Halifax' finest Orielles are back with a fourth album Only You Left which finds them again heading off to distant shores once more. They don't like the conventional. If this leads to slightly inconclusive junctures occasionally you cant but commend their modus vivendi.
I came across Eyes Full by Zoh Amba completely by chance late on Sunday night. I listened to it again on coming home from the Jazz jam yesterday evening without a full context either time as I generally think that's the best way to listening if you can.
It sounds like much of the best music in that it seems as if it was directly transmitted from outer space. Or else America which is often one of the closest things we've got at our immediate disposal for that sensation. If you're looking for an earthly comparison it strikes me as a mutant strain of Appalachian blues.
There's plenty of grief and plenty of joy and plenty of purest emotion that's somewhere in between. The singer seems to be a country cousin of Big Thief's Adrienne Lenker which is hearty recommendation alone and some of it sounds like it was recorded in a blender frankly. It all has a giddy drive and vision.
You cannot help but wonder at Can. They plot lunar landscapes. Impossible but remarkable highways. I started listening to them today at seven as I went into my working day. I've been teaching since eight. Slotting in and out of online classes. Now I'm done for Wednesday and looking to the evening and Can spins again. One for the ages.
The streets are wet with rain and it feels like we're ready for Spring. Jana Horn's latest album is spinning. Ingenue beauty. Sybille Baier. Vashti Bunyan,, David Lynch. Slightly offkey outsider music. It's all better on the outside. That's the way to the inside.
Jana is playing at The Cumberland Arms at the beginning of March. I need to get my ticket and see if I can fid myself someone to go with. Donald Trump has decided he has a right to Greenland. Minerals? The world for the time being keeps turning.
I always associate Chelsea Morning with Terri Garr. Her role as a rather grim waitress in Afterhours with Rat Traps in her living room. It's not fair to the song itself which is about the act of becoming, Of 'putting on the day.'
I'm up early, and I'm listening to Nirvana. No, not that one, though I might give Nevermind a spin later. But the original Nirvana, the Baroque Pop London band from the original Psychedelic dawn. Chamber Pop of the simplest, most innocent and appealing sort. Like finding yourself on the carpet again. In front of Children's hour.
I'm listening to The Story Of Simon Simopath their debut album. It came out on Island Records in 1967. All innocent wonder and the sense that the world is turning from black and white to colour at last. That will do me. I'm ready for whatever the day has to throw at me .
I've always thought there was something wierd and perverse about this song and the the way that a father and daughter sang it to each other. Nobody I've ever mentioned this too has shared my opinion. I guess you call it Show Business.
Watching the World Cup with the volume off. Reading about Lenny Kaye's friendship with Lou Reed and their shared passion for horror comics. Listening to Pixies' Bossanova at high volume. True Romance and Rock & Roll are not dead.
A quiet work day is a difficult thing for me these days/.I have nothing to do. So why not just enjoy doing nothing. It was something you didn't have the slightest difficulty with as a child. But now you feel you must be doing something. Running up some hill. Worrying about something.
But I'm, not going to. I'm listening to Doug Gilliard's new album Parallel Stride . It's straight as you go. Neat licks and chord changes. Doug sounds like the guy in Urge Overkill and the band sound like a Power Pop band from 1974 or a New Wave Band from 1979. It's a place where men are always playing with the Queen of Hearts.And the Joker ain't the only fool.
This appears to be a Golden Age for diaphonous hazy Folk Albums which recall the earlier Golden Age for such stuff. The sixties and early seventies. The days of Bashti. Bridget St John and Nicky D. Jenny Gillespie Mason has been in Sis but now she's branching out on her own winding hillside path with In The Safety of the Light. It's all Folky Flutes and autumnal melody. Much of this is inspired and sublime.
Ween were ahead of the curve in some respect in that they offered the whole Nostalgiafest experience before it became de rigeur. White Pepper could have come out in 1973. It's AOR Radio for those who weren't around for Foghat and Captain & Tenneille.
