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The prolific Richard H. Kirk has come full circle. Having spent a good part of the '90s focusing on a psychedelic yet subversive brand of techno, Kirk's first music of 2000 harks back to the glory days of Cabaret Voltaire. LOOPSTATIC is at times dark, sinister, and gritty, a slab of dance music working its energy on rust-encrusted metal floors. Kirk's sound palette revisits the distorted, cosmic fuzz beats of CabVolt classics such as "Yashar," but he coats old analog processors in thick layers of aural digitalis.
"Devil in Your Name" is rugged techno made up of coarse bass sequences, sonic dust, and popping Kraftwerkian pulses. "With False Identity" sees Kirk bringing back his trusty radio receivers of old, conducting musique concrFte from arcane transmissions that morph into ambulance-siren dancehall music. The textures of "One Zero" seem to have arisen from a corrupted hard drive ready to obliterate the world. These are the beats to which Prozac-crazed cyberzombies dance. Kirk's tones resemble the take-off bursts of UFOs, and his rhythms stalk hungrily through the stereo field. Your very system hovers on the brink, rescued only as the incredibly hypnotic grooves gradually emerge.
Perhaps the most original debut album to come out of the first wave of British punk, Wire's Pink Flag plays like The Ramones Go to Art School -- song after song careens past in a glorious, stripped-down rush. However, unlike the Ramones, Wire ultimately made their mark through unpredictability. Very few of the songs followed traditional verse/chorus structures -- if one or two riffs sufficed, no more were added; if a musical hook or lyric didn't need to be repeated, Wire immediately stopped playing, accounting for the album's brevity (21 songs in under 36 minutes on the original version). The sometimes dissonant, minimalist arrangements allow for space and interplay between the instruments; Colin Newman isn't always the most comprehensible singer, but he displays an acerbic wit and balances the occasional lyrical abstraction with plenty of bile in his delivery. Many punk bands aimed to strip rock & roll of its excess, but Wire took the concept a step further, cutting punk itself down to its essence and achieving an even more concentrated impact. Some of the tracks may seem at first like underdeveloped sketches or fragments, but further listening demonstrates that in most cases, the music is memorable even without the repetition and structure most ears have come to expect -- it simply requires a bit more concentration. And Wire are full of ideas; for such a fiercely minimalist band, they display quite a musical range, spanning slow, haunting texture exercises, warped power pop, punk anthems, and proto-hardcore rants -- it's recognizable, yet simultaneously quite unlike anything that preceded it. Pink Flag's enduring influence pops up in hardcore, post-punk, alternative rock, and even Britpop, and it still remains a fresh, invigorating listen today: a fascinating, highly inventive rethinking of punk rock and its freedom to make up your own rules.
The alternative boom of the early '90s truly reached a point of no return when someone, somewhere, thought J.G. Thirlwell would fit at home on a major label and maybe become as big a star as, say, Trent Reznor. Certainly Thirlwell did make a compromise for Gash, his debut on Sony Records: He dropped the endless pseudonyms (You've Got Foetus on Your Breath, Phillip & His Foetus Vibrations) he used to hide behind and allowed himself to be billed simply as Foetus. Otherwise, Gash follows the pattern set by every other Foetus album -- which is to say that it's about as far as one can get from the mainstream and still be considered "rock." Forget about catchy, four-minute pop songs -- some of these songs don't even use any rock instruments. "Hammer Falls" is a mixture of Arabic wailing and sitars, and "Mutapump" incorporates what sounds like the opening fanfare of a '50s gladiator movie. And what exactly would newcomers make of "Slung," an 11-minute swing track? Only Thirlwell's feral howl, along with a handful of more industrial-sounding tracks, keeps this in the realm of rock. The already committed (in more ways than one) would agree that this is the cleanest sounding, best-written album Thirlwell has ever done, but industrial fans merely expecting synthesized angst might be utterly bewildered. Ultimately, though, Gash serves as probably the best introduction for those who have never been exposed to Thirlwell's brand of aural brutality, and longtime fans will probably see this as the peak of Thirlwell's creativity.
Jon Anderson and Vangelis released several albums over the years. Their merging of musical styles and ideas has always worked quite well from my point of view. While there was one disc before this, Short Stories, this was the one that really got them attention. It was also the first one that came up on my radar. Vangelis is probably best known for movie soundtrack music and “new age” sounds, but if you really look into his past he was also a progressive rock musician in the band Aphrodite’s Child. In fact, at one point he nearly joined Yes. So, it seems like it must have been destiny for these two men to work together. This album is a great one, with only one song that I am not totally hooked on. I’m not sure that I’d say this is my favorite Jon and Vangelis disc (Private Collection is near and dear to my heart, too) but this one will always be right up there. The blending of new age sounds with progressive rock ones is a great marriage. This still holds up remarkably well, even in a totally different millennium. If you haven’t checked out Jon and Vangelis I can think of no better starting point.
