Here is a release that serves as a signal of optimism for music while also providing fond memories and nostalgia of the lo-fi DIY scene of the late nineties.

Squeezed onto one piece of seven inch are four raucous, loud and poorly recorded bands driven by enthusiasm first and talent second, making the most of their resources.  Releases such as this are now almost a thing of the past and that is a definite tragedy when it comes to contemplating the future of music.

Recently coined as no-fi I think this music will only ever work on vinyl, the format that has always been most forgiving to the most primitive expressions of music.  I could not possibly imagine listening to this noise as an MP3 or on an iPod with a clear head.  Live however I cannot imagine a more fantastic din as I hope to see these ramshackle bands live very soon.

I was first introduced to Graffiti Island a couple of years when they hopped aboard the stage at the Scala before Les Savy Fav looking effortlessly uncaring and cool playing songs that sounded like Beat Happening covers which they made all their own.  This it seemed was the musical equivalent of a homemade Hawaiian shirt bearing a grudge.  Needless to say I loved their one song set for the audacity and the tunes.  As stylised and forced as it may feel, I just love this band.  Their contribution to this release is a spacious and busy party number benefiting from a HUGE hook that pierces and seals its place in the consciousness of my mind.  It feels retro in two ways.

Rapid Youth turn up with an altogether cloudier and muddy marching and galloping affair.  In the midst of so much fuzz this song/band also possesses a wicked hook that serves to deliver skewed pop to disorientate.

On the flipside everything about Old Blood is wrong and this only serves to make you love them worse.  If you have recorded a demo and fucked it up you will recognise this track.  Despite the horror there is a definite beat to the performance and a degree of coherence to what is a fiery exhibition.  Noise is a beautiful thing.

The more mannered Male Bonding close proceedings with a playful lo-fi song that reminds of a Yummy Fur chant with prickly bursts of energy and a pride all of its own.  It’s a rough as the rest of the release and just as charming.

This record is good times.

Thesaurus moment: commotion.

Graffiti Island

Rapid Youth

Old Blood

Male Bonding

Paradise Vendors

With her backing band The Shapes the debut album from Micachu is a wretched mess of ideas and systematic hooks that sound autistic and extrovert.

Not very easy on the ear on first listen the fifteen tracks on display here display a sense of adventure not so common in modern (accepted) music and in many ways actually reminds me of those wonky early Pavement EPs that could often be rendered into nothing more than glorious noise.  Rather than hulking lo-fi guitars here Micachu exhibits a more eclectic arsenal of instruments in reckless abandon (many homemade and very unorthodox) suggesting a personal leaning and preference towards Beck and a poison combination of whitey folk hip hop.

In her voice Micachu displays something of a hybrid of Kimya Dawson and a drunken teenage Polly Harvey (especially on “Guts”) as the music drips in Bjork weirdness but in a favourably M.I.A. crossed with Captain Beefheart influenced manner.  That is not forgetting the Raincoat-esqe tone of sarcasm.

Produced by Matthew Herbert the rhythms hold surprisingly well considering what they are manufactured by as something of a paper thin version of legendary musical strangeness, sounding like a true outsider even if she is not necessarily one.  That said, the times the songs fall on their arse they do come with something of a passing resemblance to The Shaggs in delivery and mentality.

You can tell the young Micachu has listened to music all her life as she rips off the intro to The Champs “Tequila” on “Calculator” probably without even realising it.

The highlight of the piece is “Worst Bastard” with its genuine pop hooks and tasty sentiments that provide real attitude and a flow that energises.

Ultimately the results are mixed as songs begin to lose hooks in preference to extensive meandering and exploration making the album something of a patience tester but equally unique in execution and definitely something to search out in the name of adventure.

You may hate me for “recommending” this record.

Thesaurus moment: intrepid.

Micachu

Accidental Records

Rough Trade

For a while now there has been something of a subtle buzz regarding this band and in reality it all seems something of an exercise of style over substance but a style such as this, compared to the current defining fare, I am very happy to find myself being suckered in and lapping it up like a kitten licking milk.

I always wanted to date a reformed goth, a lady with a dark demeanour but obviously one that would not be laughed at in the street by teenagers.  My ideal goth lady would possess a finely tuned sense of humour in addition to a pretty good record collection including records by The Cure (the good ones and the bad ones).  Now if you added to this equation the lady being Asian, chunky and with a killer fringe you have something and someone I could get very excited about.  Suddenly you see how I (and not I alone) have been suckered in my An Experiment On A Bird In The Air Pump.

Musically there is a restrained, undistorted Jesus & Mary Chain feel to the band with primal Moe Tucker-esqe drum beats and patterns coupled with looping guitars and a tribal sounding delivery in both the vocals and lyrics that are goth in a Lydia Lunch kind of way, unashamedly taunting in content.