Jenny Hollingsworth peels off Let's Eat Grandma for an excursion of her own as Jenny on Holiday and Quicksand Heart a holiday properly in the Pop Sun. Pitchfork detects Replacements Cindi Lauper and Prefab Sprout within its grooves. I'm not sure I can but the record's groovy..
It's all rather like a helium balloon appearing in the sky on a greyer than grey day. Light as a feather. Not remotely challenging or particularly interesting lyrically but what were you expecting Knut Hamsen's Hunger. ? I imagine Nick Cave will be along with fresh product presently. The third cool new record in three days on It Starts With a Birthstone. January Blues? Not here.
Strange things happened in the New Millennium. The Canon adjusted and bent out of shape. Nick Cave and Mark E. Smith became near mythical figures. And David Berman and Bill Callahan and Cat Power rose to prominence as a Holy Trinity for the Alternative Set.
Mithchell was unable to appear at Woodstock and was bitterly upset not to do so. So she wrote this Listening to it now it feels like a magical enterprise captured. Cynicism be damned. The dream of avoiding being a cog in something turning.
I started this blog in 2013 with no clear destination in sight ,because it seemed like a good way to occupy myself, because writing was one of the things which I most liked to do and I wanted to try to get better if I could . I'm still at my desk writing pretty much on a daily basis thirteen years on and haven't run dry quite yet and don't intend to.
A lot has happened to me in terms of my life in the meantime but that's not why I write here. This is not an exercise in emotional bloodletting, angst ot grief or distress. I don't really like that kind of writing or engage in those kind of exercises if I can avoid doing so.
The records I like most are the ones that show you a whole vision, an imaginative universe to inhabit and feed on. Losing yourself for forty minutes or so in an entirely plausible and self sustaining alternate terrain and topography that you'd never have imagined possible. I have one today.
I've just bought The Strawbs Grave New World on the Newcastle Quayside and now I'm sitting listening to it in my living room on loop as the world turns and the afternoon thickens and drifts ito Sunday evening. Grave New World beckons you into a world as blessed and magical as the happiest childhood memories. A sylvan grove to pause and billow and spread the quilt for repast in the best imaginable company.
I've heard a lot of nonsense about The Clash in the last few years. That The Damned were better than them. That they were just a London thing. That they weren't Punk Rock. That they were just about selling trousers. 'Oh I don't like Joe Strummer's voice.' Lots and lots of Pish & Nonsense.
The band signed to a major. They didn't play Top Of The Pops. They were a mass of contradictions and a fantastic, fantastic thing from start to chaotic end. There's not a band on earth, still, that can hold a candle to them. They offer heroism in spades.
Domestic Bliss? Surely an oxymoron A vain imagining. But in this case it happens to be the latest album from Voka Gentle a band for London who may be in the gutter and poseurs of am expressive dayglo sort but at least they're looking at the stars as they head for the hills as Dr.s Wilde and Bowie would prescribe, Even if the album cover is bad Salvador Dali and no mistake !
This is a bit of a ragbag but isn't lacking in daring or ambition. Even though occasionally I'm reminded of The Thompson Twins. Doctor Doctor !!! It's not running on the spot at least. It might be lacking in shape and substance on occasion but its decorative, varued and throws shapes. I give it 7.5, it's It Starts With a Birthstone's song / album of the day. I salute its bravura. Who precisely is Torpedo Mike and why are Voka Gentle staring back down my telescope ? Your guess is as good as mine.
You gotta pick a pocket or...... I don't really care how Elastica are viewed these days. Strangely enough for such a bunch of brazen arriviste chancers, I think a case could be made that they were actually ahead of their time rather than behind it. As for their belated follow up to this glorious debut when they decide they would actually rather sound like The Fall than Blondie, Wire or The Stranglers. Hmm.....
Music isn't always particularly in 2026 I must say. Take Jalen N'Gonda's latest album Doctrine of Love. It's Neo Soul of the coolest stripe. They follow the Motown template to the tee. All the T's crossed and the I's dotted. But you wonder why to listen to this rather than a classic which came out in 1972. I'm not entirely sure how to answer you.
