New York Music Daily

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Tag: dark rock

The Amphibious Man Bring Their Creepy, Cinematic New England Noir to the South Slope

Hartford, Connecticut six-piece The Amphibious Man call their music “road slaw.” It’s dark and haphazard, yet purposeful and tuneful, with enough of an over-the-guardrail vibe to make it genuinely menacing. Reverbtoned surf lines sit side by side with blasts of pure punk rock, cheap 60s b-movie mystery soundtrack sonics, coyly creepy spacerock organ, plus grey-noise synth and guitar effects that look back to the earliest days of psychedelia but also instantly identify the band’s sound as being from right now. Their latest album Witch Hips is streaming at Bandcamp; they’re playing Fifth Estate Bar, 506 5th Ave (12th & 13th Sts), in that nebulous neighborhood between Park Slope and Sunset Park on November 20 at 10 PM. Ghoulpunks Danse De Sade play afterward at around 11, cover is TBA. You can take the F to 7th Ave. and walk downhill, or the R to 9th St, which is closer, and go up.

The album’s opening track, Fischer Cat veers back and forth between swaying, reverbtoned Ventures clang and roaring gutter rock; the band layers squirrelly Mystery Science Theatre sonics under the guitars as it winds out. Jimmy – as in the leering mantra “Jimmy doesn’t like this” – would be straight-up 70s proto-metal all the way through if not for the blippy, minimalist fuzz-synth verse. South Whitney Pizza, which may or may not be about or inspired by a hometown pie-and-slice joint, has a murky 80s lo-fi new wave garage feel with its oily mudpuddle bass riffs over a steady, watery guitar tune.

The album’s best track, Halloweed, brings to mind what Big Lazy might have sounded like in their earliest days exploring lo-fi noir cinematics before they started playing out. A slow, lingering, distantly bolero-tinged noir guitar intro fuels the song’s rise toward fullscale Lynchian horror, then goes in a colder but equally macabre direction. Hartman Park artfully and enigmatically comes together out of more of that syncopated quasi-surf. The swaying, sarcastic, almost lullabyish The Devil’s Hopyard follows a similar tangent toward a hypnotically dancing back-and-forth swing. The album’s final track is the blasting Tombstone Luvin, which blends an eerily anthemic lo-fi post-new wave ambience with gritty, punk-inspired proto-metal. Guitarists Jason Principi and Mike Myrbeck, bassists Jake Downey and Jackie Hopkins and keyboardist/drummers Adam Heege and Shaun Burns get extra props for originality and ominous outside-the-box ideas. You might not think that an album that sounds like this might be one of the best to come over the transom here this year, but it is.

Menacingly Alluring Noir Rocker Raquel Vidal & the Monday Men Roll Into Manhattan This Thursday

As Cold Spring, New York multi-instrumentalist/bandleader Raquel Vidal tells it, the Monday Man was a particularly valuable member of the circus. He’d be in charge of stealing fresh laundry off the line as the circus train rolled out of town at the start of a busy week after the previous weekend’s engagement. Together with her tight, swinging noir Americana band the Monday Men, Vidal rolls into Manhattan for a gig at 9 PM on November 12 at Shrine uptown. If you’re a little short of ten grand for a VIP ticket to that stupefyingly overpriced Neko Case show in Fort Greene, Vidal and her alluringly Lynchian songs will hit the spot.

There isn’t a whole lot of Vidal’s stuff online, but every bit of it is killer. You can watch her and the band from the front doing the ominously shuffling Black Cat – with a menacingly spiky guitar solo from Mark Westin – or from behind the drums, doing the purposefully plaintive Pure Heart at a Hurricane Sandy relief concert upstate in Beacon a couple of years ago. She’s also got a Reverbnation page with a handful of studio tracks that make room for the nuances and dangerous edges of her voice over the band’s similarly menacing, tight groove.

“I’ve earned the right to drown my eyes and drink all night, but baby I won’t cry,” Vidal intones with a steely nonchalance on the propulsively jangly studio version of Black Cat. The studio take of Pure Heart turns out to be a noir swing cautionary tale: “Don’t sleep your life away, there are no make-up days,” Vidal warns. Tell – as in “Tell all your friends there was a who’s who of every kind of sin” – takes that Gatsbyesque party narrative to its sardonic, sinister conclusion over the syncopated swing of bassist Seth Masten and drummer Todd Guidice.

