In the 90s the marketing department of internet service provider America Online had the bright idea of offering potential customers 28 days of service for free, knowing that providing they were able to log in and pick up their email most people wouldn’t want the hassle of switching to someone else, sticking with the service out of sheer inertia. Unfortunately AOL required its customers to have custom software on their machines in order to connect, and rather than wait for people to get wind of the offer and come to them, they chose instead to press vast quantities of floppy discs and mail them out to every address in the land, whether they owned a computer or not. Soon the AOL install disc became so ubiquitous that, for all the company’s problems, it was for doubling the size of the world’s landfills with useless floppies (and latterly CD-ROMS) that they attracted the most derision.

It’s probably far from the worst act of environmental irresponsibility committed by marketing knobs, but it was so visible since so many people found disc after worthless disc shoved through their letterboxes. There is a point to this geeky little tale, and it’s that the record industry is, to this day, similarly wasteful when it comes to mailing out promotional records for review, and although their address books contain only the names of those individuals who may be able to provide them with some publicity, be that a full-page review in the NME or a couple of lines on a blog somewhere, they put out far more than the odd floppy disc. Those of us who write about music, and especially those who do so for free, do so because we love it, and of course we aren’t going to complain about free records. But for every promo that becomes a well-played fixture of your record collection, there are at least a dozen that end up destined for the charity shop, or, worse, the bin.

The switch to MP3 downloads of review material seems like an obvious one. Unless the record comes in some unusual packaging and the whole object merits consideration, why not just provide the content that’s up for review? But the record industry has been historically skittish about downloads, fearing large-scale piracy of albums before their actual release date, so kudos is due to Fat Cat records for having the nerve to start providing promos in downloadable form, beginning with this, the debut EP from one Tom Brosseau. One can even stream each track first to get a sense of whether it’s appropriate for review before wasting bandwidth on a full download. How nice.

It’s funny, then, that the move to a new form of distribution should be launched with an album of such resolutely traditional music. Tom Brosseau’s influences are very much worn on his sleeve on this five-song EP. Opener “George Washington” in particular is a fairly lacklustre attempt to “do” Bob Dylan, and it’s telling that the nasal drawl he adopts on this track is absent for the rest of the EP, replaced by a far gentler, and less grating, vocal style. So too is the folk-rock instrumentation, most of the record adopting a simple acoustic-guitar-and-voice format before going entirely a capella right at the end.

The impression here is of a songwriter steeped in the American folk tradition. Which is, of course, all fine and well. I’m not anti-folk music. Some of my best friends own banjos for god’s sake, and play them without irony. But the problem with tradition is that it often goes hand-in-hand with a creativity-stifling dogma. Brosseau clearly has the ability to be a charmingly poetic songwriter. Track two on this EP, “Empty Houses”, in particular demonstrates the strength of his abilities in that department. But the talent that is in evidence here should be finding a unique voice for itself, and there is disappointingly little evidence from this EP that it is doing so. Listening to it is a pleasant, but ultimately unsatisfying experience, scattered as it is with hints that Brosseau is capable of much more.

Perhaps music reviewers should adopt a new ratings system based on what becomes of the review copy of the record after the piece as been written. If this was on CD, it would probably would not be immediately sent to Oxfam, but would be filed away and unlikely to be brought out again unless asked to review a second outing by the same artist. As it stands it’s not yet getting deleted from my iTunes library. In the event of a cull brought about by limited disc-space it may be in some danger, but it could yet be saved by the presence of a satisfying follow-up record that does its creator justice.

http://www.tombrosseau.com

(Originally posted May 2002)

Overlord note: In case you were wondering, Tuesdays and Fridays are now diskant rewind days where we’re posting up some of the amazing columns we wrote years ago that have since been unavailable online.