Well we'd better get going on this. I know very well that we're not yet halfway through July. But these things don't write themselves and it strikes me as time to get going as we make our way to December . This is a lovely way to kick off our countdown.
'Love is the strangest thing,,,,' Scrub love for life. I've been working since eight on a screen. Almost five hours in all. Teaching, or more accurately in my case, trying to learn from students in Dussledorf, Amsterdam and Hamburg. I learned a lot. I hope they did.
Then I nipped down to my local library to seek some supplementary information. More leads. Diversification, never a bad idea. The case is never closed regardless of what Tom Verlaine thought, The one thing I know is I'm happy behind my desk. I never really plan to do anything else. Never back at an office. Back on the chain gang.
On the way back I nipped into the record shop acriss the road. A record sleeve grabbed my attention. That's what record shops are for. Surabaya. Indonesian outfit Thee Marloes second album Di Hotel Malibu. A reminder which is always welcome that the world is impossible exotic, and mystical.
I'm back at my desk now, The album is on and it's enchanting fare. Sultry, stuff to lure you onto the dancefloor and into a Seventies dream
Day Two of the World Cup. And while I eagerly await witnessing the best football team Canada have ever produced at 8 o'clock according to reports. In the meantime, I'm listening to The Landfill Fruit Bats twelth album. It's a comforting record. Distinctly old school. As if Dylan and Van the Man and Harry Nilsson are still in their prime and putting out excellent product. The same record forever. Not the worst idea.
I Built You a Tower, the eleventh studio from Seattle's Death Cab For Cutie is a sweet and tender record. By contrast with the Modest Mouse alum which confused and repelled me rather, a few days ago I'm finding this amenable and skipping back to the start. It's like an inviting eiderdown you return to rather than doing something more profitable with your day.
Of course you're always resigned to records at this distance into a band's journey being consumed to some degree by grief and resignation and that's the case here. In this case reconnecting with Emo . Bands like to rediscover their origins and speculate on the nature of their first acts of departure. This is neatly done. The abiding impression of the record is warmth.
Liz Lawrence has got the look and the modern sound. The new solemnity. On current album, Vespers she sounds like Phoebe, Aldous and erm Liz Lawrence. There's plenty of atmosphere and ennui. It's a damned good album that's accompanied me through a Stormy Wednesday.
I woke up early. I listened to a record by The Delgados on my stereo while I had my breakfast. Now I'm listening to another on my television while I prepare for work.
'Hate is all you need apparently' According to the song I'm listening to. The Delgados are anything but Hateful. Quite the contrary. They're novelistic. Detailed. A Scottish Indie band from the Nineties and the early part of the Millennium who never quite got their due.
But those for the likes of me are the important ones. Love, The Velvet Underground. The Modern Lovers, Telvevision, Subway Sect, Wire, Cornershop, Stereolab, My tribe. The bands that could easily have been authors. Now there's a good name for a band. I imagine it's been taken.
There are moments on Hate where the emotional horizons expand. Where the flowers bloom and the trees burst into blossom. Where the sheer accumulation of attention to detail bears small harvests and d youmomentarily feel like you're listening to the best record ever made and you want to tell the world even if you suspect that nobody might be listening. So you continue with your day. That's what art is for/
Life remains a mystery. But it pays to explore its terrains. Its valleys and ravines. 'Slide, slide, slide. Down River....' What better companion than a Bill Callahan record. This gathers giddy momentum and post modernist resonance and you lose yourself.
I'm done for the day. I've just finishe teaching a charming young German woman called Sarah. She talked about visiting an LGBT Trade Fair in Berlin. How it was important to work for a company that reflected her own principles and ideals. We talked about the work she did and the English she needs. Had a great time together and I hope a useful time for her.
At the end of the hour I happened to ask her what kind of music she liked . She mentioned Provinz and I'm listening to them now. They're from Ravensberg in Baden Wurtemburg. I'm listening to Pazifik their album from last year now. It's much to my liking.
It exists in the same genral ballpark as Coldplay. But I don't mind Coldplay. Pazifik is a record that billows and gathers with tangible gusto. Its epiphanies are not inconsiderable .
