January 27, 2012

Zammuto – “Too Late to Topologize” [Daily MP3 #251]

Apparently this is the cover of the upcoming Zammuto -- named after former Books member Nick Zammuto; awesome? -- record, out on Temporary Residence sometime.

Zammuto – “Too Late to Topologize” MP3/download

The Books are no more — which is OK; Lost and Safe wasn’t good, and this new material seems fresh — and the indie legions are asking WHY? WHY? WHYYYYYYYYY?

It doesn’t matter. Nick Zammuto, one-half of The Books, has started a new band called … yep, Zammuto. Dumb name. I mean, I would never start a group called “Grove” or “Purdum.” Then again it’s been awhile since I started a band. Maybe things have changed and it’s time to just grab all the notoriety you can, along with the slivers of cash that might be available (which is to say nothing of the women/other spoils). Maybe, but I don’t think so.

Again, though — I think the Zammuto sounds a lot more interesting than what The Books were doing lately anyway, or at least “Too Late to Topologize” does (the others, not sure yet; kind of a mix of Battles, Books and Matmos); hopefully this project serves as a rebirth of sorts for Zammuto, who I will always confuse with Zumpano from this point forward (for your info, Zumpano is a drummer-dude who named one of his bands after himself, also inexplicably, and later formed Sparrow, a little-known indie-rock outfit; one of his old bandmates in Zumpano was Carl Newman, whom later formed The New Pornographers, a band I think we can all agree should stay gone).

I’m not usually a news-breaker but I didn’t have much to offer today — I’m actually in the process of setting up a new record shelf, which today required hours of stocking and alphabetizing all my old ’80s psych records by bands like Gravedigger V (actually are they psych? kind of a random group to mention under this guise), Tomorrow, The Three O’ Clock, The Things, Thee Hypnotics, The Tell-Tale Hearts, Reverb Motherfuckers and many more. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you about them when the time is right … And did you know Crust had a song called “Mud Honey”? Is is possible Mark Arm and co. didn’t name their band after the Russ Meyer film? I’m going to get to the bottom of this …

Also, got some great records in this week. Munster Records sent in a 2XLP by Jeremy Gluck & Friends (an outfit that included Nikki Sudden and Epic Soundtracks of Swell Maps; holy shit! Probably the best discovery of 2012 so far), a live LP from ’83 or so by Lyres and a pre-Lyres LP by DMZ that will make you forget all about DMX. Also got a Plante LP from Fedora Corpse and a whole grip of stuff from Past/Futures, of which at least one or two will make the Album As Art series. IT’S ON PEOPLE! DON’T GET IT TWISTED, NINJA!!! And so on/forth we go. ZOOOOOM

 

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January 26, 2012

Comoros – “White Flower” LP (white) – Fedora Corpse Records [Album As Art #151]

Comoros - "White Flower" LP - Fedora Corpse Records

After last year’s sense-tickling self-titled Rat Catching LP hit me where it hurt (and ended up on my Pazz and Jop ballot), the White Flower LP, by Comoros (nee Jennifer Melinn of Rat-Catch and Adam Melinn; I think they’re related), sat on the backburner for too long. It happens, and wouldn’t you know it, just as I turned my attention to the whitest of flowers I got a package in the mail containing Fedora Corpse Records’ latest every-six-months-or-so assault on the spine and sensory faculties of any man, woman or child within earshit: A glass-vinyl 12″ by Plante. How sweet life can be …

But I’m slowly dislocating myself from the point … it’s easy to do in the company of Comoros because, as all Seam fans know, the pace is glacial as FUK. This duo is positively anchored to drone, for better or worse, and their formula works best when both members focus their pursuits on drama over drift, accents over ambiance and the tidal over the time-consuming. In other words, GET TO THE POINT, MAN!!

And yes, the joke’s on me, so go ahead and say it: That IS the point. Joke’s on YOU, D-hole! And that’s all well and good, but White Flower is filmic, and that’s what I’m talking about when I mention the consumption of time: You’ll burn a lot of it treading the same territory. I imagine the Dead Man soundtrack by Neil Young plays out a lot like this (the Melinns are sure to have seen/heard it), desolate — I use that word too much lately — and forboding — ditto — and longer and winding-er than … well, I’ll just say it: Follow the yellow-brick drone / Follow the yellow-brick drone / Follow-follow-follow-follow FOLLOW THE YELLOW-BRICK DRONE.

Chances are, you knew if you wanted this one before you finished the first paragraph. Kranky, Dead Texan, Greg Davis, Tangerine Dream, Gas, Lanterna (it’s interesting how large this somewhat unknown band looms lately), Earth, Cluster, Caboladies (might be a bit of a stretch on the latter, but it’s all good) … if two or more of these entities exist in your record collection there’s room for White Flower, and there’s a particular crowd that flocks around this audio beach picnic, a lot of them choosing cassettes as their mode of aural transportation. Thank christ Comoros know enough to vouch for vinyl, because a). my tape player just went tits up (which sux because I just got a great new German Army tape from Night People) and b). vinyl, particularly snow-white vinyl, rules all kinds of fake jazz azz. That’s just how it is.