By the time we reach the cover version of “100%” by Sonic Youth a distinct No Wave tone appears to have found its way onto the b-side (named the “Inside” to the a-side’s “Outside”) followed by the most expressive song of this restrained release in “The Past Between Us”.

This band would have been a perfect goth band for 4AD in the eighties but now, I’m not so sure.  Here’s hoping for good things however.

Thesaurus moment: mode.

An Experiment On A Bird In The Air Pump

Trouble Records

There is a subtle amount of responsibility that comes with reviewing music that no one else is willing to touch. To heavily criticise such a piece of music and slag it off at ground zero is a heinous act akin to kicking the crutches away from a cripple. Sometimes however it feels like a necessary evil.

This two track CD single (I think) is released to coincide with the most frightful of Hallmark holidays (along with the commercialisation of Eid) “Valentine” is a tepid and gloomy offering confusing the most quizzical parts of my brain (if I have one) and causing me to stroke my chin and wonder just who is going to listen to this.

For such a commercially orientated release, the sound really stands out as being muddy and cheap sounding. There is no bite or purpose to this record it just sounds like grown ups trying to play music they don’t understand from a tab book purchased in a bad music shop.

Referring to the press release, the boast of “full on percussion” really is not the most salient of points and where the “harmonious venom” just quite is, is something of a Baker Street mystery to me, Baker Street that would probably actually embrace this release for all its big ties (major label distribution apparently) and business acumen. It is all built on sand.

I have to concede at this point that when I was sent the email asking me if I wanted a copy I was drunk.

Thesaurus moment: devoid.
Chapter xiii
Levelsound Music

Musicians have to mature. If for nothing else they have to have “continued professional development” but equally if an act or songwriter continues to regurgitate the same turgid shit year after year it becomes insincere and even worse, boring. Bands that have a career (or yearn/strive for a career) tend to find their formula early (often a variation of someone else’s sound), stick with it and wind becoming stale and boring in the process. This can often carry an act through a long career as the quality of the material gets distracted by hype, personality and whole set of other elements that do not relate to the art therein. This album represents a victory against that kind of complacency and the beauty of evolution.

The two headed monster that is Yonokiero is the enduring partnership that fuelled the fire of Hirameka an indie generation ago and provided many noisy lo-fi moments and dreams rejuvenating a small circle of people and daring to brush up against some big dreams while tussling with real (professional) indie heavyweights.

At this point I have to admit I could never truly be subjective about these guys. I have lived with them, toured with them, argued with them, been sick on them but that is all in the past and with this record I am sufficiently detached and genuinely presented with something I was neither expecting nor recognise. Sure I have been hearing demos of many of these songs for a couple of years now but nothing in this form. I remember their first gig at a house party called the Green Man Roundabout Festival and how thrilling it was to witness the rebirth and reinvention.

The most noticeable transition and addition to their arsenal is the expansion of instruments and sounds. Pleasantly sedate, after all the noise and furore of Hirameka, this is very much their Unplugged In New York (especially on the intro on “Randolph Bourne”), echoing a similar direction that other heroes have taken in evolution with bands such as The Evens.

The highlight tracks amongst the Nick Drake enthused collection include “Hey Now”, one of the older songs on show full of gliding pop with an “About A Girl” feel and Larry Sanders nod in the song title. Conversely in a batch of carefully crafted tunes it is the loudest and heroically lumbering of “Rewound” with its “time for reunion” mantra coupled with beautiful disorientation in its distortion which provides a real bipolar response.

With vocals that are generally hushed in delivery, adding an air of mystery and often menace, it is difficult to decipher what is being said all of the time but for those that are clear the lyrics flow as closely coded and guarded riddles only a spectator next to the trees could fathom, a kind of antidote to the Neil Strauss way of thinking and a different take on making sense of situations. This is the work of a yo yo ego.

It’s not perfection but in a world so cold you have to welcome and support such a rank contender/outsider.

Thesaurus moment: restoration.

Yonokiero
Front And Follow

Ocean Bottom Nightmare (or rather OBN for short) find me on a fortuitous day as I desire something heavier, heavier than heaven, heavier than hell.

Hailing from Nottingham, what we have here are a hardcore snapping three piece leaning more on the metal side of hardcore as opposed to the punk.

Happily citing bands such as Mclusky and Reuben as their inspirations, here is something of an uninspired take on that sound, a sound that lacks a sense of humour that the genre so needs/requires to thrive on. If you really take life so seriously, as this EP title would suggest, soon you’ll adopt some kind of straitjacket as modelled by the latest version of the emo crowd.

On their side is a distorted bass that briefly makes the music breath and stand out but as the stern demeanour of the apparent personality of the band and its music take over and overwhelm such touches, the whole thing is inevitably lost to the ages.

In the end, this music is rock leaning towards the metal tone and taste of Kerrang readers, the music just feels too well adjusted to cause any real ripples in the grand scheme of things and you can shout as much as you like and you just will not be taken seriously. Unless of course you are good looking and goth girls want to fuck you.

