Columnfortably Numb: Psych Rock for August by JR Moores

Newcastle’s Mike Vest has recorded with more power trios than I’ve had cheese and ham toasties. Blown Out. HaiKai No Ku. Pascere Lamia. Mienakunaru. 11 Paranoias. Tomoyuki Trio. You name them, Vest is probably in them. Or was at some stage, before hurling himself straight into the next project. There’s no band name this time unless they decide to adopt as their moniker the album title. Vest has prior in that habit. For example, he recorded an album with Charlie Butler called Neutraliser and when the pair followed it up that was the name they were trading under. Here he’s with drummer Nick Raybould and guitarist Mitsuru Tabata. The latter has played in both Boredoms and Acid Mothers Temple, to name just two titanic Japanese acts from his many credits. From the off, we’re in abstract Jimi Hendrix and Eddie Hazel territory with expressive space-rock axe solos aplenty, as Tabata preaches enigmatically with his vocal cords. The style doesn’t vary hugely throughout, although the first half of ‘Galacta’ is perhaps drawing more on MC5 and The Stooges, before mellowing into hippier Deadheadery. Other songs, such as ‘Remover Of Obstacles’, are instrumental transmissions. The blurb mentions “stadium rock arrangements” which I’m not really hearing. Maybe it’s something to do with Raybould’s powerful drums. He’s also designed a sleeve so vivid you could step right into it and disappear for a month.

The hurdy gurdy is having a moment. So it’s worth reminding ourselves that the ancient hand-cranked string tool doesn’t only have to be used for tedious trad folk purposes. Brian Weitz (aka Geologist from Animal Collective) wields it here for wilder activities, as is necessary seeing as this trio have such a bold curse word in their name that they need to live up to. On drums is Jim Thomson who once played the part of Hans Sphincter in GWAR and is also known for Alter Natives and Time Is Fire. Marc Minsker of Third Eye Lounge is credited with bass, guitar and harmonium. Even without any vocals, the album is a varied affair. It’s got a droney opener in ‘Rise’. This segues into a cosmic exercise called ‘Breakers Part 1’. ‘Strange Planet’ has a dustier Link Wray meets Ennio Morricone vibe. ‘Studio B’ is more randomly discordant. There’s something Middle Eastern about the guitar licked hypnotic hum of ‘Metro 9’. To round matters off, they practically transform into Hawkwind for ‘Keep The Temp’. Let’s hope these mothereffers keep hurdying that gurdy. 

It’s quite the swindle to categorise, market and price this debut release as an album. It’s only 25 minutes long and half of its eight tracks are interludes lasting 31 seconds at longest. Attention spans aren’t what they used to be though, are they? It’s taken me three quarters of an hour to type those last three sentences and in the zombified scrolling I’ve conducted between completing each one, I’ve learnt what Isla Fisher has to say about her divorce from Sacha Baron Cohen, viewed approximately 200 images of the wide-eyed loon from Pentagram and been brainwashed into joining an online cult led by the disgraced Masterchef star Gregg “parsnip” Wallace. To this Nashville trio’s credit, the four fully formed songs are pretty hefty. On the seven-minute opener, ‘The Night Rider’, they riff as meatily as Fu Manchu, solo liberally as Earthless, and sing a bit like Buzz Osborne. On ‘Maanta Raay Theme’, the approach is a touch doomier. ‘Peace Cruiser’ is basically Black Sabbath with deeper vocals. The catchy stoner mantra ‘UFORCHID’ contains further evidence of the power trio’s, well, power. As for the ephemeral pieces in between, they barely qualify as intros or outros.

