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Category: noise-rock

A Rare, Turbulent Pauline Oliveros Online Concert Rescued From the Archives

The great Pauline Oliveros played her last New York concert in the spring of 2015, trading soulful accordion riffs and subtly sly musical banter with members of International Contemporary Ensemble at a since-relocated radical theatre space in Fort Greene. The inventor of the concept of deep listening had been such a force in the world of improvisation and the avant garde for so long that it seemed she’d be around forever.

She left behind an enormous body of work. Decades before locked-down musicians desperately turned to Zoom to serenade their fans or make records, Oliveros coined the term “telematic” and participated in innumerable online collaborations. One welcome rediscovery is the new vinyl album Telematic Concert, a duo performance with Argentine electronic musician Alan Courtis, originally webcast in the fall of 2009. It hasn’t hit the web yet, but as Oliveros would be quick to tell you, her work sounds best on vinyl.

This joint improvisation is divided into just two tracks, their long upward drives, swells and sustain mingling to the point where it’s impossible to tell who’s playing what. Much of this brings to mind early industrial acts like Suicide. The treble is really gaining in the mix early on: you may want to bring down the highs, especially if you’re listening on earbuds.

Courtis introduces flitting poltergeist accents, sudden, menacingly responsive drones, sounds of water and wind. A hammering interlude subsumes the accordion, but Oliveros returns resolutely to the mix. The music takes on a decidedly assaultive, disquieting edge from this point, Oliveros choosing her spots amid the looming, toxic whirlpool. The second part of the improvisation begins with its most grim interlude, rising and falling more spaciously and basically falling apart at the end: with a single coy flourish, Oliveros lets it be known she’s done.

It would be nice to hear more of her here in general, although it’s also extremely instructive to see how spaciously and methodically she approaches music this overtly dystopic. With her puckish sense of humor and finely honed improvisational reflexes matched by an unassailable calm, her own music was often dead serious, and the very definition of immersive, but seldom so macabre.

Revisiting Exploded View’s Troubled, Coldly Loopy Postrock and No Wave

Exploded View play a troubled, loopy take on late 70s/early 80s postrock and no wave. Some of their songs bring to mind Can, other times the Ex, or even Joy Division at their most minimal. Frontwoman Anika doesn’t sing so much as she speaks, in icily accented English. Their debut album – streaming at Bandcamp – came out in the summer of 2016, arrived on the hard drive here…and went straight down the rabbit hole. While the bass, drums, guitars and keys (uncredited at the Bandcamp page; the band no longer have a webpage of their own) all seem to be completely organic, they loop their simple, catchy, ominously reverb-drenched riffs into a tersely twisted kaleidoscope. There’s a bleak, overcast, grey-concrete European quality to this music.

The opening track, Lost Illusion, sets the tone, a quasar pulse of reverb guitar repeating over and over to a mechanically spiraling beat, like an amplified laundromat washer with a loose axle on spin cycle.

One Too Many has a simple, elegant interweave of chilly, minimal guitar and keyboard riffs around a circling, hypnotic lo-fi bass hook. “You were outside my door at five AM again, broken nose and bloodied up,” Anika intones soberly.

Orlando has absurdly catchy minor-key disco bass and drums beneath coldly oscillating dreampop guitar sheen. Call on the Gods is one of the album’s more broodingly psychedelic tracks, noisy guitar incisions and tumbling drums over a thumping loop. With shards of guitar over an overdriven bass lick, Disco Glove could be a demo for Public Image Ltd.’s Metal Box album

Stand Your Ground is a bedroom-dub shot at a 70s soul groove. The band go back to a PiL-ish fodderstompf with No More Parties in the Attic, then build surrealistically ringing windchime ambience in Lark Descending, which seems to be a war parable.

Gimme Something grows into an acidic thicket of no wave dub reggae: “You tease with your fake democracy,” Anika accuses. The band close the album with Beige, a morose miniature, then the corrosively echoey Killjoy: once again, that loud, emphatic bass is a dead ringer for Jah Wobble in his early days with PiL.

Darkly Noisy, Unhinged Sonics and a Union Pool Show From the Resolutely Uncategorizable Parlor Walls

Since spinning off from the noisily anthemic Eula, enigmatically intense duo Parlor Walls have developed a careening, slashing style all their own. Frontwoman/guitarist Alyse Lamb winkingly calls it “trash jazz.” But it’s more rock than jazz, and it isn’t really trashy, either. While their songs often sound like they’re thisclose to going completely off the rails, they’re actually very meticulously choreographed. And as intense a stage presence as Lamb is, Chris Mulligan is a force of nature, playing drums and an assortment of keyboards at the same time.