You know, I gotta tell ya, gang… I ‘m hip to the fact that diskant is primarily an indie music e-rag, and I try and be respectful of that, but the man who holds the knife to my throat, our beloved taskmaster, Gen. Simon Minter, has just requested – nay, demanded – that we get our new columns in right away, so I’m going to have to leave the confines of currently popular music and venture outward to ruminate on the kind of music I know best – heavy metal.

(Dig that incredibly long opening sentence, y’all. I’ve been reading a lot of H.P. Lovecraft lately and let me tell you, homeslice could stretch a single sentence over three paragraphs.)

So anyway – yeah, don’t be frightened. Heavy Metal ain’t gonna hurt you. Sure, the subliminal messages may cause you to kill yourself, the satanic references may cause you to sell your soul to the netherworld, and any emulation of the heavy metal “look” may ensure you never get hired to be anything other than a gas station attendant, but otherwise, metal music is perfectly harmless. It’s got a bad reputation, but my feeling is that this poor rating has always been do more to crappy rock critics that any general opinion of the masses.*

I’ve actually got a theory of why heavy metal has always done so badly with the critics. My suspicion is that whenever a rock critic was sitting down to give a good listen to a metal album, a knock would come at the door, and he/she would open it to see a chimpanzee holding a balloon. Attached to the balloon would be a note and when the rock critic read it, they would see, “Hello. My name is Bobo. Would you like me to sodomize you?” Now we all know rock critics love to be sodomized by chimpanzees, so they would jump at this opportunity, and instead of giving the metal album on their plate a good listen, they’d quickly scribble down something like “This sucks. I hate metal” and send it off to Jan Wenner or whoever their overlord was, and then get down to all that chimpanzee-sodomizing. Of course this is just a theory, mind you – I have no proof of such activities. And I certainly don’t want to give the impression that I’m just painting a picture of such degenerate activities as a mean spirited attempt to get even with all the critics who have maligned my favorite form of music.

For example, by no means do I want you to visualize Rolling Stone‘s Jimmy Gutterman sitting alone on a Saturday Night, settling down to review Ozzy Osbourne’s “No Rest For the Wicked,” and then hear a knock and see our previously mentioned chimpanzee friend. Get such an image out of your head if it is currently residing there. (Did I mention that the chimp is wearing a clown suit?) I would wish you to focus on that no more that I would wish you to ruminate on alterna-critic Gina Arnold spending lonely hours in her bedroom, bad mouthing KISS, while intermittently pining away for a stray sodomizing primate, only to have her dreams answered by a doorbell and bobbing balloon. I beg of you, wash such iconography from you mind. Were you to continue such thoughts, you might start envisioning The Stranger‘s Sean Nelson breaking into the New York City Zoo’s Ape section when he should be giving a favorable review to Prong. Okay, that joke is quite finished, isn’t it? My point being, however, that as usual, critics speak for themselves. Regular, decent, salt of the earth fuckers like you and I, love metal. (You do love metal, right?) So I thought I’d take the time to list what I feel are some forgotten metal classics that happen to reside in my vinyl and tape collection. (What the term “Heavy Metal” means has always been a point of contention, so some people may object to my rather loose encapsulation of its definition as seen by my choices below. Generally, I think Heavy Metal can be said to include all music in the sub genres – Hard Rock (Poison, AC/DC) and Metal (Celtic Frost, Slayer.) Many will disagree with me on this and they should know I have a chimpanzee with their name on it.)

