it’s not overly terrible, well “The Mall”, um yeah…. pretty unlistenable, well lets say the listening equivalent of watching the Star Wars kid in his garage wield his light saber for the camera (did someone throw it on the tape as a cruel joke?).  But lucky for me, that’s the only molten hot stinker on here.   In fact, there are some decent jams on this one.  For instance,“Boating” is a pleasant 2 min piece, with some friendly strumming over drum beat over “ooo-aahh-ooooo’s” with the flanger cranked high (after writing that, I’m amazed at how I could possibly enjoy that song, but it works somehow).  The closer “Neptune City, NJ” is really more my cup o’ tea, a track with floating, tinkling synth-kabobs and nary a beach reference in sight, Dig IT.  Space, Man!  Space is the place.  Unfortunately, the rest of the tracks… hmmm, let’s say Jimmy Buffet instrumentals before he reached Margaritaville, oh yeah, but with the “tropical fuzz” pedal on 10 (maybe even 11), just boring, pass.

It pains me to diss Mr. Ducktales, because the effort smells sincere.  But if sincerity was a trait I valued in an artist, I’d still be rocking my Stryper LPs, b/c NO ONE is more sincere than metalheads for christ. As it is, II is the kind of tape that if a buddy passed it off to me, I would think ‘oh hey, not bad’.  But when I’m paying money for this, I find myself severely underwhelmed.  Good thing Ducktails certainly doesn’t need my support, as he’s already got some internet hotboxes chatterin’ mightily and labels biting to release.  Am I missing something? I guess I just don’t get it.  Such is the nature of the beast.  Am I a hater?  Yes.  Am I a bad person?  No.  Do I wish Ducktails ill will?  Of course not.  Do I wish I could have that 6 dollars of my pocket money back?  Without a doubt.

Double-sided green j-card: driving down Hollywood Blvd. palm trees shot on front, song titles on back, simple enough.   White tapes with front label o’ palm trees (palm count now up to a disturbing 16) and the cassette holes sticker punch-out slapped on the back.  Um, well at least he’s consistent.

Exhibit A: cut some time in Sunburned Hand of the Man (but seriously who the hell hasn’t, see Pewtr)
Exhibit B: Collaboration with Marcia Basset (GHQ, Hototogisu, Zaimph, Double Leopards) as Purple Haze.
Exhibit C:  Collaboration with Oneohtrix Point Never guy as Infinity Window.
Exhibit D: Prehistoric Blackout split tape with Mark McGuire (Emeralds).

Some might look down on the man, with his lack of focus on a singular vision and call him a slut, but shit, times are tough and a guys gotta dip his hands in plenty of cookie jars if he’s gonna stay afloat in this biz.  I’m not holding it against him, he’s an upstanding young feller and deserves a fair shake just like anyone else.

As far as I (do not) know, this is the 2nd light of recorded day that dude is putting forth under his Prehistoric Blackout guise, on the heels of the near impossible to find Mark McGuire split tape on Wagon.  This tape finds PB in euphoric highs, quite literally as the label man says it’s a tribute to recreational drugs.  Okaaaay.  Kinda stating the obvious there after listening to this one.  The top side features PB in full on space drone mode.  Synth-sounds and phaser sabers are everywhere. The piece doesn’t travel too far, but if you wanna get your zone on with the visualizer (or vaporizer) for 10 min, I couldn’t think of a better way to do so. Dude clearly plateaus on side one, and the flip side is the come down.  It starts mellow and reserved in unforeseen ways, and summons the ghosts of winter winds with minimal tones drenched in fatigue.  Halfway through the second-wind comes and the track tries to reach those heights once again (though it comes across a bit effort-laden in comparison to the flip).   Like robo-sitting your best friend for 20 min, you’re jamming along, he’s high as fuck (or vice versa, it works both ways).  Super times all around, as long as there’s no freak-out (and PB is in control, no freak-outs to be found here).   Ja.

Single sided full color J-card with collage o’ muppets n’ stuff art.  Clear tapes with color labels.  Pretty and Efficient. I’m onboard with it.