Other bands – Mr. Airplane Man, most famously – have done it, and then there was Ray Manzarek, who played a keyboard bass with his lefthand and organ with his right. But this band’s really something to see. They’re playing the album release party for their latest one, Heavy Tongue – streaming at Bandcamp – on Feb 27 at around 10:30 PM at Union Pool. Cover is $10; Lutkie’s pulsing, noisy electronic weedscapes open the night at around 9:30. You will need to take the G train home unless you’re looking forward to hours waiting on the L platform, or you get very lucky.

In a lot of ways, the new album is a return to the sometimes sideways, sometimes in-your-face assault of the band’s debut ep, although the songs (or soundscapes) are longer. The lurching first track, Birds of Paradise is a mashup of jagged late 70s no wave, more enveloping, techy ambience (and early New Order too). They segue into Game, its blippy/buzzy contrasts filtering in and out of an uneasy swirl over Mulligan’s piledriver pulse.

Lunchbox is a loopy, unexpectedly amusing detour into industrial trip-hop, if such a thing exists, Lamb’s voice calm amid the mechanical maelstrom. In Violets, hip-hop becomes a ghost in the relentless machine, followed by the grinding 80s Foetus sonics of Pinafore.

Lamb pulls back the effects on her voice and then really cuts loose in the brooding, pummeling Spinning Gold, which could be Algiers with a woman out front. The two close the record with Rails,its spacy machine-shop sonics and wry  Supremes allusions.

Righteous Rage and Smoky Atmospherics with Algiers at Rough Trade

Algiers played a tantalizingly brief, barely half-hour set at Rough Trade on Wednesday night. This blog characterized their 2015 debut album as “revolutionary postrock soul.” These days, industrial gothic gospel is a better description. Their smoky, swirly yet rhythmically pummeling sound is more Sisters of Mercy, less Terminator soundtrack now.

Frontman/keyboardist Franklin James Fisher sings powerfully in the studio; he is amazing live, and even more dynamically diverse. On the band’s opening number, Void – the final cut on their just-released vinyl record, There Is No Year – he had a gleefully brittle Jello Biafra quaver in his voice. That song came across as a Dead Kennedys homage, right down to the ominous chromatics and drummer Matt Tong’s 2/4 hardcore thump. It seems to be the key to the record, with its relentless theme of escape.

Aside from a leaner sound, what was most obvious was how much of the music was in the mixer: guitar, bass, keys, backing vocals…other than Fisher’s electric piano, and his own mixer too, was anything actually being played live? Guitarist Lee Tesche put down his axe for a sax on the second number, but if that was miked at all, it got lost in the grim, grey-sky sonics. Although he did reach for his tremolo bar for Lynchian twang for the intro to a song a little later, and his icily minimalist, Robert Smith-style riffs afterward cut through the mix as well.

Fisher channeled angst-fueled Levi Stubbs passion throughout Unoccupied, a darkly techy update on classic, minor-key Motown: an allusive breakup narrative, it seemed to be the only number in the set that wasn’t political. “Run around, run away from you, America, while it burns in the streets,” Fisher belted as Dispossession, another new track, took shape over his own stark, insistent gospel piano chords. “Here they comes from the ashes of ashes, so immune to defeat,” he cautioned – but there was also defiance and hope in his imploring crescendos and flood metaphors. Which seems to be his ultimate message: with their bankster economy and surveillance, the enemy is always encroaching. But we’ve got the numbers.

Algiers will be back on April 9 at St. Vitus, a great spot for them.

Sharkmuffin Cook Up Their Most Psychedelic Record Yet

All-female Brooklyn trio Sharkmuffin named their band well. They’ve grown up in public, more or less, playing irrepressibly fun, messy, loud music. They started out as a punk band and lately have been embracing garage rock, psychedelia, spacerock and surf sounds. For a band who like to keep their songs short, they pack a lot into them. Their new album Gamma Gardening is streaming at Bandcamp; they’re playing the release show at Alphaville at 11 PM on April 5. Cover is ten bucks. 

Tarra Thiessen’s blasts of distorted guitar punctuate Natalie Kirch’s catchy 60s garage rock bassline as the opening track, Receptionist pounces along, up to a spacy psychedelic chorus. This receptionist turns out to be really mean!