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(Originally posted April 2002)

Many a day will pass where I’ll be reclining in the Secret Diskant HQ (It’s location is so secret I can’t reveal to you where it is, but I will say it has a great view of the Eiffel tower) and young pups such as Greg Kitten or Ollie Simpson will approach me and say, “How do you do it, Wil? How do you get all the chicks? The birds go ape around you!” (I dunno how they found out about my dalliance with the London Zoo’s female gorilla, but that’s beside the point.) “Well, boys,” I’ll sagely reply, while taking a puff from my opium pipe, “You have to dig the right type of music. Girls don’t give a damn about all that indie-noise you waste your time with. You wanna know what gets chicks soggy? Fusion!” “Fusion?!” Greg and Ollie will say in disbelief. “That’s right, lads” I’ll say. “Nothin’ makes a woman hard like a twenty minute moog solo. Or a bass riff harmonized with a ten piece horn section. Or songs with titles like “The Struggle of the Turtle to the Sea, Pt. II*” “Gosh Wil,” Greg and Ollie will reply. “That makes perfect sense! Perhaps you could provide us with a brief review as to what you see as being some of the key fusion albums that can easily be pertained in the used record bins of your native America.”

Perhaps, I could, boys… Perhaps, I could…. Oh, you mean right now!

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(Originally posted February 2002)

So dig this – I’m sitting back in the Wil-crib, grinding up my new batch of Tylonel 3 for a quick snort, when I get an urgent e-mail from Diskant content producer, Simon Minter, saying he needs a new diskant column “now, as in ‘pronto’ fuckface!” Apparently the theme for all the columns this month is “the ten best releases this year.” (Or maybe it was “five best” or “hundred best” .whatever, I’m doing ten.) Now right off the bat, that conflicts with the general concept of my column which is to review obscure record classics that have ended up in the used bins of record stores.

Obviously, one year is too short a time for someone to release a record and have it end up in the bargain slots (unless they’re Meatloaf) so I plaintively pleaded with Simon to give me some leeway – “What if I reviewed the ten best used albums I purchased this past year? Is that good enough for you?” Well, ol’ Simon demurely let it pass and I set out to gather my trophies.

Did I actually buy all these albums in the past year? Hell, I dunno. I can barely remember last week. But I could have, and that’s what’s important!

Now when you’re talking about used records, “best” is a subjective term, Granted, a lot of the albums I picked up this year, really were good. I mean, they sounded good, they had good lyrics, they conveyed whatever immutable quality it is we ascribe to music that we call “good.” But some of these albums were “good” in the sense they were bad. I mean, really fucking bad. If you look at some of my choices below you’ll see what I mean. Do I really think “Oral Roberts: On Country Roads” was a good album? Hell no, I think it’s a piece of crap and I’ll probably never listen to it again. But as a testament to the absolute ludicrousness of decades past, “Oral Robert: On Country Roads” seriously blasts the competition. As such, I tried to include a little of both kinds of “good” in this list – I’ll let you figure out which is which.

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(Originally posted December 2001)

So this was it… this was supposed to be my big break. When diskant contacted me about writing a music column, I figured I’d hit the big time. No longer would I be a part time loser with a full time absinthe addiction, travelling the streets, forlorn and dejected.. By wielding the vast power and clout that came with an organization such as diskant, I’d be on the inside track of the music business. No longer would I have to stand in 100-person lines to watch the big acts; instead, the bouncers would simply wave me through. No longer would I have to hide in the bass drum to get backstage, I’d simply flash my diskant badge and I’d be smoking crack with Axl Rose and Dr. Dre. (On that note: Marceline, where is my diskant badge? You said you’d mailed it weeks ago.) THIS WAS THE BIG TIME, BABY.