If ya didn’t know by now, Leslie Keffer is a woman, she makes noize.  Totally rare!! OMG.   AS IF.  Anyways, no pussyfooting here, as she immediately stomps on your phallic fantasies with steel-toed boots.  She drew me in (with all that whoreny talk) now I’m going nowhere, immediately trapped in 30 min of dank dungeon smoke.   This tape is heavy, as super-saturated sounds pour forth. The source material for both sides sounds like a simple beat, as you get glimpses in the beginning.  But the manipulation starts immediately and soon my ear’s on the stethoscope and I’m listening to the heartbeat of the 1000 lb man (or woman).   Not scary, just domineering (and the listener is definitely the bitch in this relationship).  Sometimes, she takes the foot off, allowing us to gasp, but fuck if it doesn’t go right back on the throat.  Very few moments when the needle isn’t fully in the red.  My speakers are so stuffed they want to purge.   And while some peeps are masochists or gluttons, or both, it just ain’ my thang.  Not that I don’t enjoy peeping in on the show.  Interesting, not essential.

Despite my tape case being all busted up (damn jealous gf), the whole package still looks mighty becoming. White tapes with blood splatter label.  Pink info card.  Full wrap-around cardboard J-card (wrap-around, then it might now be a U-card) silkscreened black and red.  Is it supposed to be skeletons and roses?  Who cares, Success!!!

So, Petwr (really wish I could just call him Ron) hits with some solo electric guitar wizardry.  Alright, not wizardry, it does not remind me of Yngwie Malmsteen (righteous wizard he was), more like a shaman, sparse with info, but pungent with mystery.  Just a man with a message, spelled out slowly and with minimal reliance on the crutch of concealing effects pedals.  Throughout the tape, dude lays out sinuous tracks on guitar and amp, speaking in somber, pensive tones, guiding without being forceful.  Like Tom Carter, Loren Connors, or Ben Chasny at times, Pewtr lets the instrument speak for itself. The man takes a backseat to the music, allowing the notes to resonate and hum.

First 3 ½ minutes on side 2 are missing, unless that was supposed to be an inaudible, sometimes slightly gurgling first track.  But the way it kicks in, tell me no, so booo on poor dubbing.   But this side fleshes out the tape, and we get two more winding pieces (for solo guitarman) that lead to the killer closer that wraps this one up quite coherently.  I speak thereof about this unforeseen break in the action, where Pewtr reads a passage from H.G. Wells’ “Outline of History”.  His reading of the piece is unabashedly proletariat, alluding to the unrepentant military powers conspiring while the people suffer, read with a deadpan delivery, honest with miscues and stutters.  From a chapter called, A Forecast of the Next War, it’s no surprise to see why he picked this passage.  Though written in 1920 about WWI (fun fact: then known as the great war), it’s still strikingly relevant in dialogue about nationalistic divisions of resources, and warmongering thought.    It’s a powerful statement as he insinuates the revealing theme: WWIII blues for improv electric guitar.  Ah, and finally I think I see why he titled this tape, Always Heavy.  The side ends shortly after with a short strummed track entitled, “we continue”, as if to say, in spite of this overwhelming fear of our nuclear society.

Maybe my interpretation of Always Heavy is way off, but it don’t matter, because beauty is in the eye, and I love it.    Talented enough guitar-work to stand solo, but made spectacular by the fluidity of the undercurrent. Comes on solid black tapes,, with a single sided color J-card  featuring a photo of a guy (likely Ron, though he would be violating the Kranky rule of no self-portrait cover art) against a gray, barren landscape. Minimal art flare (which in this condition, suits me just fine) in an edition of 100, and I can’t quit it.

Sean McCann is all business: fucks supermodels, drives sports cars, wears crisp suits, and produces hott boy band groups. But he’s somehow unsatisfied in his vapid kingdom of power, and fortune.  DUN DUN DUN (dramitic theme).   In a world of unjust privilege, only man can right that which Sean has done wrong.  That man is…..himself.  Sean McCann is …. Black Eagle Child.

