Raised by a family of actor/musicians, Eilish and her brother lace the songs with pop culture references and a sense of drama. ‘Xanny’, for instance, reprises Bacharach’s ‘Alfie’, in a soporific, distorted showtune, while ‘Wish You Were Gay’ links Joan Jett-style glam footstomping to a delicate chorus. “To spare my pride / Don’t say I’m not your type / Just not your preferred sexual orientation,” Eilish sings, with mournful deliberation. ‘Bury A Friend’, the album’s stand-out track, develops the theme of darkly, dysfunctional friendship, with her vocodered voice looped through effects and filters.
Um Dada sees the wealth of experience and the weight of history that Mallinder can summon to hand. And while there are no new artistic or aesthetic territories being staked out in his return to solo production, the album, with its mix of past structures and contemporary vision, sits at a weird juncture in the dance music terrain right now, being too abrasive and knowing for the lo-fi tech-house crowd, but too funky and colourful for the grimdark industrial warehouse techno scene. Instead,
Um Dada just happily exists on its own whimsical terms, happy to play and dance to its own machines and hardware.
John Cage always said Christian Wolff was the most ‘musical’ of the New York School experimentalists. This two disc set from Sub Rosa reveals the Burdocks composer at his most tender and reflective. Played with great sensitivity by Apartment House’s Philip Thomas, these twenty-three mostly short, bruised fragments toy with space and silence, melody and memory like a kitten with a ball of yarn. The influence of Erik Satie is acknowledged by several of the titles and it is with that distinctive mischief and elegant wistfulness of the great velvet gentleman of Arcueil that Wolff leads us, teasingly, across the piano keyboard. Best played with the windows open to mingle with the street noise.
The seven tracks on
7 Directions run together, mainly, and you can lose track of where you are as you listen. Are there underlying patterns? The design on the cover – based on a symbol in cosmology that denotes cycles, movement, connection, life – suggests so. It shares ground, maybe, with Gabriel Roth’s
5 Rhythms, a process of dance and meditation where you might feel anger, fear, joy, compassion, sadness. There is a plaintive echo on ‘V’ that makes you feel like a cold cavern has opened up in your chest; the sharp jabs of vibra-slap and the shallow panting (one of very few organically human noises on the record) on ‘II’ can induce a giddy panic, a feeling that you are being hunted; there’s tumbling, reassuring softness on ‘VII’: you can’t pull it apart or translate it as easily as that though, there is no formula or rigidity.
Every new Lana Del Rey album offers a trademark sense of hazy lust that few have been able to emulate. On
Norman Fucking Rockwell!, this identity grows stronger, as Del Rey’s storytelling firmly addresses the men who might not have wronged her yet, but could damage many girls of this world. Her syrupy tone makes for a cohesive product, one that emanates a homogenous warmth – but still one that’s so welcome.
and departt from mono games’ 18-minute duration runs the gamut from threatening-aura electronics – the type subjecting a putative crowd of sweatjuiced ravers to would be frankly sadistic – to pulsating turn-on-a-sixpence breakbeat overload. ‘Lassanamae’ drops a semi-whispered monologue over an increasingly frantic digital drone, concluding with a mutter of “you fucking idiot”; ‘That Hyde Trakk’ employs various tropes of ‘90s jungle, from the percussively tricksy builds to the deviation into wide-eyed ambient chords, before it all goes loco with some snare-rattle tearout biz that would have been called drill & bass in 1997.
Seven Horses For Seven Kings is frequently terrifying, building and releasing tension in the same way a well put together horror narrative might – something that scores of LPs have attempted in recent years, but few successfully pull off. And like all the best horror stories, Richter’s work possesses a dark sense of humour. It bubbles up from time to time, relieving tension, allowing the listener to breathe, to recalibrate, before disembodied voices or piercing tones or fleshy burbles ratchet up the tension once again. In fact, the album’s first moments are sublimely silly.
Given that $hit And $hine put out, on average, two or three albums a year, it’s never actually that clear, which version of the provocative DIY group you’re going to end up with… the post-Butthole Surfers and Killdozer acid swamp rockers go digital; the glitchy IDM button pushers; the ketamine psychosis take on bass music; the actually quite nifty house music makers… It’s also never exactly clear which of the many fine underground labels they patronise is going to get the really crucial release. This year, Riot Season win the top prize with
Doing Drugs, Selling Drugs which sounds like the pounding inside of Julian Cope’s head as he tries to watch three cult biker movies back to back on a PCP binge.
This is arguably the band’s most ambitious record to date, doing away with the throaty bellows of yore and opting for crisp, theatrical and expressive vocal harmonies instead, whilst broadening their already weird take on doom and sludge metal to encompass even more noise and psychedelia. Opener ‘Chaos Reigns’ makes these changes clear from the off, building swiftly from Merzbow-esque scree into a dense and ominous, but soaring and anthemic doomscape.
Fyah moves between – and absorbs elements from – pretty much every genre you can think of; so while it’s always going to filed under “jazz”, to allow one’s perceptions of what Cross is doing to be limited to any one stylistic box would be tantamount to ignoring the sense of possibility that courses like oxygen through his music’s respiratory system.