Designer Baby is a two-parter. “I’ve taken all these drugs,” Thiessen intones as the slow, Siouxsie-esque first verse slinks along in a sea of reverb effects, then the band punk it out and take it doublespeed. Serpentina is more labyrinthine than snaky: it could be Castle Black with treblier guitars.

Early Sleater-Kinney aggro meets Brian Jonestown Massacre swirl and early Jesus & Mary Chain guitar shriek in the album’s most epic track, Too Many Knobs. The final cut is Fate; Thiessen pulls out her slide over a ba-bump bassline in tandem with Jordyn Blakely’s drums. It sounds like a scruffier take on what Siouxsie was doing during the brief period when Robert Smith was playing guitar in the band. What’s the chance that you’ll ever hear anything this catchy or fun in Bushwick?

Another Twisted Album and a Bed-Stuy Gig From the Irrepressibly Unhinged Brandon Seabrook

The last time this blog was in the house at a Brandon Seabrook show, it was last month in Newark and he was playing elegant, allusively evil banjo throughout the darker sections of Cecile McLorin Salvant’s macabre, epic big band masterpiece, Ogresse. The evil on Seabrook’s new trio album Convulsionaries (streaming at Bandcamp) with bassist Henry Fraser and cellist Daniel Levin is much messier. If you’re thinking of going to Seabrook’s next gig, at Bar Lunatico on Dec 10 at 8:30 with Cooper-Moore on diddley bow and Gerald Cleaver on drums, this is a good way to pregame. This music is often deliberately ugly, cynical, perverse, and generally pretty dark but also full of unexpected subtlety and occasional sardonic humor.

There’s a lot of reverb on the cello, to the point where the textures make it seem that there are two guitars in the mix. The titles of the album’s six tracks, a twisted, highly improvisational theme and variations, are unpronounceable – phony computer code, maybe? The first one starts out as a skronkathon with some neat polyrhythms (Fraser and Levin following very closely in turn, actually). Then the three build to a suspenseful neoromantic peak before the squiggle and skronk return.

The second track has a hypnotic no wave piledriver pulse that breaks down off and on: imagine the Ex covering Louis Andriessen circa 1979. The shivery bumblebee-on-acid outro is choice.

Track three switches out tightly circling skronk in place of the piledriver effect, bass and cello doubling each others’ lines in stereo, with a deliciously slithery mudfight between the two midway through.

Listen closely to the guitar as track four convulses and you may think of a famous Led Zip riff – until the trio take a long trip down into desolation valley before leapfrogging and sputtering back up. Creepy belltones and a hammerheaded three-way duel also figure in this almost nine-minute epic.

A storm, a war, or at least a Frankenstein creation loom in as track five gathers steam, Levin’s steady, menacing riffage holding it together while Seabrook builds zombies-in-space motives. A silly ape-scratching interlude gives way to a flitting, insectile milieu and then more lingering, reverbtoned moroseness before Seabrook starts flinging skronk and shred at anything within reach. The final cut has the most traditional conversational counterpoint of any of the other tracks, even as the guitar and the rhythm go further and further off the rails. Fraser’s abrasive, overtone-laden, percussive scrapes evoke a chromatic blues harp, an unexpected, sick sonic treat. The menace is all the more resonant for the way it all ends. On one hand, this album will clear a certain crowd from the room, fast. But maybe that’s what you want.

Leila Bordreuil Cooks Up Murk and Mysticism at the Kitchen

That Leila Bordreuil could sell out the Kitchen on Thanksgiving eve testifies to the impact the French-born cellist has had on the New York experimental music scene. After a long residency at Issue Project Room, she keeps raising the bar for herself and everybody else. This past evening she led a six-bass septet through her latest and arguably greatest creation, the Piece for Cello and Double Bass Ensemble II. To call it a feast of low tonalities would be only half the story.

At the concert’s stygian, rumbling, enveloping peak, it was impossible to tell who was playing what because the lights had been turned out. In the flicker of phones, backlit by the soundboard’s glow and the deep blue shade from the skylight, six bassists – Zach Rowdens, Sean Ali, Britton Powell, Greg Chudzik, Nick Dunston and Vinicius Ciccone Cajado – churned out a relentless low E drone. As they bowed steadily, keening flickers of overtones began to waft over a rumble that grew grittier and grittier, eventually shaking the woofers of the amps. Yet only Bordreuil seemed to be using a pedalboard, first for crackling cello-metal distortion, then grey noise, then flitting accents akin to a swarm of wasps circling a potential prey. Still, the overall ambience was comforting to the extreme, a womblike berth deep in a truly unsinkable Titanic, diesels at full power behind a bulkhead.

