The Ceiling Reposes, by Chicago-based cellist, composer and sound artist Lia Kohl, feels like a dream. Across its 34 minutes, you find yourself drifting through a fuzzy array of cello plucks, dampened bells, synthesiser beeps and fragmented radio segments. On the surface, these sounds feel disparate, but ever-present static unites them, cloaking each moment in a wondrous haze. Throughout, Kohl taps into the radio’s intimacy, letting it permeate through each musical theme to illuminate the hidden power of moments that fly by nearly too fast to notice.
‘Letters’ opens
We Sick with a series of Nathan Hanson’s hesitant phrases, clicks and short breaths circling around Davu Seru’s echoing cymbal hits. Soon, a sustained, wailing saxophone tone rises from these fragments, creating a space for DeVon Russell Gray to unfurl a disjointed piano walk, while their exchange evolves into a nervous thriller and heated argument, mimicking the slowly sinking realisation of a grim situation. Through the years, the inherent revolutionary energy of free jazz was often pacified, riding along the usual narrative of leaving politics out of music. While not as literal as the art of some of their contemporaries – Matana Roberts reads out the names of Black people murdered by police during their concerts – Gray, Hanson and Seru channel the same sensation of revolt and fire through each of their musical expressions.
Bell Witch’s fourth full-length album,
The Clandestine Gate, is the follow-up to 2017’s acclaimed 83-minute epic
Mirror Reaper and the beginning of the most ambitious project the duo have embarked on yet. Not only does
The Clandestine Gate equal
Mirror Reaper in length, outdoing it by just a single second, but it’s also the first part of a forthcoming triptych entitled
Future’s Shadow, consisting of two more lengthy pieces with the third looping back to the first, creating a musical representation of the eternal return.
The Stargazer’s Assistant have been circulating since the late ’00s and thread the needle, both in membership and music, between the crypto-industrial immensity of Coil and the brutal prog enormity of Guapo.
Fire Worshipper‘s 10 tracks are variously bite-sized but never more intense than 14-minute centrepiece ‘Shalman’. File the record away under real gone occult folkscapes for torchlit cave rituals from three cats who all profess to have the middle initial J.
Although Billy Woods, with a jeremiadic boom to his tenor, has overly been portrayed as an end times preacher, he sounds almost playful on
Maps, making the most of the hotel life, and trading verses with Quelle Chris about the pleasures of showing up late to one’s own show. What might have in lesser hands been a self-indulgent cry-athon about having to travel for work, a hip hopera version of old hair metal tour bus videos, is instead a series of bopping meditations on ineffable destinations, as performed by a relentlessly nomadic thinker at his charismatic peak.
Sourdurent is an extension, in both name and personnel, of Ernest Bergez’s Sourdure project – itself one of the finest of France’s thriving alternative folk scene. Growing organically out of live performances, Sourdurent calls on the talents of Bégayer’s Loup Uberto, singer and multi-instrumentalist Elisa Trébouville, and bagpipe player and La Nòvia member Jacque Puech. As they strike up on opener ‘Franc De Bruch’, the initial impression is of a more streamlined – even trad – sound, relative to the wild invention and moodswings of 2021’s
De Mòrt Viva, until you notice the chugging electronic rhythm underpinning the instrumental curlicues and rousing mass of voices. And, as with the Sourdure releases, the band throw a variety of sources into the pot, blending traditional music from Afghanistan, Tunisia and the Averyron department of southern France with original compositions in Occitan (a language not only particular to that region but also parts of Italy, Monaco and Catalonia), and judicious use of electronics.
Upsammy has sharpened her approach to IDM and dub techno on her PAN debut, trimming all excess, emphasising silence, and colouring each moment with detail. There really is nowhere to hide on
Germ In A Population Of Buildings. Where her last record, 2021’s
Zoom, opted to occasionally keep itself at a distance with its gauzy synths and gentle washes of reverb, this new album is bolder in its emphasis on layered percussion and close mixing, as hinted at in a strong collection of EPs released between her last two full-length records.
Urgent and propulsive, subtle in relation to rhythmic dynamics and microtonal nuances, yet unforgiving when it comes to bassbin pressure, album cut ‘Phlutes’, which I tried out in a club sometime ago, sounded 30 percent more impactful and three-dimensional than any other track played that night. The polyrhythmic gabber-adjacent banger ‘Shaber’ is another favourite, a weapon that can devastate any dance floor with its pounding distorted kicks and the synthesised flute-like melody floating above.