Thesaurus moment: Zavvi.

Ocean Bottom Nightmare
Phat Phidelity

If you have ever laughed at a Derek And Clive record/routine you will have acknowledged just how funny and satisfying swearing and being crass can be.  In times of such hellacious judgement and subtle political correctness squashing almost every form of art containing an element of edgy humour or anything that challenges the status quo, you just need to blow off steam and go all out to offend with view to weeding out.

When Bob Weston pointed out at ATP that the audience resembled an “indie rock Taliban” he was very much onto something, he was also probably wondering to himself “what are they hiding?”  I sense your average guitar wielding may frown upon and fail to see the humour in such infantile musical exploits.

For a release to contain a “libel-free radio edit” this is generally a sign of good things in the bad taste stakes, an indication and suggestion of a person taking lyrical risks being playful in delivery.

Very rarely these days do you encounter releases that are enjoyable and challenging, that are genuinely likely to cause offence and sting with a true cavalier approach and attitude of being so carefree and callous?  Ultimately Kunt (and Little Kunt) is only saying what we are thinking but delivering it with skill in a manner the majority of us could only dream of.  This is visionary poetry.

Thesaurus moment: indelicate.

Kunt And The Gang

Succeeding where, say, Erase Errata failed, Mika Miko plunder through a barrage of Raincoats and Slits influenced sounds with the greatest of success able to achieve some kind of coherence that can so/too often alienate the listener from such base expressionate recordings.

As Mika Miko are fully aware, the introduction of saxophones into a punk song is a guaranteed short cut to post-punk cred and so as a result what we have here on number three of the latest edition of the Sub Pop Singles Club is a very deliberate and concise statement of affairs and nod to being a going concern.

In a climate where Magik Markers are able to get away with murder, here is what I would class a band that is a mid point between The Shaggs and Magik Markers, a comparison that would likely not be received very positively but said/stated with no insult intended.  Hey, I could have said they remind me slightly of the band from Gene Simmons Rock School TV show.

By the time you reach the Black Flag cover on the flipside they have rendered the song unrecognisable causing me to question if it is even a cover at all.  This is primal.

Thesaurus moment: instinct.

Mika Miko

Sub Pop

From time to time these days you will discover (rediscover) a band is still playing well after you had figured them to be long gone.  My favourite example of this is Trumans Water who seem to appear every couple of years with a new record, doing a random show in town to celebrate and promote the fact happily acting as a timely reminder of how things can otherwise be.

As a similar example of this, today I find myself holding the new album by Beatglider, a band from Southend that was once almost part of a burgeoning lo-fi/post rock scene in Essex that was never allowed to get started (for various reasons).

Striding the fine line between post rock and shoegazing, this is an epic construction towering over twelve tracks that cohesively combine to make a sedate sonic elevation.

At a time when the (supposed) genre of post rock has mutated off in one direction to resemble the cuddly Sigor Ros and in another path the nastiness of Mogwai still prevails in the other version, there is distinctly still an audience looking to relish in such evocative and courteous expansive recordings.  Perhaps this is the standing strong of the prog rock gene.

There are many influential sounds on show here.  The more oblique of Lush’s output can be heard on “The Rattlesnake” while the occasional dipping in of vocals reminiscent of Syd Barratt give proceedings a slightly spooky tone (“Wasteful Is Love”).  There are also many true moments of naïve glee echoing the meanderings and conclusions of Flaming Lips at their most stirring (in the form of closer “Natures Arms”).  And “Where Time Stands Still” sounds like a cross between Snow Patrol and spaced out Pavement.

The highlight comes in “Wild Night” where an astute arsenal of instruments come together to echo all Chemikal Underground’s best hits squeezed into one composition.  Suddenly Southend begins to feel/sound strangely Scottish.

This record represents victory.

Thesaurus moment: bespelled.

Beatglider

Enraptured Records

The Unnatural Helpers are a beautiful breed of hardcore influenced and garage band knowing rock stars.  This flippant seven inch of four tracks is the second release of Sub Pop’s latest singles club which is already paying out dividends.

Reminding me of Some Velvet Sidewalk, this loose and dirty piece of punk exhibits how Sub Pop have always been able to continue to churn out with reckless abandon exciting punk bands that are one step above, having dined early on the fuzzy cheeks of Mudhoney and learned how to use their instruments in a manner that not only stings but it stabs as well.

Of the four tracks, all of which fail to break the two minute mark, “Connecting” (the shortest of them) is a prime slab of punk marching with the almost Mark Arm-esqe vocals leading the line, punch and piercing as the large hooks loom heavy, punching like a starving boxer fighting for a cheeseburger.

At a time when our lifestyles have caused every single second to have increased in value it is somewhat gratifying to have an act operating at a level of such efficiency.

I’d buy that for a dollar.

Thesaurus moment: economic.

Unnatural Helpers

Sub Pop