Couldn’t find a proper music sample — which is cool actually; buy the LP dicks — but the live clip below is part and parcel with the general mood of Omoros-Cay and the distant, ever-glowing star they hitch their wagon to.

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January 25, 2012

House Of John Player / Toddlers – split – DoubleDotDash!? Records [Lucky 7-inch #75]

House Of John Player / Toddlers - split 7-inch - DoubleDotDash!? Records

House Of John Player – “Shyrite” / “Son Esqueet”

It’s getting to be a daily hassle finding MP3s to share of the many obscure artists I cover on this site. I just tried for about 30 minutes to find a House Of John Player song with a “.mp3″ ending so you’d be able to listen along while you read my inherently annoying tripe, BUT NOOOOOOOO. It’s like trying to pick up on a hott woman with oozing sores on your face: If the futility of the mission doesn’t get to you first, the endless uncertainty will. And since when does MySpace not allow us to download an artist’s music? What a shit heap that site is, a total waste of time that anyone with a pulse hasn’t logged into since 2007.

So anywa-OH MY HOLY LORD I FINALLY FIGURED OUT HOW TO POST THESE MOTHERFUCKING BANDCAMP EMBEDS!!! HOLY FUCKIN’-HALLELUJAH!!! I MIGHT JUST HAVE TO CELEBRATE THIS SHIT. (So now you can listen to the music while you read, always and forever, right here at The Gumshoe Grove. Ain’t that nice?)

Now that I’ve got that off my chest (and even solved a problem!), allow me to shift gears and welcome you into the fold of this glorious 7-inch birthed between the wobbly legs of House Of John Player and Toddlers, two bands that don’t believe in Discogs but do believe in the art of trance through hypnotic beat-puffs and echo flakes that melt into the milk of your mind.

House Of John Player are alphabetically inclined so I’ll start with them. Or, to be more specific, HE, nee Dean Spacer. His two tracks (don’t forget, you can listen to them above) bubble with enthusiasm, but “Shyrite” in particular swells past the size of its confines into something large and undeniably powerful. I must again conjure the Tonstartssbandht/Eola axis, perhaps because they’re one of the only chillwave-friendly groups I’ve taken kindly to, but also because their fascination with echo has crossed over into a grotesque sickness of sorts and thus they’re an even better touchstone.

It’s interesting the way HOJP eliminate traditional drums altogether, then turn around and render the strange, shuffling effects rhythms unto themselves. And … while I wouldn’t call his odd brand of flow-based singing rapping, it’s undoubtedly a hybrid of a lot of vocal motifs that adds another rhythmic component and ellicits even more brightness from the droning, blob-based gelatinous ooze leaking from the speakers. Even a boyish falsetto can’t ruin this high; yeah, that’s saying something.

“Son Esqueet” is a tougher pill to swallow because, like “Shyrite,” it eschews drums. Unlike “Shyrite,” however, it doesn’t do enough to make us forget about it. All I’m gleaning is vague prog strumming and a few voices making smoke trails around each other. It’s amusing for a few seconds but not enough to draw one’s attention away from life for more than a minute or so. (And we all know how life SUCKs.)

Toddlers? Hell, I’m so tired, can we skip them? SHIT NO, because they rule all kinds of azz. [UPDATE: Listen to "Preston" below as I describe it; cool?]

“Preston” couldn’t be further away from House Of John Player’s camp, settling instead with an odd mix of Fugazi refugees (Fu side project The Evens merrit mention here as well), Pinback partisans and maybe even those loyal to old two-man wonders like Oxes (but with bass instead of guitar taking the lead).

The first stanza of what amounts to a two-part movement is especially enthralling, a roiling drum-roll-in-motion spiraling along like _____ (I’m thinking of those weird-ass devices dancers sometimes use; according to the worldwide Web, they’re called “twirly things”) and a truly murderous bass guitar riff matching the snarling vocal upkeep perfectly. Jesus, Toddlers, I barely knew ye. A straight-shot of a bassline finishes things out, and you’d be surprised how difficult it is not to get into it. A head-nodder, if not as impressive as that blistering initial rush.

I can’t think of a split 7-inch that’s challenged me like this, from both sides of the underground stronghold that I sometimes feel only exists in my brain even though I’m reminded these people are out there somewhere and that I only need to find them and interview each and every one of them. As far as Toddlers are concerned, I only hope I get the chance to hear what they can do over the course of a full-length … Is that too much to ask?