Leather Trunk works a methodically creepy bolero-rock groove in the same vein as Karla Rose & the Thorns, set “On a shore where your dreams lay dying,” as Vidal puts it, a more retro, literate spin on Nancy Sinatra Vegas noir. When Vidal hits that last, muted line, “Let’s pretend that we were once in love,” the effect is gently devastating. The last of the Reverbnation tracks is Doin’ What They Told Me, a snarlingly menacing, twin guitar-fueled stomp that wouldn’t be out of place in the Eilen Jewell catalog, looking toward a doomed future date “when the market falls.” That lowlit back room a couple of blocks south of 135th could become a Twin Peaks set for about an hour this Thursday night.

Karla Rose & the Thorns: Centerpiece of a Fearsome Halloween Triplebill in Williamsburg

Amidst the usual parade of wannabes, there are always a handful of good original bands playing the CMJ festival. This year’s included Palehound a.k.a. guitarist Ellen Kempner doing her catchy postpunk at Cake Shop; the Union Pool triplebill of angst-fueled, lyrically-driven songsmiths Amy Bezunartea, Jennifer O’Connor and the creepy, psychedelic Tim Foljahn; and electric folk noir band Leland Sundries at Leftfield. But the highlight of the festival was the set by dark cinematic rockers Karla Rose & the Thorns in the big room at the Rockwood on Friday. The allusively torchy, Telecaster-wielding singer and her band are on the best Halloween bill of 2015 on the 31st at Warsaw at around 10 PM, following the Bogmen’s Vic Thrill, then followed by the original dark carnival band, World Inferno; general admission is $25. And she’s also at Berlin on October 26 at 8 PM, opening for the “king of powerpop,” Paul Collins for a ridiculously cheap $5. The entrance to the venue is inside the bar at 2A, 2nd St. and Ave. A; take the door on your right about ten feet past the entrance and go downstairs.

Karla Rose’s songs have Dorothy Parker wit, allusively lurid Twin Peaks ambience and the brooding noir intensity of Bernard Herrmann’s film scores – all packed into briskly-paced four-minute narratives. This was a very dynamic show, the music rising and falling as you would expect from a good thriller. While there’s a lot of retro influence, from femme fatale saloon blues, to crime jazz, to jaunty new wave, Karla Rose’s songwriting is unmistakably in the here and now. The band was fun to watch:, the frontwoman pondered the psychedelic qualities of lead guitarist Dylan Charles’ embroidered Grand Old Opry-style shirt. Long black hair swaying behind her, a lithe and spring-loaded presence in front of the band, she rocked a shimmery, vintage checkerboard opal-and-onyx pencil dress and black pumps. Bassist David Limzi had a similarly shiny, gold glam suit thing going on; drummer Kevin Garcia, obscured behind the kit, pushed the music with an expertly easy swing and hints of both rockabilly and vaudeville.

Karla Rose explained that she’d planned on making silver dollar pancakes and bringing them to the show…but then she overslept. Asked what those were, she described them as early 60s daydrunk food. Throughout the set, she stung the crowd with one-liners, admitting to a passion for reading about serial killlers and high-functionoing sociopaths, then bringing all that into deadly focus with a brand-new, ominously crescendoing new song, as yet untitled.

Her lingering chords and judicious fingerpicking anchored some spectacularly expert playing from the rest of the group, Limzi’s dancing octaves being a highlight of one of the new wave numbers. Charles, with his axe-murderer chord-chopping, blood-drenched chromatics and reverb turned up all the way, is a Marc Ribot/Steve Ulrich class player. And Karla Rose’s vocals, informed by jazz but uncluttered by it, were as woundedly and distantly haunting as usual, slinking up to a phrase or giving a line a kinfes-edge caresss.

When the best songs in a set are the slow ones, that speaks volumes. “Carry me up the stairs/I’ll make believe someone cares,” she intoned with just the faintest glimmer of sarcasm early in Mexico, a chillingly surreal tableau set in a seedy seaside tourist town, its doomed narrator (and possible murderess) waiting blithely for her Mr. Elvis to reappear. And in Time Well Spent, the singer traced a couple of accomplices whose plans have gone horribly wrong:

There are clouds ahead
And there are clouds behind
What’s the use
Of trying to rewind
A blue, blue heart’s superstition
A fiction I have read
I’ll find you out on the highway
Til then
My end
I like my time well spent

Miss out on the Halloween show at Warsaw and miss out on one of New York’s most magnetic bands.