The problem came when I sat down to write. As a writer, you’re not so much a self-motivated creative force as you are an ANTENNA TO THE UNIVERSE. You sit down, tune in to the cosmic A.M. and spit out what the great Gods talk at you. Unfortunately the Gods were about as quiet as Harpo in the Marx Bros. films. I just couldn’t get the juices flowing. It seemed a simple enough task – all I had to do was lay down my thoughts on the music of the day. (Sure, most music of today sucks, as did most music of yesterday and will most music of tomorrow, but there’s still plenty of chill stuff to hip people to.) It wasn’t that I didn’t have anything to say about it, it was just… it had all been said before. So, I was sitting there, feeling the rage of literary impotency wash over me and my eyes desperately cast themselves about my bedroom for inspiration. Could that pile of dirty socks speak to me about the state of modern music? For the first time, they were quiet. What about my collection of 1960s erotica? It too held its tongue. But then my eye settled on the darkest corner of my room and Shiva, Jesus, Elvis and all the other Gods of inspiration spoke to me. In that corner, you see, lay my record collection… my beautiful record collection… comprised mostly of obscure audio treats I’d picked up at a variety of pawnshops, garage sales and home invasions throughout the years. These records had eased the pain of many a lonesome night and spoke singularly about me – about my tastes and my ideas. Who else would have an album by the 1970’s progressive rock band, Kayak, next to the Broadway soundtrack for “A Chorus Line.” Or the Brothers Johnson’s 70’s funk masterpiece, “Light Up The Night,” sleeve to sleeve with Robert Goulet’s “Summer Sounds.” None other than little old me, that’s who! And I realized that I finally had a tangible theme I could work with! By examining records like the vinyl that lay resting amongst the filth-strewn contents of my room I could provide a look at the history of rock and roll. Because the albums that end up in the used bins and pawnshops truly are a genre unto themselves. They’re the one hit wonders and the no-hit flounders. They represented lifetimes of rock and roll dreams gone up in smoke due to record company bankruptcies, changing fads, lack of talent or plain ol’ tragedy. These records were the grimy old men who sit at the end of the bar… and at last someone would tell their story!

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The good folks at Cityscape sent me a marvellous panoply of things to do with this release – not only a nice-looking snow-white 7″, but a CD, DVD containing the ‘Sometimes’ video and even a badge. So they’re already scoring high on generosity alone. Not that I can be bought, of course. Merchandise releases gone by have twinned low-fi ‘knowing loser’ pop with subtle electronica, but on ‘Sometimes’ it’s as simple a format as can be: plinky-plonk piano and sweet-hearted lyrics skipping along over a relaxed, summer-in-the-park arrangement of walking bassline and brushed drums. It’s all very cute, innocent and likeable, akin to a Badly Drawn Boy whose face you do not wish to smash in. B-side ‘Glitterati’ follows in a very similar vein, with fresh-feeling music and a vocal delivery that leans over Pulp’s garden fence. This isn’t a record for the cynics or noisemongers amongst you, but there must be some pop fans left out there?

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UM41ws8BY2E[/youtube]

Contemporary jazz is a horrendously difficult goat to reign in. The cerebral, ‘difficult’ nature of many modern players I’ve come across means that trying to make any sense of it nigh-on impossible, the whiff of academia too overpowering. I’ve moaned before of newer jazz that seems “relentlessly modern… cold and unfeeling”. Yet all has changed, you’ll be pant-wettingly excited to read. After slotting itself through the letterbox, the self-titled album from Swedish jazz quartet Gushpanka has embedded itself in my noggin with its thoroughly addictive and tuneful melodies. 

The Gushpanka modus operandi revolves around the “belief in the timeless power of melody and rhythm”. Bingo! The word ‘gushpanka’ is an old Aramaic word meaning ‘approval’ or ‘seal’; Sweden, Finland and Israel all come under the band’s cloak. With piano, sax, bass and drums, the general mood of their debut album is nothing but friendly, and more importantly, tuneful!

‘Counter reset’ (along with the whole album) gains from multiple listens – an intelligent and dynamic piece, not without warmth or melody. A brilliant break-down mid-way through the piece is the album’s peak: gusty pumping from saxophonist Jonas Knutsson – outrageous pangs and slaps, brilliantly playful invention. Knutsson is impressive throughout the album, retaining a wonderfully clear and crisp tone. An addictive, rambling and meandering motif kicks off ‘Algo-rhythm’ – this is ace modern jazz! Complicated, dynamic, but, thankfully, tuneful! 