Ends Meet, a painstakingly polished gem with all heat and no fillers, is highly recommended for fans of fellow Egyptians ABADIR and ZULI, and producers like DJ Plead, TSVI and others who focus their aesthetic on cutting-edge drum programming and Middle Eastern melodic modes.
Slowly Forgetting, Barely Remembering is Martyna Basta’s second album. In 2020, she had participated in the open call for Rewire Festival – held online due to the COVID-19 pandemic. She was included in a radio play featured on the festival’s website, which was then seen by the label’s Adam Badà Donoval, who offered to first release her music. Her debut,
Making Eye Contact With Solitude was made amid the solitude of the pandemic, as an effort to convey the things she couldn’t express with words. This latest album reaches even further into the self, all the way into memory. It also sees her return, after years away, to the guitar.
A number of things about Lunch Money Life are indicative of a group that don’t take themselves too seriously. The name, for one, remains a bit lost on me. Their endless fusions and fissions of genres are incredibly mischievous, and every single release is supplemented by its own puckish lore – i.e.
The God Phone soundtracks a lost film of the same name, and 2022’s ‘Jimmy J Sunset’ was inspired by a cease and desist letter from Nic Cage’s entourage. Beneath this facade though, Lunch Money Life are as serious as your life – the breakdowns, the riffs, the grooves, are so potent and so masterful. They scratch every itch so well.
The God Phone is their most complete work to date. It simply sounds big whilst capturing the catharsis of their live shows and portraying a wildly inventive band reaching their absolute prime.
On
Music For Open Spaces, Marta Salogni and Tomaga’s Tom Relleen explore different geographical spaces through heavily improvised ambient pieces. Created just before Relleen’s death from cancer in 2020, the album was recorded between London, the Joshua Tree desert and the Cornish coast: setting out to express these environments through a palette of tape machines, synthesisers and bass guitar. Part of its intrigue lies in the challenge of identifying which location each piece deals with. This is supported by its esoteric track titles. Any listeners expecting ‘Fauna’ to illustrate these spaces’ wildlife is wrong-footed by waves of cold, alien drone. In the absence of sounds which clearly indicate the sea, little distinction is presented between the quiet, isolated environments of the desert and coastline. As a result, the album’s sense of place is most distinct where it seems to present London – not least in the industrial churns of ‘Snarl’, and fog of disorientating, chiming synths in ‘pING poNGS’.
Synthfreq are Danielle and Crystal Morales, twins who are both severely hearing and visually impaired. Using techniques such as adding braille to the interfaces of their synths and honing in on sounds that they can either feel, or hear via listening aids, they create astounding synthesiser music. As they make clear, their music is heavily influenced by the ’80s, but from that starting point they launch into vivid dream worlds rather than pastiche, from the pounding squelch funk of ‘Industrial World’ to the frosty moonwalk arpeggios of ‘Power Of Two’. Sitting somewhere between Jan Hammer, Patrick Cowley and
Exit-era Tangerine Dream, Synthfreq’s magic comes from how close their squealing synth guitar solos and noodly electronic saxes get to being kitsch, and how elegantly they always evade that trap. Whether it’s the feverish disco intensity propelling ‘Miami Sky’ or the sprawling tendrils on ‘Sines Of Life’, there are layers upon layers in these compositions. They re-enchant the ’80s prog-synth-disco tangent before your ears, opening it as a space for euphoria away from cinematic cliché and cheesiness.
Trouble On Big Beat Street might not be a perfect album, but given that one suspects the element of chaos in Pere Ubu’s inner workings will always be an essential part of their process, that might not be an entirely desirable outcome anyway. What it is though, is another great Pere Ubu record, one imbued with a more upbeat emotional sensibility than its predecessor, with some memorable songs and some wild sonic experiments. It’s a snapshot of where the band are right now, as well as a hint towards where they might still go in the future.
Tête-à -tête is a deeply intimate collection of three works by two composers, together forming the most moving tribute to a life-changing relationship I have ever encountered. It opens with ‘Resolutions’ from 1984, Ruth Anderson’s last completed electronic work before she died in 2019. It was restored by Maggi Payne, and there is a comparison to be drawn between Anderson’s play with pure waveforms here and Payne’s music on collections like
Ahh-Ahh. It is a tight playing with the shape of sound. ‘Conversations’ was Anderson’s gift to Lockwood. Three days after meeting in 1973 they became “joyously entangled” but for nine months afterwards lived apart – Lockwood at Hunter College, NYC and Anderson in Hancock, New Hampshire. They called each other twice a day, and Anderson surreptitiously recorded their calls, later collaging them together with blousy bar tunes and jangling piano and giving them to Lockwood in 1974 as a private piece nobody else was meant to hear.