The press release for this new Italian group contains some grandiose talk about ultimate creative freedom, resistance to genre classifications, purity of expression and how “each track is envisioned as a journey, telling a story without the use of lyrics, inviting the listener to interpret it in their own unique and personal way.” The problem is it’s difficult to determine from that information what the band actually sounds like. Scroll to the bottom of their Bandcamp page and there’s a little more help: “rock”, “jazz”, “math”, “post”, “progressive”, “Italy”. Post what? Post rock, if we’re honest, what with their lyric-less narrative voyages and all. They’re skilled at it, mind, crafting instrumentals with multiple sections, seamless transitions, lots of different dynamics in play, and an ebbing and flowing that doesn’t always rely on quiet-part-to-LOUD-PART formulas. Doubtless the prog and jazz knowledge feeds into this impulse to keep the compositions moving forward while maintaining listeners’ interest by not repeating any particular passages too many times, or for too long. Talaqat are like the Michelin starred chef who knows how to keep customers’ gustatory cells entertained over the span of a multi course taster menu. The difference is their mission is to sumptuously gorge the ears instead. Pretentious confidence justified. 

It can only be a good sign that Hebi Katana’s drummer trades under the name of T.T. Goblin. He’s joined by the mononymous Laven (bass/vocals) and Nobu (guitars/vocals). Although they are promoted as a doom band, complete with loads of snakes, skulls and samurai swords on their album covers, that categorisation does a disservice to just how exuberant they sound. Presumably this comes from the band’s commitment to the philosophical concept of wabi-sabi which, if I’ve understood correctly, celebrates the beauty in impermanence, incompleteness, asymmetry, irregularity and natural flaws. While Hebi Katana recommend themselves to fans of Witchfinder General and The Obsessed, they’ll appeal to anyone who’s enjoyed reading Julian Cope rhapsodise about eccentric Japanese rock down the ages, from Flower Travellin’ Band to Boris. The scuzzy garage nugget ‘Bon Nou’ crackles like a dislodged catherine wheel in the dirt. ‘Dead Horse Requiem’ adds hippie vocal harmonies to the Blue(Cheer)print. Even poppier is ‘Doomed Echoes From Old Tree’. That’s until the palatable singing stops and it takes the turn into a devilish jam. Imagine Paul Di’Anno fronting Motörhead for the beginning of ‘Blood Spirit Rising’. In the middle of that one is a soft section for the soloing, somewhere between Funkadelic and The Eagles. So imperfect it deserves top marks.

The members of Atom Juice have played in other acts with promising names: Weedpecker; Makiwara; Clockmaid. As such, it’s a shame the Warsaw-based outfit have plumped for the unimaginative self-titling of their debut album. For one thing, it could’ve been named after Track Four. ‘Dead Hookers’ is a sonic smorgasbord which proves bluesy, proggy, heavy, sparkly, spacey and funky in delectable portions. The music rather overpowers the vocal drawl so let’s assume they’re not condoning Jack or any likeminded Rippers. Alternatively, why not title the LP after the next song, ‘Sexi Frogs’? This number is even funkier. It’s Stevie Wonder getting smashed with Mile High Club who then put on their Bermuda shorts and book a joint time-travellin’ vacation to 1970s Turkey. Pink Floyd fans might prefer to sink into the absorbent haze of ‘Gooboo’ or ‘Duo’. The latter suggests Jane’s Addiction playing an outtake from The Wall with help from Smote Reverser-era Osees. It’s a lot to take in. 

There’s little information on the internet about this project from San Francisco. By the looks of things, it’s a solo band helmed by “AL” who is credited with “bass, guitar, vocals, drum programming, shakers, [and] breath”. The artist’s profile picture, at the time of writing, doesn’t give anything more away. It’s simply a photograph of four well-worn effects pedals. As for the style, the first song on this album is called ‘Fuckton’ and it’s as unhinged as shoving Thurston Moore, Steve Hanley and Gibby Haynes into a rusty tumble dryer and setting the cycle to “BROWN”. Other moments resemble a stripped back CCR Headcleaner or, as on ‘Dracula In Love’, a one-man Ween. Specifically, the greatest era of Ween. The brownest era. The era of The Pod. ‘Johnny Reb’ is at the punkier end of the no-wave racket. ‘Knots’ is a slower cut of slurred-over distortion. The cover depicts a small Hartke practice amplifier, suggesting this is the Little Black Box of the title, rather than that which gets installed into aircrafts. Even so, it’s easy to imagine a group of experts digging through this wreckage to determine what the hell happened.