Even after many, many listens, there are still plenty to explore in ‘Gushpanka’ – a remarkable album of original compositions with tons of depth. It’s endlessly diverse: ballads, songs bordering on free-jazz, pumped-up rhythmic pieces… An aural joy for tired-out modern ears. 

Pascal Ansell

http://www.myspace.com/gushpanka  

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yh1yY-QrRiw[/youtube]

Proof that Brian Jonestown Massacre aren’t the only band in LA still livin’ like it’s 1968, here are The Quarter After, who have just released their second album Changes Near. Yes, yes, you’ve heard this sound before, many times. But is anything really new any more? And isn’t it the case that there’s something about the jangling, hazy West Coast psychedelic sounds of bands like Buffalo Springfield and The Byrds that will never cease to please, especially when it’s pulled off with this degree of finesse and authenticity? Changes Near takes its lead from those bands, and mixes in a heady cloud of mid-period Ride squall, which for me brings it out in front of sheeny mid-80s psych revivalists like Rain Parade or Plasticland into a stranger, darker place – and psychedelia always works better with an undercurrent of anxiety. Not that this is a hellish trip – anything but. The darkness is balanced with twangy country-style jaunts, and as a whole the album is good enough to be more than the sum of its influences. It’s an album that could only, realistically, have come out of LA. Pass the patchouli.

I cannot get a grip, this time last week it was snowing and the snow was settling, it was the most terrifying Easter I had ever seen. Thank Christ BBC took it upon themselves to show High School Musical 2 and pacify me with dreams of a golden future for my impending offspring (impending as in within the next ten years)

And now the clocks the have changed and this is officially British summertime? If its not raining now, it certainly has been and yet I still need to have my window open because it is still too fucking warm for me. Is this the way it is supposed to be?

I’ve finished with the music industry. I left just before Easter just on the verge of being the tour accountant this summer for one of my heroes and also for a Glastonbury/T In The Park/V headliner. I had had enough. Music has sickened me in the past but this was a new low, the escape had to be done. Unwisely to escape having to work out my notice I accused them (the industry) of constructive dismissal, a claim that could carry no weight considering my previous adventures with employers (that bloody book, I have done bugger all to push it this year).

I haven’t been pissed for months, this weather does not want it. The last time I “went for it” I wound up being sick in the pub and ended up at a loved one’s flat hurling bullshit and abuse at her in a comedic fashion before passing out on her sofa only to awaken in the morning with my trousers off having ruined ANY final opportunity to rekindle anything. Its all about the manager of S******lor for her now, how could I compete with that talented bunch of original artists

Which all in all moves me to my current listening tastes. I was excited this year about new records from Nick Cave and The Breeders but neither have really cut it. Nick Cave was great for a few weeks but my enjoyment has been somewhat tarnished by everyone and their arsehole saying what a great return to form it is. Dude, never lost it.

And The Breeders record just is not grunge. I sense it is a real slow burner, after this initial downer, the songs are growing subtly in my mind now and will probably remain there all summer, when it finally arrives. I have been listening to old Breeders bootlegs from the Last Splash era and they’re some of the most exciting live sets I have ever heard. I have even been revisiting their lyrics and fallen in love with simple first lines such as “I like all the different people, I like sticky everywhere” along with the beautiful way “oh c’mon, nobody wants that!” on Iris.

As I yearn my first big weekend the record that has really grabbed me is Aidan John Moffat’s this may be the soundtrack to my summer. I really regret how undervalued Arab Strap were to me after their first two records because their words are pure poetry. It is ridiculous how I found myself still surprised and shocked by “I Can Hear Your Heart”, its a no-brainer. I cannot remember which was the last record to make me laugh out loud but the current one is this. When I played a track around my parents’ yesterday and the stringed intro to track three came in to the response of my Father that’s nice, I just knew I had to skip a track entitled “Cunts”. This is not subtle but its painfully close to the bone. The dissection of Grease and the aftermath is pure grit realism and for some reason right now I need this attitude justified and confirmed to me. It may be the most negative take on existence but it doesn’t mean that it is necessarily wrong or unacceptable. Love will ruin a person, damn near kill them when it falters and goes wrong. I have also seen positive love/relationships stunt and kill the spirit of pure/real men. In other words, these words are essential.