AND I’m spent. Don’t let the bass pedal hit your ass on the way out …

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January 24, 2012

Cave Bears – “Jump to Your Bed” LP – Feeding Tube Records [Album As Art #150]

Cave Bears - "Jump to Your Bed" LP - Feeding Tube Records

Cave Bears – “Jazz Hands” [Part 1] MP3/download

Boy, Cave Bears really SOLD OUT on this one — solds out, solds out, solds out till they’re broke-broke-broke the-fuck out. Hell, I thought these folks were WEIRD. There’s singin’ and guitar pickin’ an’ strummin’ on this-here record; don’t like neither of those (don’t support ‘em neither) and never will. They’re even TALKin’ about playin’ chords! Probably didn’t even record Jump to Your Bed in a trailor-home bathroom …

But seriously — is there a more fascinating way to spend an hour or so than to listen to Cave Bears shart all over microphones, rewind and fast-forward layered loops and generally act a damn fool? Well, since I ain’t got my deep-sea-divin’ license, guess this’ll have to do. And it’s strange because I dread reviewing the audio exploits of most groups in this axis. Kommissar Hjuler and Frau-Frau or whatever the frau-fuck lost my attention 60 releases ago, for example (no offense). Or a lot of that deep-noise you get in meth-mouth’d small towns; nope, that shit’s usually fairly abominable.

So why do Cave Bears get a rare pass? For one, they sent me a motherload of material, which got the ball rolling and allowed me to stick my nose up in their rancid, swollen sphere and get a good, rippin’ WHIFFFFFFF. For two-doop-dee-doop, listening to Jump to Your Bed and other Bear adventures is like being single again: I’m not sure where I’m going; I’m drunk, disoriented, desperate and despondent; I perk up and scream into my shirt; I listen to a shitty live band and puke on some girl’s tits; I chase tornadoes and document their patterns and wind up in  danger (actually I think that’s the plot of Twister); a couple of glue-sniffers are singing Kid Rock as I cower in a sweaty ball in the next stall; I wake up in bed with a barrel-chested yeti in a deep-forest cabin (not Yeti; that would be fantastic), forced to flee and live on my own feces until help arrives, and even then what I think is help is actually just a bunch of rednecks fixin’ to rape me.

You think this sounds extreme, I’m sure, but you haven’t heard this LP yet. It’s like you’re in the same room with these guys a lot of the time, and they’re totally ignoring you so you don’t have to feel subconscious or weird about it. BUT YOU STILL FEEL WEIRD. Instead of moaning and sighing heavily into a microphone and sampling old sex tapes they’re living and breathing this New Nihilist existence and they don’t care if you’re listening or not. Which is good, I suppose, because 95 percent of humans would never expose their ears to such soul-wrenching torture. Which is good, I’m quite sure, because nothing worth hearing is supported by more than five percent of people in the first place. [WHO'S WITH ME?]

When at last I’m convinced the Cave Bears can offend me no further, they go and step over a line that barely existed in the first place and I’m left stumbling around the room like I got socked in the stomach by a sack full of … well, Cave Bears cassettes. The second half of Side B is where I think maybe these guys have been setting me up all along; that’s when they whirl together a sonic assault a la Gorgonized Dorks/Prurient/etc. (but more fun) and truly reach mach-infinity in my mind.

Then, too soon, it’s back to tinker-toy bashing and the sounds and smells of strange rubber being stretched until it shreds under the tension. Delightfully, it all melts again into a toxic-plastic glob of slow-motion drone-noise and layered chants and samples; I could do this back-and-forth thing all day, if that’s what Cave Bears ask of me. And they do, for about 20 minutes, after which point you’re so deeply submerged in their river of piss you forget about worrying whether any is getting in your mouth and just float. No regrets, no worries, no pretense of pretense itself.

To record music of this stripe is nutso in the first place, but to pay thousands of dollars to press it to vinyl, create album art for it and make a product out of it might just be so dumb it circles back to a stroke of genius. Jump to Your Bed is pure druggy drudgery that reaches out to the freaks — the one-percenters — and extends a proud middle finger to the Arcade Fire people who would see us all co-opted and turned into micro-marketed bobbleheads. Someone had to …

I leave you with a message straight from the Cave Bear teet, via Discogs:

The game show where everything is already won. (To the viewer) See these “people” try to cope with being winners. In here, (the future) everything is all ready over. There is plenty for you to eat, because everyone else is dead. Perform the same tasks you did in what was once called you “life”, wash dishes, answer phone, go to the store, give yourself a pat on the back, because you have achieved the max score. Congratulations, you won. There are no remaining objects, you don’t even have to eat any more. But you will want to because there is nothing left except food. You can never escape, so enjoy a hearty meal. Eat, eat. I hope you choke, pig!!!

My story. Many 1000′s of years ago, I was an artist like you. I made the most art anyone had ever seen. Then I made the best art of all and I won. No I live in a castle and cast spells all day. My life is over, but I can never die. My crystals are in chaos. Can you help me capture them?

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