The rest of the show was more dynamic,and counterintuitive. Bordreuil didn’t begin to play until the bassists had gradually worked their way up from a stark drone, Ali and Dunston introducing fleeting high harmonics for contrast. Beyond that, the six guys didn’t move around much individually. The second movement began with the composer leading a pitch-and-follow sequence of slow midrange glissandos, then she deviated to enigmatic microtonal phrases over the somber washes behind her. The final movements were surprisingly rapt and quiet – and much further up the scale, a whispery, ghostly series of variations on high harmonic pitches.

Methodically working a series of mixers and a small keyboard, opening act Dylan Scheer turned in an entertaining, texturally diverse, industrially icy set of kinetic stoner soundscapes. Flying without a net is hard work, and Scheer made it look easy, dexterously shifting from an echoey, metallic drainpipe vortex, to gamelanesque rings and pings, starrily oscillating comet trails and hints of distant fireworks followed by allusions to a thumping dancefloor anthem that never materialized. That the set went on as long as it did – seemingly twice as long as the headliners – could have been intentional. It was also too loud. The Kitchen is a sonically superior space: sounds that get lost in the mix elsewhere remain in the picture here. So there was no need to blast the audience with almost supersonic highs which gained painfully, to the point that the earplugs the ushers were handing out became necessary.

Bordreuil’s next show is at Jack in Fort Greene on Nov 29 at 8 PM with her trio with Ali and violist Joanna Mattrey.

A Relentlessly Savage New Horror Noiserock Album and a Williamsburg Show From Guitar Shredder Reg Bloor

Guitarist Reg Bloor – wife of the late, great Glenn Branca – writes bloodcurdling industrial metal instrumentals with dead-on accurate titles like Theme From an Imaginary Slasher. Don’t listen to her deliciously assaultive, aptly titled new solo album Sensory Irritation Chamber if you have a headache. On the other hand, if you need a shot of adrenaline, you have a sense of humor, and you can handle her nails-down-the-blackboard attack, this is your jam.

Although her husband’s influence is obvious- Bloor played in his noisily enveloping guitar orchestra for seventeen years – her compositions are a lot more succinct. She runs her Gibson Les Paul through a dense wall of freezing-rain reverb. Tritones – the so-called devil’s chord – are her thing: she’s got more of them on the new album than most artists use in a lifetime. The album isn’t officially out yet and consequently not up at her music page. She’s playing the release show tomorrow night, May 18 at 11 PM at Muchmore’s; cover is $10. Shrieky, pounding but surprisingly catchy no wavers Radio Shock open the night at 9, followed by the grimly theatrical Samantha Riott; downtown vets God Is My Co-Pilot headline.

Sarcasm and cynicism reach redline immediately in the new album’s deceptively catchy opening anthem, Hilarity Ensues. Bloor’s inventive use of octave and harmony pedals give this quasi-fanfare an epic, orchestral quality that persists throughout the next nine tracks.

Rhythmic, loopy Hitchockian shrieks kick off the title cut, then Bloor fires off a sardonically frantic panic theme: amid all the hysterics, there’s a very patient serial killer at work here. From there she segues into Projectile Bleeding – how’s that for evocative? – adding a coldly loopy, mechanically waltzing rhythm to the incessant tritones. Then her venomously precise tremolo-picking and sardonic chromatics get up in your face in the relentless Present Dystopia.

(You’ll Feel) A Little Pinch veers more toward Branca-esque white-noise orchestration, while the epic, slowly sirening 122 Zeros (And Then a 1) howls with feedback and the clatter of a blown-out speaker before Bloor kicks into a rhythmic drive, throwing up a cloud of toxic dust as she rides the shoulder.

Desiccated Survivor – which could be you, needing a drink after one of her shows – is a series of increasingly desperate variations on a staggered, loopy riff. Heads on Pikes is more hardcore – if you can imagine that. Raison d’Eath is a twisted study in wave motion, while Molotov Cocktail, a rehearsal for a suicide jumper, speaks for itself – and for the rest of the album. The final cut is the writhing, tongue-in-cheek The Wrath of That.