Dark Rocker Tim Foljahn Headlines an Excellent Kiam Records Night in Williamsburg

Much as CMJ just gets more and more pointless every year, there always seem to be a handful of fantastic multiple-act extravaganzas amidst the startstruck and the entitled and the dilettantes who haven’t yet gotten the message yet. And as much as most record labels have become just as pointless in this age of streaming, and endless touring, and licensing, there are a small handful who are actually artist-friendly and are doing good work. One of those is Jennifer O’Connor‘s Kiam Records, who are hosting an excellent multiple-band bill at Union Pool on October 14 that features vividly lyrical songsmith Amy Bezunartea at 9 PM followed by the wickedly tuneful, guitar-wielding O’Connor herself, and brillliantly dark, lyrical rocker Tim Foljahn headlining. Cover is $10.

Foljahn’s latest album – his first since his creepy 2012 psychedelic masterpiece Songs for an Age of Extinction – is titled Fucking Love Songs. It’s streaming at Kiam Records’ bandcamp page, a loosely thematic mix of brooding mood pieces that’s a lot more straightforwardly rocking than Foljahn’s more recent material. Prime example: the opening track, Wild Tonight. Who would have imagined Foljahn playing vampy, Stonesy Lakeside Lounge rock? He does here, expertly, his terse fretwork mingling with his fellow six-stringers Tom Beaujour and Smokey Hormel, O’Connor and Bezunartea adding period-perfect 70s Glimmer Twins harmonies.

Track two, Beloved, puts a reverb-drenched, Lynchian spin on a gentle Everlys-style waltz. Plain As Day works a snarling swamp-rock vamp that brings to mind Tom Shaner at his loudest and most agitated. Likewise, River follows a slow, nocturnal southern soul groove – with a fond nod back toward George Gershwin – simmering with echoey Rhodes piano and eerily watery, vintage chorus-box guitar. With its blackly smoking baroque organ and web of nimble acoustic fingerpicking, Legends explores love during wartime, hopg against hope.

Jon Langmead’s uneasily pouncing drums propel Étant Donnés (“Being Given”), an angst-fueled, catchy stomp that’s sort of a mashup of Arthur Lee and Matt Keating, with a guitar hook that might or might not be a sardonic Rick James reference. Beast reverts to moody soul-tinged balladry in the same vein as Steve Wynn or recent Richard Buckner. Sun Moon Thing reworks Iggy Pop’s Nightclubbing as a spare, lingering guitar blues.

Thanks adds distant gospel touches to luminous third-album Velvets folk rock. The album winds up with the unexpectedly if guardedly optimistic Garden Lady, which wouldn’t be out of place on the Jesus & Mary Chain’s Darklands album. Beyond the pensive lyrical theme, the connective tissue throughout this album is reverb, sometimes a little, occasionally a lot: it gives these carefully crafted, thoughtfully played songs extra sepulchral lustre. It’s good to see someone with such a vast and diverse back catalog as Foljahn – who’s played with everybody from Cat Power to Steve Shelley – still at the absolute top of his game.

The Bright Smoke Bring Their Darkly Fiery, Intense Art-Rock to Park Slope

Earlier this year, the Bright Smoke released one of the year’s most haunting and brilliantly lyrical albums, their full-length debut Terrible Towns. The album release show at the Mercury this past spring mirrored the swirly, ominously swaying ambience of the band’s studio work. But their most recent Mercury show was a ferocious, fiery, occasionally explosive breakthrough: all of a suddden, this band has become one of New York’s most exciting live acts. Their next show is at Union Hall in Park Slope on October 3 at 9 PM; cover is $10. Synthy 80s goth/darkwave act Elle Le Fantôme opens the night at 8; popular, intense, dramatic female-fronted powerpop band the Shondes make a good segue afterward at around 10.

