Their website currently states “Thank you and goodbye!”, but I can’t ascertain whether or not Oblio Joes are still an ongoing concern. So, Let’s Decompose And Enjoy Assembling could be their last release. If that’s the case, it’s a shame. This is a fantastic collection of off-centre songs that as much recall the giddy optimism of prime Beach Boys and the glossy vacuity of 10CC as they do the noise-tinged melodies of Pavement and Built To Spill.

Whilst the Pavement comparisons are at times obvious – in the broken, wavering vocals of John Brownell and the rich, subtly complex song structures – it’s not like Pavement have sole rights to creating uplifting, sadness-inflected melodic guitar music. Oblio Joes stamp their own personality on many of the songs here; the heart-rending, self-effacing lyrics on the unnamed opening track and closer ‘Grey Skies’, ‘Dutch Boy’ with its growth from simplistic banjo picking into dreamy, staccato swathes of tune, or the upbeat and jolly ‘Good Neighbour’, with its rolling enthusiasm and melody after melody.

At the heart of their music, Oblio Joes employ a skilful sense of arrangement and contrast. Songs like ‘Capricorn Cowboy’ and ‘Holes’ sound initially simple, but underneath their surface lies a strange collection of sounds and multi-layered instrumentation. It’s this seemingly effortless mastery of songs that can be peeled back to reveal rich seams of musicianship and emotional tugging that sets Oblio Joes apart, as not only a great pop band, but one with real depth and the ability to reward the careful listener. If it is thank you and goodbye from them, this album is a fine way to bow out.

Oblio Joes

Throughout the 1980s, a lot of compilations were released that reflected the then-burgeoning interest in recreating the garage punk and psychedelic sounds of the late 1960s. Whilst this second volume in Northern Star’s Psychedelica series isn’t along exactly the same lines as those earlier releases – these new collections compile modern psychedelia, rather than bands directly influenced by the music of many Pebbles, Nuggets or Rubble-type bands – a similar spirit is at work here. There is still no end of bands out there that are creating music that reflects the blissed-out, amped-up, lysergically-altered stylings of the original garage punk artists, albeit reflected through the ouptut of a variety of later bands and movements.

So, this was never going to be a compilation that didn’t have a lot of musical reference points. Through its 35 tracks, the music here broadly falls into a number of styles that suggests some particular music of times gone by. The early-80s Paisley Underground sound of bands like Long Ryders or The Chesterfield Kings is represented here in the clean, melodic, straightforward music of Belles Will Ring and Floorian. Big Star’s brand of power pop, as prefigured by Buffalo Springfield and reimagined by Teenage Fanclub, is respectfully used here by The Quarter After, Goldrush and Riff Random. The unfairly-maligned shoegazing sound of Ride or Slowdive is an influence here on Heroes Of Switzerland, The Daysleepers and Sunsplit; and the heavier, darker, more repetitive style of Loop and Spacemen 3 is displayed here by The Black Angels, Mainline, The People’s Revolutionary Choir, The Voices, Hopewell and The Yours. There are also slices of music on these two CDs that contain varying shades of gothic, Cramps-style garage (The Dolly Rocker Movement), John Lennon-influenced plaintive balladry (The Hiss) and straight-ahead retro garage punk (Dust).

This continues from Psychedelica‘s first volume very well, in its aim to showcase artists working in a particular mindset. Like most compilations, it’s not without its slow points or likely-to-be-skipped tracks; but as a whole it’s an even set of tracks that certainly bears repeated listening. The standout songs are those that not only remind of music gone by, but move in more unique directions: Flowers Of Hell, with their mournful piano, violin and theremin mantra; Perfect Blue, with some subtle electronica; Say Jansfield, with a folk song that warps off into strange, progressive areas.

Independent music goes through trends and phases all of the time, but Psychedelica suggests that there are always bands that continue to trace a line from the late 1960s to the 21st century. Hopefully, more volumes will follow.

Northern Star Records

This is the first I’ve heard of Montana’s Touchers, but on the evidence of this, their sixth long-player, they are in a strange place. The sleeve folds out to reveal a collage including Nazi children, a three-breasted pinup model, several guillotines and many sharks. Perhaps The Underwater Fascist is a concept album, then, a meditation on aquatic fascism; but this isn’t obvious from the music here. Not that that’s a problem – the thirteen tracks need no over-arching theme to do their job. They do just fine as they are. And what they are is a dizzying collection of rockabilly rhythms, throat-shredding screeching vocals, upbeat pop melodies and an unhealthy bucketload of weirdness and threatening desperation.