It goes on in my head, but the gist is White man greedy, Native American just. All the makings of a racist stereotyping blockbuster, I know.  But I can still laugh, right?, right??  Ah shit.  As an aside, I had a friend who was Pima Indian who told me 75% of white americans claim to be part Cherokee (has something to do with alleviating the whole genocide connection).  A round of applause for the thoughts the name Black Eagle Child provoked everybody…

In reference to the fact that the credits (Ted Facepaint? Seriously?) read differently, I’m going under the assumption that BEC is not Sean McCann in disguise. And I’ll promise to STFU about all name references from here on out (guilt, eating me alive).   Onwards!  BEC got the A side and drr drr drrr drrrooone.  Hmm, not at all what I was expecting: a slow moving buzz, with the occasional dissonant electric pluck.  After awhile, the track briefly experiments with glitch out/fade out/texture, but nothing crazy (grounded under continuous non-sexy purr).  Then ends with a totally out of place supersaturated guitar (doom solo). There are some moments where my pleasure button is hit, but the track never stays anywhere long enough to massage it.  Instead, it floats in a muddled kingdom that is neither entirely relaxing, nor fascinating. Not unlistenable, but indeed unfocused. Meh, can’t bro down on this.

Luckily, I got Sean McCann on the flip to pick this one by the bootstraps (and back on the horse, young Bu(E)Ck, yeehaw, you’ll ride one day).  Oh Sean, me likey.  How’d you know I like to pretend to have alzheimers in the middle of rush hour?   The acid-horns are a-honkin’ and stimuli melodies are everywhere on this one. Sounds like a disturbed Terry Riley on hyperspeed lives inside SM’s side. Though texturally all over the place, track remains cozy and inviting, like (a non-molesting version of) Bill Cosby’s sweater.    Getting all crazy with the name drops here, but my tape deck’s about to lift off and fly away (powered by wings, not jet pack) from the sonic mania.   This is rad, but fade out my boy (or shoot it, your preference), don’t just pull out on me like that (we both know you ain’t finished).

Clear tapes with initials painted in green.   Comes in homemade tape pouch sewed out of two precious fabrics (flowers and stripes). And a drawstring to keep the tape nice and warm. Ummmm, yeah. Redeemed slightly by a gnarly monarch caterpillar (a reference to the initial appearance of arthropods?!, Cambrian Period yeah! I have Wikipedia) picture on the insert/info card. Whatevs, I appreciate the effort, and the fine dubbing job.

I’ll be honest, I got stoned, and was listening to this the first time while watching football (americano), because I was afraid it might be too un-american for my taste, and I wanted to make sure my roots were firmly planted in the soil (less I get tempted to move to a non-#1 importer/exporter country, I cant trust those aussies).  The A side proved a worthy adversary and soon enraptured my attention in the ultimate mindtrip.  Lots of delicious to hors d’oeuvres to chomp on, all tasty but light enough to keep me from falling into a food coma.  At times sounding like a loosely structured four-piece hazy psych group akin to say Ghost or Vanishing Voice or Sunburned, then in those moments where my ADHD generation self starts to get a little bored, they drop all pretenses of coherence and take the tape to regions uncharted, be it some pounding drum freakout or some tinkling guitar/piano intercourse.  And just when you think you get to know a person (or band o’ persons)… side B hits me with 2 tracks of the longer slow burner variety.   On the first track they put the guitar on drone mode, program one of those robot vacuums to bump into the drum kit once in awhile and go out and smoke a cig, and I’d gladly go out with ‘em, cause there ain’t much interesting going on here (Ha, and I just saw that its most appropriately called “always stay here too long”, too true dudes, too true).  But luckily the second track hits nastily with a decay/growing (AH, post rock, /shudders) weirdo rocker that starts at an oboe recital in a boiler room before taking me away to a kaleidoscope rhythm vortex (maybe been staring at the cover art too long).  Needless to say it succeeds mightily so I’m there headbanging (ok called out, stoned on the carpet).

I’ve read so many music descriptions referencing feelings of being in outer space or underwater (ps. guilty).  But that shit’s weak, because everything would sound wacky cool in your preferential alternate dimension.  This is the kind of pumpkin bread and butter tape that I’m enjoying right here in this flawed world, laying on the floor, taking pleasure from its natural qualities.  Let’s face it, there are enough unedited stoned late night jams (of dreadful quality) being released on tape (this is not one of em) which is exactly the reason why I find this one to be so rewarding, as it has all the off-the-cuff bizarro ideas/sounds you dig, but presents it in a remarkably focused, recorded and edited context.  Refreshing (breathe it in).