Last time out, guitarist/frontwoman Mia Wilson didn’t waste any time establishing a wounded, enigmatic atmosphere right off the bat with one of the new album’s tracks, Hard Pander, tricky polyrhythms shifting between Karl Thomas’ drums and Yuki Maekawa Ledbetter’s laptop. The band raised the menace factor immediately with a corrosively crescendoing take of City on an Island, a sardonically vivid look at the diminishing returns an artist faces in New York in 2015, lead guitarist Quincy Ledbetter rising from watery mid-80s Cure jangle to a napalm mist of distortion. He did the same thing in On 10, almost imperceptibly, as Wilson’s defiant alto rose to a dismissive wrath:

Join, join, join the ranks
Of the pretty, white, and jobless
And pray your daddy’s money away
At St. Sebastian’s School for the Godless

They opened the next number with a brisk postpunk stroll, but by the time they hit the chorus Thomas was scraping the guardrails with his cymbals and tumbling snare riffs, and Ledbetter was going deep into the blues with a similarly unhinged attack that went spiraling out in a blast of reverb-drenched noise. They went back to suspenseful for a catchy, moody backbeat-driven new song, part Joy Division’s The Eternal, part brooding soul ballad, lowlit by Ledbetter’s mournful belltone lines. Then on the next number Ledbetter shifted between fuzztone grit and off-the-rails Chicago blues.

The song after that had Wilson’s steady, ominously looping fingerpicked riffs building tension against Ledbetter’s echoey cumulo-nimbus resonance, rising to fullscale horror as his attack grew more insistent, throwing off some invisible demon. Likewise, on Exit Door, the band left the spare, shuffling gloom of the album version for a raw, screaming guitar drive, Wilson again holding it to the rails with her elegant fingerwork. The end of the show was intense to the extreme. Wilson explained that a friend had convinced her to revisit some older material from her days leading a similarly dark, intense band, the French Exit, so she played one of their best songs, a towering, anguished 6/8 anthem about “totally losing it,” she said. As the song escalated toward sheer terror in a cauldron of reverb and overtones, Wilson fell to her knees, rocked back and forth, wailed without a mic and ended up with blood-streaked strings after she’d slashed at them.  Calmly, she assured the crowd afterward that she was ok. There hasn’t been such an intense moment onstage anyhere else in New York since then. Hopefully there won’t be any blood or bruises at Union Hall, but the energy is going to be through the roof regardless.

LJ Murphy Gets Scary and Relevant at Sidewalk This Saturday at 7

Did they kill you with kindness?
Did they drown you in shame?
Was it voluntary blindness?
Do you remember your name?
From Panic City to your hometown

As usual, LJ Murphy was dressed to kill. Black suit, porkpie hat, splashy tie, big black guitar like the one Johnny Cash played. His eyes widened with a gleeful “I told you so,” over drummer Jacob Cavell’s shimmying Stax/Volt shuffle, lead guitarist Tommy Hoscheid adding a snarling little curlicue at the end of his vintage Memphis soul licks. Bassist Nils Sorensen was on tour with his other band, Brothers Moving, so Murphy was doing the White Stripes thing instead. This was on a Saturday night earlier this summer at Sidewalk, where Murphy will be with this dangerously erudite band this coming Saturday night, September 12 at 7 PM. These guys take fifty years of the dark side of blues and soul and bring them into the era of the Great Destruction in New York. And hopefully beyond.

Did you read the directions?
Are you making a list?
Did you pass the inspection?
Was there something you missed?
From Panic City to your hometown

Murphy’s hip cracked like a whip as he signaled for a change. This band knows their James Brown, their Charles Brown too, and they responded in a split second. Hoscheid played with just a tinge more distortion, more fire as this cautionary tale shifted from 9/11 to 3/11:

Will you hide in the darkness
Til the enemy’s gone?
Will you remember the password
When the pressure is on?
‘Cause your hair is on fire
And your eyes are insane
Can you cover up the damage
From the poisonous rain?
From Panic City to your hometown

Murphy is Queens born and raised. He was here on both of those dates, and he was paying attention, and making it impossible not to pay attention to this song. His voice part rasp, part bluesy shout, part croon, he raised his guitar, then brought it down like a cleaver as the band spiraled and careened into the last couple of bars. It’s impossible to imagine an outsize personality like Murphy – or at least one with substance to match – coming out of gentrifier Bushwick or Bed-Stuy or wherever those parasites have most recently been spotted. One can only wonder how many other LJ Murphys might be toiling in dives in Montclair, or Akron, or Buffalo, who twenty years ago would have hightailed it for New York at the first opportunity, but these days are cursed to stay put – rather than opening for Murphy and making the night a doubleheader instead of an evening where you run for the exit after the last pitch is fired.