A.P.A.T.T. are perhaps most spiritually akin to the kind of diverse genre collaging that John Zorn, Mr. Bungle or Secret Chiefs 3 engage in, without really sounding, apart from the odd occasion, like any of them. This is not so much attention deficit music as attention intensive music which rewards time spent with it, particularly for listeners whose taste remains relatively fluid. The recently departed Mark Stewart once said: “Taste is a form of censorship,” something A.P.A.T.T. appreciate and toy with the listener’s expectations accordingly. This can sometimes lead to a startling realisation that something potentially unpalatable has appeared on one’s plate, but can also result in eventual appreciation of new flavour combinations.
Krakow-based Paszka’s
Lapton feels like playing a platformer. Not just because of the sounds and velocities used in their computer generated, constantly refracting beats, but also because the structures in their music mimic the suspense and reward patterns peculiar to gaming. Their tracks sit in a zone where gabba pace meets hi-NRG warmth. ‘Jade’s’ glitch-shuffle flies forward with gleeful abandon before pivoting into double time as though you’re abruptly in a perilous race against the clock. ‘Zabol’s’ freefall start into gothic-funk bass patterns echo as they tumble into a subterranean boss battle. The final three tracks move through an almost Drexciyan digital exotica, as though you’re proudly exploring a fiendishly hard to reach hidden-level. Warp Records’
Artificial Intelligence compilation signified dance music’s migration from the club into the home stereo system. Paszka shows it can produce addictive narrative possibilities beyond both.
With just three days in the studio and no prior material to hand, House Of All – who, it must be noted, have never actually played together before – have dug deep into lessons learned from the late Mark E. Smith to deliver under pressure. The result is an album that doesn’t sound like The Fall, but instead is quite obviously made from former members of that venerable institution. It’s there in Steve Hanley’s growling and rock solid bass playing, the double drumming and guitars that serrate while avoiding predictability. And of course Martin Bramah is no stranger to fronting bands, having led Blue Orchids for over 40 years, another band to rival The Fall’s own revolving door policy when it comes to band members.
Recorded during the interval between their touring periods, Overmono’s debut album,
Good Lies, is an earnest product of every emotion, every mood, from every high to every low. Finally sharing their first full-length project into the world, this record is more than just an accumulation of songs, as it carefully reflects what the duo have been working towards for the past seven years. Over the course of the record, the duo bring the surrealness of their live shows into a tranquil selection of atmospheric feel-good tunes, from the hypnotic arrangements of ‘So U Kno’ to the lucid and immaculate title track.
Musically,
UK GRIM is stark and austere and without embellishment, but combines the melodic reach of Sleaford Mods’ last album with the pulsing minimalism of the
Austerity Dogs era. It angrily counters the corporate pop that forces us to be joyful, but it’s not without its own brand of optimism. Sleaford Mods paint a bleak picture of post-COVID Britain via poetic protest, but their outrage is underscored by love for the people and places around them, making it as much a celebration of individuals and idealists as it is an attack on ruling classes.
UK GRIM is darker and broader than past releases, but the Mods’ usual melodic prowess is sadly lacking for the most part, allowing for more focus on the ingenuity of Jason Williamson’s vocal tirades. In the context of now, Sleaford Mods might sound like just another angry voice – but it’s an improbably hopeful one, that tells us it’s OK to feel fucked off. Why wouldn’t you be?
Blight Witch Regalia feels like both the culmination of Cameron Davis’ work so far and the beginning of another stage of the transformative journey she started with 2017’s
The Great Nothing. If that album was a confrontation with demons through a simultaneously bleak and empowering mixture of atmospheric and raw black metal, then 2021’s
Corpseflower signalled the prudent but triumphant breaking of the pupa and Davis’ coming out as a trans woman. She poured this moment of self-discovery into a unique and utterly captivating blend of dark synth psychedelia, jazz and progressive black metal. While
Corpseflower symbolised psychological transformation;
Blight Witch Regalia marks the exploration of a new physical reality. In an accompanying text, Davis writes about starting hormone therapy and the psychophysical changes she is experiencing as a result. The soft and uncertain but optimistic sensation she describes washes over each of the eight cuts here.