The most obvious musical reference point is Come On Pilgrim-era Pixies: latino skipping timings, clean guitar lines and damaged-sounding vocals that veer from gruff proclamations to screaming outbursts. I have literally no idea what songs such as ‘Aphrodite Has Gone Mad’, ‘The Mattress Song’, ‘February 22nd 1975’ or ‘Brain’ might be about, but then I’ve never been much of a lyrical analyst. What Touchers are good at is creating an atmosphere of something, an ethereal weirdness that’s as unsettling as it is musical and listenable.

Tracks like ‘Michigan’, with its rolling drumbeats and frenetic strummed guitar, butt up against odd acoustic singalongs like ‘There’s The Rub’, which seems to open with the line “I think you are beautiful, but you are for the worms”. There’s certainly a variety of styles and moods on display here, but I guess that despite what I wrote earlier, an over-arching musical theme becomes apparent as the album comes to a close. Touchers sound like a little like many bands at times – Melvins, Pixies, even Butthole Surfers on the closing musique concrete noise of ‘Fire When Ready’ – but they retain a uniquely strange vibe and a confident grasp of whatever they’re about as a band. I’m still trying to work out what that is, but it’s certainly a positive thing.

Touchers

On the same day that I begin reviewing this record I find/buy an old Philistines Jr seven inch in Music And Video Exchange for 5p not realising that there is a relation between them and Mice Parade.

With a name that is derived from an anagram of leader Adam Pierce’s name, Mice Parade are something of indie veterans with this being their fifth album. And this is a tough record to review as it proves a really tranquil experience which unfortunately sees the music slipping into the background of my day.

A much layered affair, this is a relaxed and slow building selection. Playing out like a travel companion in the midst of some deep conversation, the swift time changes and insertions of any instrument at their disposal, The Mice Parade have produced a record that glides successfully combining elements of folk and noise with strongly crafted songs.

Listened to on a Sunday morning in the summer is when this record feels most comfortable, I find myself transfixed with the blessed ease the protagonists appear to have with life.

Featuring guest appearances on vocals by Laetitia Sadier of Stereolab and Kristin Anna Valtysdottir of Mum that perfectly compliment the almost Dando/Grohl-esqe pitch of Pierce, it is not too hard to envisage how this record sounds, not least with the knowledge that Doug Scharin (June Of 44/Rex/Him) can be counted amongst the band’s numbers.

Over the course of the nine tracks it ranges from the delicate dream state of “Double Dolphins On The Nickel” (sadly not some kind of Minutemen tribute) to the out and out drone of “Snow” and the very Tortoise/Sixtoo-esqe mathematics of “Tales Of Las Negras”, where Sadier makes her appearance.

An album of far flung beauty, in a world where so many are attempting folk-tinged electronica and falling flat on their faces, here is a timely reminded how sweet the cherry can taste.

Thesaurus moment: sumptuous.

Mice Parade
Fat Cat Records

With a band name that just screams aggression, the record doesn’t take long to mark a target and start a fight. Complete with something of a real bitterness, the character Billy Ruffian comes flying out of the tower blocks of Manchester, rant and raving all over what may or may not be something of a modern concept album about a dick.

Often sounding like Art Brut if they were tasty in a ruck, within a few songs Billy Ruffian has taken pops at the music industry, other bands, girls, anything it would seem before descending into some kind of flexing self loathing pose with a drink problem and obsession with death.

Musically rounded by fizzy guitars that sound like sirens, heavy bass lines and occasional brass section accompaniments, song writing that is true has an end product the often sounds like a mash of The Fall and Roxy Music on a budget fronted by Frank Sidebottom or at least his best friend at school. Later it also occurs to me that this is how the Sultans Of Ping (ask your parents or consult a history book) would sound were they played at the wrong speed slow.

The evident humour is often difficult to decipher as the songs play either hit or miss, reaching a low point with the Tiger Lillies-esqe “Ballad Of Billy Ruffian” which is a sad descend into cheese. Fortunately the sharp boiled lyrical content of the excellent “Music v Money” is the lasting recollection after the album has long passed. The lyrics are clearly crafted as narrations of turmoil and frustration, commonplace with any listener/observer that has ever been involved.

The album ends with “The Last Day”, a satisfactory way to end an album, working like the speech of somebody lying on their death bed (maybe Mr Ruffian). Unlike other things from Manchester, this is educated and very much underdog in its making but full of potential to equally ruffle feathers.