Reverb Monsters Thee Oh Sees Flip the Script in Their Return to Bowery Ballroom

Is Thee Oh Sees’ September 8, 10 PM show at Bowery Ballroom going to be a wash since it’s right after the Labor Day weekend? Probably not, since the band had been on hiatus for much of this past year while frontman John Dwyer took care of Castle Face label business. And most everybody who’s coming back to town will be back by then. So if assaultively glimmering, reverb-drenched psychedelic garage rock is your thing, you should plan on getting to the venue a little early; general admission is $20.

Thee Oh Sees’ latest album – their fourteenth release –  is Manipulator Defeated At Last (streaming at Soundcloud), and it’s a real curveball, an unexpectedly successful departure into retro 80s tropes. If you thought you knew this band, you’re in for all sorts of surprises – good ones. The opening track, Web starts out as a coy new wave strut until Dwyer comes in and throws lighter fluid on everything – is it a spoof? Maybe. Probably. The twin guitars doing a horn chart toward the end is period-perfect 80s.

Halloweenish whistling wind sonics and a slinky bassline explode into an early Joy Division stomp in Withered Head. Likewise, Poor Queen welds a lingering Daniel Ash-ish reverb guitar riff to a skittish 2/4 beat. Then Dwyer mashes up galloping garage rock with Syd Barrett and a tongue-in-cheek early 70s stoner rock riff in Turned Out Light.

Lupine Ossuary – you just gotta love this guy’s song titles – is Link Wray as Barrett would have done it,  a surrealistically squalling one-chord jam. In what has become a sadistic formula, Dwyer juxtaposes a dreamily cinematic, serpentine early 60s organ theme with crushing guitars in Sticky Hulks: it’s the most psychedelic track here.

Acoustic guitars – WTF?!?! – build a web in tandem with the organ as the uneasy motorik theme Holy Smokes gets underway and remains in the fast lane. By contrast, Rogue Planet is sort of Wire as done by Guided by Voices. The album winds up with the murderously lingering, shuffling Palace Doctor, an ambling, ominously vamping, latin-tinged take on vintage Bauhaus. Wow. We take this band for granted and they just keep putting out great albums, this being one of their best.

Rachelle Garniez Stuns and Seduces the Crowd at Pangea

Many cognoscenti in the New York music scene consider Rachelle Garniez the best songwriter in town, and some would argue that she she might simply be the best songwriter anywhere. A couple of nights ago at Pangea she bolstered that argument, playing to a rapt and wildly appreciative hometown crowd in a duo show with bassist Tim Luntzel. Despite having to sit because he was in a walking cast, he supplied terse, elegantly elastic lines to anchor Garniez’s acerbic, erudite, occasionally feral playing as she alternated between acoustic guitar, accordion and piano.

As a performer, Garniez is devastatingly funny, although her songs often pack a wallop that comes from the opposite end of the emotional spectrum. One of her favorite tropes is to introduce them via slow, contemplative, frequently psychedelic intros that give her a launching pad for deviousy surrealist, deadpan humor that seems completely fresh and off-the-cuff but is actually more thoroughly composed than anyone realizes. What varies from show to show is the punchlines: it’s impossible to think of anyone who has as much fun flying without a net as Garniez.

And there’s always something relevant lurking behind the jokes. What seemed like it would be blissed-out musings on deep-forest beauty turned in a split second into caustic commentary on global warming…which then introduced a sly, vamping, bluesy stripper theme. That one she played on accordion, accenting the song with some unexpected horror on the low end and then a coyly sinister flatline motif at the very end. Likewise, she painted a dreamy early morning riverside scenario and then flipped the script, tying it into the perils of gentrification. That led into the metaphorically slashing if gently waltzing Tourmaline, the semi-precious gem in the title a metaphor for all things not quite perfect, or accepted, embellished with Garniez’s usual umpteem levels of meaning. As Garniez tells it, anyone who might dis you for having something in common with that stone “Is only just snow on your screen.”

Playing piano, she made the connection between Facebook and crack cocaine (Garniez is equally disdainful of both) in the gospel-tinged God’s Little Acre, an unrepentant kiss-off from a former party animal who’s been tracked down (or stalked) by a fling from a past decade. And in a bouncy, blackly amusing new one, just bass and vocals, she explained that at her funeral, she doesn’t want any ordinary Cadillac hearse: she wants an El Camino instead. How many other songwriters would identify a funeral flower car by its make and model, never mind using that image as a metaphor?