Cornelius fits right in with the Beastie Boys' Grand Royal aesthetic. He sees no difference between pop and avant-garde, high culture and lowbrow trash -- he throws it all together, coming up with completely unexpected combinations. The thrill of hearing hip-hop loops morph into sheets of My Bloody Valentine guitar noise, then into sweet Beach Boys harmonies, is what makes his American debut, Fantasma, such a wonder. It's easy to write Cornelius off as a Japanese Beck, particularly since his pop songcraft is as impressive as the busy, multi-layered production, but it's a little patronizing. Cornelius is operating on his own terms, equally influenced by sunny pop ("Chapter 8 -- Seashore and Horizon," boasting harmonies by the Apples in Stereo), garagey hard rock, and kitsch (the cartoonish "Magoo Opening"). He assembles the parts in unpredictable ways -- the hard beats of "Mic Check" suddenly give way to floating acoustics; "Chapter 8" literally has a tape recorder stopping and starting the different parts -- which is why Fantasma is so intoxicating. It is one of those rare records where you can't tell what's going to happen next, and it leaves you hungry for more. [Fantasma was also released with two bonus tracks: "Fantasma Spot" and a demo of "Typewrite Lesson."]
Achingly gorgeous and hauntingly stark, Mark Hollis' self-titled debut picks up where he left off with Talk Talk's Laughing Stock seven years earlier, re-emerging at the nexus point where jazz, ambient, and folk music collide. It's quite possibly the most quiet and intimate record ever made, each song cut to the bone for maximum emotional impact and every note carrying enormous meaning. Hollis paints his music in fine, exquisite strokes, with an uncanny mastery of atmosphere that's frequently devastating. And if anything, his singularly resonant voice has grown even more plaintive with the passage of time, which -- combined with the understated artistry and minimalist beauty of tracks like "The Colour of Spring" and "Watershed" -- makes Mark Hollis a truly unique and indelible listening experience. His obvious understanding of the power of silence aside, one prays he doesn't again wait for the seven-year itch to strike before returning
On their first album for Germany's Marina Records, singer/songwriter David Scott and keyboardist Brian McAlpine offered a welcome antidote to the sound-alike power pop that proliferated in the '90s. Joined by a drummer and string section, the Scottish duo mined many of the same influences (Beatles, Brian Wilson) as their competitors, yet offered melodies and hooks that were reverent but never rip-offs. Cherry Sky is a near-flawless concoction that follows Beach Boys-style choruses with a chorus straight out of the Fab's psychedelic era (complete with "Penny Lane" fire bells). The lovely "Sugar Mountain Babies," meanwhile, owes not a little to McCartney's gentle side, and the jangly "Banana Sandwich" has all the fresh-faced glory of Scottish popsters past, like Aztec Camera or the Bluebells. Other than a couple of lesser tracks, like "Night Breeze," the remainder of the disc is simply high-quality, handsomely performed, and hummable pop you'd be foolish to pass up.
After his group the Weather Prophets split, Peter Astor kept on writing and recording songs that showcased his rock-solid vocals and songcraft. Both of his first two solo albums for the Creation label (1990's Submarine and 1991's Zoo) were full of tender melodies, restrained instrumentation, and heartfelt sophistication. In other words, they were painfully out of step with what was going on in the world of indie music at the time and due to this, Creation cut him loose. Undaunted, Astor formed a new group -- the Holy Road -- made up of players who had been in Felt, Everything But the Girl, and the Oyster Band and found a new home on France's Danceteria label. This new assemblage's first album, 1992's Paradise, is a cracking batch of songs shot through with Astor's effortless charm and full of singalong choruses. The band sounds like a looser, fuller version of the usually stripped-down Weather Prophets; the guitars jangle and chime, the bass darts about melodically, and Astor glides above it like a heartbroken crooner. The songs that leap out the first few times through the album are those with a gently sprightly pace and lighter touch: "She Took the T.V." and "Almost Falling in Love" are fine folk-pop heartbreakers; "The Hotel at the Edge of the World" is a rambling country rocker; and "Secret Life" is lovely post-Felt pop that makes good use of lightly phased guitars. The soul of the album reveals itself on further listens and the slower, more meditative tracks sink in more deeply. Astor's burnished vocals, the band's subtle playing, and the restrained ache of the lyrics combine to create a mood as melancholy as the end of summer -- or the end of a relationship. Sometimes he and the band wrap the sadness in straightforward guitar-led songs that slide around the feelings ("Love, Full-On," "Lost Soul") in the same way the best Weather Prophets songs did, sometimes they conjure up fine French Chanson as on the slinky "Sideways and the Golden Egg," other times they strip the sound down to Astor, a single guitar, and some atmosphere. "Guy Fawkes Night" tells a nostalgic story simply and truthfully as the phased guitars come back to color the song, and "Paradise" ends the album on a soft cloud of peaceful regret. Through the album, Astor and his band work the flip side of Brit-pop, writing and playing thoughtful and restrained songs that provide comfort, not hedonistic thrills. It's another in a long line of such albums from Astor, each one worth checking out when you need a musical cuddle or a quiet word from a kind friend.
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