Thesaurus moment: sly.

Billy Ruffian
Filthy Little Angels

I have truly been fucking shocked at hearing this record on daytime Radio One. I could literally not believe my ears as the old school emo hardcore flew out the FM and I was transported back to the future.

It is nearly ten years now since I was buying seven inches by bands that don’t just sound a little like this band, they sounded EXACTLY like this band (well, this single at least). Actually the reality is that Gallows sound exactly like such DIY heroes from back in the day as Bob Tilton, Tribute, Beacon etc etc. At one point, if you went up to Leeds it seemed like bands sounding like this were growing on trees and Subjugation Records were selling their records through their distro.

So what on earth has happened? I feel it is a truly strange climate these days that sees bands in the (near) mainstream sounding like bands from “my roots” and I truly cannot decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing. And at the end of the day, who is it that can claim to have won the war? Did the majors get wise to the innovation of the DIY indies (ho ho) and cash in on it? Have the underground labels been ultimately proved right in their ideas as to where music (especially rock) was going? Regardless, I know which demographic will be sleeping on a big pile of money tonight as opposed to sleeping on the floor.

I suspect I am the last person at the party to hear this record as I understand the album was originally released on such an indie (in Nottingham?) is now being majorly overhauled by Warners (all for a price). At the end of the day however it is just still really distracting to hear my record collection from ten years ago being played on daytime FM when I thought that was the most cutting edge sounding shit that would forever remain marginalised. Truly, where is the (music) world heading? Kids today!

Thesaurus moment: disconcerting.

Gallows
Warner Music

With a pleasantly fuzzed up dirty Soundgarden-esqe guitar sound, this Myspace approaching band sustain my attention for exactly 22 seconds until the Ian Astbury style vocals kick in and spoil the show, reducing proceedings to little more than dated hair band cock rock middle class white man blues grunge rock of the most hormonal kind. That surely can’t be a good thing.

With a name that I keep confusing with Deidre (Barlow?), The Police lifted “S.O.S.” insertion into the first song only serves to extend the painfully commercial aimed intention and unoriginality of this CD. And then track two sounds like the Manic Street Preachers in the most AOR of modes.

Deride are a managed band destined to play pubs and rock clubs for eternity. I could go to the rock bush outside right now and pull two or three of them of the vine in a moment. Actually I am currently shitting a band like this out of my arse right now!

Sent by their management company (they’re managed!), unfortunately I was not supplied with a bio sheet to go with this CD so I have to make my own up with my imagination. And my limited imagination only serves me to believe that in their part time these guys are bricklayers after being the kings of the school in their formative years. Their record collections contains every CD Kerrang has given five Ks to in the past ten years. And with a demo cover that features a strewn bottle of Jack Daniels, packets of fags, unused Durex, some bird’s bikini top (or undies, I just can’t tell the difference these days), a rolled up twenty pound note and a circle of powder that may or may not (probably not) be blow – I don’t think you could mistake these guys for being emo. I wish I had never been sent this.

Thesaurus moment: obsolete.

Deride
MepWeb Management

Another fantastic release from the Fat Cat label! No Age are an L.A. noise-rock two-piece, steeped in the city’s art/skate/punk scene. Having had their names teased at from all (including Wire Magazine), the double team of Dean Spunt and Randy Randall were picked up by Fat Cat after the label’s ears came to rightly acknowledge their delectable noise. The result is ‘Weirdo Rippers’, a collection of lovely messy tunes previously heard on various underground vinyl releases.

The album could not have a more fitting title: for me it perfectly encapsulates the album’s jumbled assortment of wonderfully messy pieces. You can revel in the breakneck punk sprawl of ‘Boy Void’ or get a spacey vibe in the warped distortion of ‘I Wanna Sleep’. ‘Everybody’s Down’ is a contradictory message – it is remarkably upbeat for its title. It contains a triumphant vocal strain, resounding more pleasingly than if actually hitting the correct notes.

A good duo album defies the issue of a minimal line-up. ‘Weirdo Rippers’ achieves this by full use of peculiar effects and massive head-rattling fuzz. The album’s power is in its apparent free-form abundance of beautiful noise, much like Black Dice’s ‘Beaches and Canyons’ LP. It is cunningly well-structured without being contrived: after x bars of flowing feedback, in comes a terrific rock-out sequence. The album offers a distinctive feel-good scattiness, displayed in the Animal Collective drum snaps and floor tom thumps in ‘Neck Escaper’ or the Joey Ramone hollering on ‘Dead Plane’.