This isn’t for everybody, but as noise goes, it’s unbeatable. Just don’t play this too loud in your headphones – seriously. You could hurt yourself.

Parlor Walls Bring Their Strongest, Most Direct Album Yet to Alphaville This Week

For the past few years, intense trio Parlor Walls have fired out a series of intriguing albums that span from post-Sonic Youth noiserock to aggressive no wave, with elements of fiery free jazz sprinkled throughout their work. Their latest release, Exo – streaming at Bandcamp – is their most acerbic and relevant one yet. Frontwoman/guitarist Alyse Lamb is putting her charisma to better use than ever: the album title seems to refer to the Greek word for outside. Considering how gentrification and the real estate bubble have scorched the earth of their Brooklyn home base, it’s no wonder the band would want to address the forces of destruction, if somewhat opaquely. The band are playing the album release show on April 26 at 8 at Alphaville; cover is $10.

The production is a lot more enveloping than their previous work, possibly due to Joseph Colmenero’s engineering (he’s RZA’s righthand man). Another development that’s undoubtedly contributed to the thicker sound is that the group have switched out alto saxophonist Kate Mohanty for clarinetist and multi-instrumentalist Jason Shelton. 

The opening track is Neoromancer, awash in a reverb-drenched hailstorm of guitar multitracks. “Must be electrifying knowing how to fix me right,” Lamb intones sarcastically as her Telecaster howls, shrieks and echoes over drummer Chris Mulligan’s torrential drive. It has the feel of a vintage Kim Gordon SY track, but with better vocals and more of an icy sheen to the production,

Love Complex might be the most straightforward rock song the band’s ever done, shifting from a dreampop swirl to heavy, emphatic, noisy riffage to momentary squiggly keyboard interludes as Lamb’s voice rises defiantly:

Pick me off of the floor
All ordinary things become giant
Steep, monolithic climbs
Lips give a sudden break of forced delight
But will you give me sanctuary from this biting
Love complex

Isolator – a reference to social media-fueled atomization, maybe? – slowly coalesces out of the “trash jazz” the band made a name for themselves with in their early days into a catchy Silver Rocket stomp, Lamb speaking of the need to “break through, break free.”

The final cut, Low Vulture is the album’s noisiest, angriest moment, snarling and pulsing like Algiers or Public Enemy circa Fear of a Black Planet: 

Get out in front of it
You got me surrounded
You want to sleep with vultures
You’re low flying
Messing with my head
Is it all a game?

There’s a lot to think about here – and you can dance to all of it.

The Myrrors Bring Their Dusky, Pulsing Psychedelic Postrock to a Killer Alphabet City Twinbill

It’s not clear what the title of hypnotically kinetic psychedelic band the Myrrors’ latest record Hasta La Victoria – streaming at Bandcamp –  refers to. Whatever the case, it’s definitely a victory for the band themselves. The Arizona-based group went their separate ways around the turn of the past decade, but regrouped in the wake of ongoing youtube popularity. If there’s any need for further proof of the eternal viability of good psychedelic music, this is it. The Arizona collective are headlining a killer twinbill on Jan 20 at Berlin at around 9; Eno-esque ambient soundscaper J.R. Bohannon a.k.a. Ancient Ocean opens the night at 8. Cover is $10.

The album is a mix of hypnotic, circling epics and shorter numbers. The methodically swaying, ten-minute opening instrumental, Organ Mantra has a simple call-and-response sax loop front and center while the guitars of Cesar Alatorre-Mena and Nik Rayne build a dense wall behind it, and finally join the conversation. Meanwhile, Kellen Fortier‘s bass and Grant Beyschau’s drums bubble above the surface.

Awash in reverb, Somos La Resistencia sounds like Mogwai covering White Rabbit, with a squalling sax solo on the way out. From there the band segues into Tea House Music, with its echoing rainy-day rise and fall, distantly thundering percussion, plaintive twelve-string guitar hooks and echoes of Joy Division.

El Aleph, an ominous string soundscape, has distantly Indian-flavored overtones and melismatics. It’s a good intro for the mammoth title track, a dense, grey swirl and eventual flurry of instruments slowly coalescing around a central loop much like the album’s first number. This is the furthest from rock the band’s ever gone, and the trippiest destination they’ve found so far on a sonic journey that promises to discover newer depths and more enigmatically remote destinations.