She has cut me dead this year, the lady I fell for last Nov/Dec only to have stomp on my heart and ruin my 2008 but at least this confirms I am not alone and proves that there is a way of finding humour in the most debasing and humiliating of moments. Flirt divert.

As the rain comes humbling down and the words “summer is ready when you are” tickle my mind, I strive further looking for something the least bit summer and this perhaps unwisely finds me digging out my copy of The Punch And Judy Man – that has a happy ending doesn’t it?

Isosceles
Get your hands off (single)

From influences as diverse as Beefheart and Bis come Glaswegian Rockabilly soulsters Isosceles. ‘Get your hands off,’ is released on the Art Goes Pop label ‘I said honey don’t use your sexuality on me, declares their vocalist Jack Valentine in theatrical manner with wobbly analogue synths worthy of Grandaddy enhancing the perfect put down song.

Their triangular catchy keyboard sound is eminently danceable. The b- side ‘I Go,’ adds a funky bass-line and um diddle um diddle chorus and shattering glass to the short sharp pop. These Franz Ferdinand favourites are no strangers to the droll phrase. They embrace Oxfam, ignore KFC and like to kiss the homeless apparently!  Maybe a touch throwaway yet these ‘scientists of sound’ win over your dancing feet with their playful energetic sound.

www.myspace.com/isoscelestheband

People of Santiago
Circles/Dinosaurs (single)

Not from South America but the North East come an epic guitar led indie band with Interpol envy. The people of Santiago have a serious story to tell about ‘untameable masses painfully aware of their stolid surroundings yet consumed with hope.’ They achieve that goal on their single ‘Circles,’ with brash impassioned vocals that declare ‘It changes, every time you open your mouth and say something.’ Jangly guitars provide the background to this somewhat repetitive narrative. You can’t fault the arrangement and the atmospheric sound lies somewhere between The Longcut and The Killers. That said this Steve Lamacq single of the week takes it self a tad too seriously. It perfects the huge sound without the leftfield lyricism that gives the doomy new Yorkers their edge. Better by far is the B-side ‘Dinosaurs’, with a more touching vocal and lighter acoustics that tell of ‘charging the shopping malls like rebellious kids.’ By their choice of single it seems People of Santiago have stadium sized aspirations but if they look less to bombast of the former and concentrate on skewed textures of the latter they may be onto a winner.

http://www.peopleofsantiago.co.uk
http://www.myspace.com/peopleofsantiago

Twin thousands
Like you a lot (single)

Ex Saddlecreek records Nebraskan cellist Gretta Cohn, Brooklyn pianist Ryan Smith and a few friends come together to create a thing of beauty. Twin Thousands single ‘Like You A Lot’ is like a Mazzy Star/St Etienne hybrid. The best in summery pop with rolling guitars, chirpy cellos and ghostly vocals that breeze along and ‘wake you,’ on the way. It ascends into luscious instrumentation like Arcade Fire meets The Cocteau Twins

This song of love vs. lust is a little taster from the unsigned band who love things that makes your stomach want to explode. They say they sound like ‘an elephant killing a rhinoceros.’ Intrigued by the seemingly inapt metaphor I listened further to the songs on their myspace. Better yet was to come in the form of ‘Pirate Song’ and ‘Fireworks,’ lovely gems of orchestration worthy of Sigor Ros or The Polyphonic Spree meets the Good The Bad and The Queen. I would replace the heavyweights in the musical milieu with a moth and a butterfly and watch them tangle with interesting results. Definitely ones to watch out for.

www.twinthousands.com
www.myspace.com/twinthousands