Simple clear tape with 2-sided labels of credits and track listings (no issues here).  But the packaging is ghastly with typical kitschy arts ‘n crafts design of multicolored, pinwheel tissue paper and sequins (more or less the norm from NNF) but on a god damn 7” sleeve (Did NNF think they were getting a 7” worth of material, or did they just have a bunch of these designed unlabeled 7” sleeves sitting around?) Consequently, the tape sits in the sleeve awkwardly out of place, like a black mamba dong on your supervisor’s office mantel.  The WTF meter is going through the roof, but I grant them a pardon on this offense, b/c the tunes iz tight!

So without any further background ramblings, here it is, what I believe is the first release from (whom I like to imagine as Raccoo-oo-oon’s head honcho) Shawn Reed’s solo outing christened Wet Hair.    Four tracks spread out two per side, each roughly 4-5 min. The A side starts with dueling warbled organs over a drum machine, then some moany moan before morphing in a murky, layered piece before the fade out.  DRUMS!  (let me put that back in my pants)  I gets excitable and that’s what comes next, some real life drums and (o rly?) more organ and moaning.   Side B opens up with a deeply infectious three chord organ melody which loops to infinity.  I swear I came up with this little melody on my casio awhile back, but Mr. Wet Hair does a solid job with it, putting some more reverb drums and inaudible vox over the top.  Sounds like he’s try to say something. What’s that, you see someone?  Need to enunciate young buck, control the tongue! Ghost house scary track finishes this on off (and whew, I am spent). Sorry, I can’t write a dissertation on this, but I’m ok with it, moody basement songs with some melody and fuzz, but enough layers of imperfection to be interesting. The moaning levels of the mixer need to be turned down to nearly inaudible (remember your proverbs children, if you don’t have anything nice to say….), but you can’t win all the battles.  What’s more, the first track on the flip side is radical and worth the (non-ebay) price of admission alone.  Now, I’m bringing this sucka full circle (grad school!)  and getting back to the solo project issue. I have to say that it sounds roughly about what I was expecting it to sound like, one aspect of the ‘coon (the moan fest vox) with a quieter, more minimalist backing (organ tone!), but executed surprisingly better that I expected. And I dig the length and I dig the pacing of the tracks, as anything more might have been overkill. So I’m not drinking the haterade (yet), and I’m interested in where it will go from here.
Agreeable art by the dude behind the wet hair with pen skills and a straight hand. Red knights and bats and lesser-escher drawings silkscreened on a 1-sided orange j-card.   Also, comes with info insert with track listings ’n stuff and circle sticker on the top side of the clear tape, clean and smoove.

As I listen to this, I have to say that I’m glad no pictures of AColtrane have emerged.  Although he’s probably some scenester with a fauxhawk, (no disrespect, faux-hawks are kewl), it’s easy to picture the dude as a disgruntled, overweight cafeteria cook (no disrespect either, some of the realest people alive) who comes home at night after scooping out sloppy joes all day (that is what the kids in school are eating still, right?) and lays out his day-long irritations and laments on tape.

Scene 1: A Coltrane unlocks his front door from a belt full of keys on a loop.  Enters filthy studio apartment, where pedals, gear, and amps are strewn about.  He heats a hot-pocket in the microwave, while plugging in cables and turning on equipment.  FEEDBACK!!!! The mic was too close to the amp.  Andrew embraces it, arms failing, he starts fucking with pedal knobs. BURBRBEBGRERRRRR. NOOIZE.  Hot pocket explodes in the microwave (he set it to 5 minutes).  He doesn’t notice.  [Noise fades slowly out, Scene fades to black]

At 60 minutes, this set is a lot to swallow in a sitting  but AC is a master of his domain and it’s an interesting listen in doses (yeah, I had to split it into sides and take breaks).  If you can swallow the pill whole, then you’re a tough guy, and maybe god will reward you.  Solid packaging/presentation with abstract grayscale doom/crack wall imagery, printed tape labels and J cards for each tape in a plastic back-to-back style double tape case.  No style points or sense of humor found here, but its appropriately dark and dreary like the tunage and that’s just fine with me.