The album’s coda, ‘Escarpment’ takes off where ‘Weirdo Rippers’ began: waves of mushy static ebb and flow whilst the ear is grounded by pleasant chimes. Yet another testament to Fat Cat’s excellent discrimination and the power of the duo.

Pascal Ansell

http://www.myspace.com/nonoage
http://fat-cat.co.uk/fatcat/artistInfo.php?id=118

This is the most exciting new band I have discovered so far in 2007, an act so refreshing whilst also being so crisp and concise in the wearing of its influences on its sleeves. In a time where the past few years indie music has threatened to give into pant swinging neo-hippy folk types, pointless and aimless noise acts and a full on thrust of grunge nostalgia……basically here is a band THAT FUCKING ROCKS!

Well, “rocks” in an experimental and angular Sonic Youth inspired manner but still it should just what the indie rock doctor is ordering. The music of the Muggabears is immediate through a familiarity of its genre and sheer frenetic dynamism of its playing. It evades me as to just how many times I have heard music like this but bands are still discovering methods with which they are able to make it still sound fresh and inventive.

With obvious nods to Sonic Youth (the band having transplanted from Oklahoma up to New York) it often also resembles Unwound at their most positively dank and dense whilst sporting/rocking a lineup dynamic akin to Blonde Redhead, which at the close of proceedings is a very exciting proposition (in theory).

The choicest track on offer is the elevated “The Goth Tarts”, a towering delivery of menace that builds with the most sinister of intros into a song that literally feels young coupled with a severe sense of guilt and (un)healthy dose of darkness in its mood being fairly nihilistic in its message (“you shouldn’t have children, you shouldn’t read books”).

Night Choreography runs in at seven songs over 24 minutes and there is something of an inconsistency in the offerings as “Automatic Others” appears to fall apart as the singer experiences something of a breakdown (probably of intention) and “Dead Kid Kicks” cheekily lifts heavily from “Purr” by Sonic Youth, something they will be given the benefit of the doubt for for only so long.

When the heavy bass of “Now I’ve Got A Sword” swoops in, the basic eruption and destruction coupled with distorted insane vocals and bloody hooks happily provides proof/evidence that time spent on this band is time well spent. Perhaps not the finished item, there is a mass of exciting indications to be taken from this record that time will hopefully be fulfilled in its promise.

Thesaurus moment: capable.

Muggabears

This was a random LP/twelve inch that was just sent to my flat addressed to No Pictures last summer, something which I have to admit freaked me out because I have no idea as to just where they got my current address from. Hmmm……..

Big Nurse are something of a terrifying proposition, a pulsing and repetitive excretion of sheet metal white noise all in the name of ferocity. Upon first listen a person could be forgiven for dismissing this as just noise and they would be right but it is also so much more.

The sounds coming from stereo (people please send me vinyl and more of it!) reminds me of recent acts I have seen such as Chris Corsano and Rocket No 9, improv infused monsters looking to push boundaries further and further with each onslaught and performance. This music comes straight out of the heart of Sun Ra whilst being conceived and performed by/from standards set out by punk. As the first side of the record comes to an end sound akin to the din made by a cutlery drawer falling down several flights of stairs of a council building, I make myself a cup of tea and ask God “just what else can I expect from this act now?”

I think American Waste is the perfect title for this record; the heady din is very industrial, like a factory in the middle of nowhere producing the middle of nothing, a pointless industry that can seemingly only be found in downsized America and the broken working classes. The pain I feel from this record is akin to the latest worker to miss a meal through failing to have employment. The whistles on the record say it all.

Side two begins with more drilling and a relentless patter exhibiting much more energy than the previous slab – imagine Lightning Bolt covering “Revolution” by Spaceman 3 and suddenly we are live from Planet Load Records. Out the blocks however, the “tune” does not sustain and again the assault becomes overwhelming and difficult to live with, which is exactly the kind of response you suspect Big Nurse wish to treat you with on a big scale. As a Dick Dale sound-alike subtly invades the “song” towards the close it all ends with a painful crash and I am able to go back to my life (and watching “How To Look Good Naked”). If you need a party cleared soon, this is the record to do it with.

I will never play this record ever again.

Thesaurus moment: throbbing.

Big Nurse
High Density Headache Records