Beyond an irresistibly funny, sarcastically operatic shout-out to Jean-Claude Van Damme and his  endorsements for antidepressants, the best song of the night was a starkly baroque-tinged new guitar song inspired by her European tourmate Kyrie Kristmanson. Yet again, Garniez filled in the details of what would seemingly turn out to be a comfortable, sympathetic portrait of an old lady and her tchotchkes…but revealed the source of the money funding all the decor as “The bludgeon and blade.”

And she is New York to the core. Feeding off the crowd’s energy, she wound up the set with People Like You, which opens as an uneasiy and ambiguous Far Rockaway reminiscence, then takes on a blithe, boppy Rickie Lee Jones bounce before Garniez drops the artifice and bares her fangs, in a withering sendup of gentrifier status-grubbing:

It’s people like you who don’t know pride from shame
It’s people like you who always stay one step ahead of the game
It’s people like you who never place a face before a name

Then she quoted from Taylor Swift and brought down the house.

Garniez is just as fearless when it comes to having special guests: other vocalists might be intimidated by sharing the stage with singer Carol Lipnik and her otherworldly, soaring four-octave range, but not her. Lipnik and pianist Matt Kanelos delivered plenty of thrills with a spellbinding, melismatic take of Oh, the Tyranny, a hauntingly awestruck track from their new album Almost Back to Normal. A little later, torchy chanteuse Angela McCluskey provided some plaintive intensity of her own in a Billie Holiday-inspired diptych, pianist Paul Cantelon providing brilliant, Debussy-esque ripples and lustre.

Garniez has a long-awaited new album due out on November 13; her next gig is at Barbes on Sept 3 at 8 PM. Lipnik continues her weekly Thursday 7 PM residency at Pangea this month. And McCluskey and Cantelon debut their new dancefloor groove band, Saint Bernadette – with Garniez on accordion – tonight, August 26 at City Winery at 7.

The Haunting, Mysterious King Raam Brings His Iranian Art-Rock Anthems to the Mercury

If you’ve heard of King Raam, believe the hype. The Teheran-based bandleader, who with the rest of his group plays pseudonymously, is sort of the Iranian Nick Cave. Who is this theatrical, intense Persian-language art-rock singer? He’s in his forties, born in the party city of Bushehr, and has been back and forth to the US several times. He’s collaborated with Johnny Azari and the late Ali Eskandarian, among others. He has a gram account, so it’s certain that the CIA and Mossad know who he is. He and the band are bringing their eclectic, often hauntingly artsy sounds to the Mercury at midnight on August 29; $12 advance tix are still available at the box office, open Tues-Sat from noon to 6 PM.

Iranian music in general tends to be very good and has been for centuries: even pop artists from the 60s and 70s like Googoosh are arguably more interesting and tuneful than their American counterparts. Most of King Raam’s latest album, A Day & a Year, is streaming at Soundcloud along with much of his ominously melodic, often psychedelic back catalog. The band doesn’t waste any time getting off to an powerful start with a slow, foreboding minor-key anthem, Pegasus, bringing to mind similarly brooding global acts like the Russian group Auktyon and Mexican legends Jaguares. The multitracked guitars roar, the keys twinkle uneasily and the drums have a big-room sound: a lot of care and smart production ideas went into this. English translations of the lyrics weren’t available as of press time, but consider that the song is about a winged horse and then do the math.

The moody Closing Credits (Titrazhe Payan), just pensive vocals and simple guitar arpeggios until the final crescendo, bears an even stronger resemblance to Jaguares and that band’s frontman Saul Hernandez‘s solo work. The album’s third track, Tehran has a wistful sway, part folk-rock as the Church might have done it at their peak, part Spottiswoode. The Church resemblance recurs, but more spaciously and sparely, in Distant Tomorrows, featuring guest crooner Makan Ashgevari. The Return follows, with a big, cinematic, rather triumphantly orchestrated sweep: it’s the most stadium rock-oriented track here. Its 70s folk-pop counterpart is Crosswind, one of the later cuts.

Missing Squares has a shuffle groove, surfy reverb guitars and a brass section – another Jaguares soundalike, more or less. A City Without Gates sets the spare quality of Tehran to a more propulsive, even catchier groove, with some of the album’s strongest vocals. The band brings things down with the echoey, dub-tinged piano-based Resurrection and then follows with Salvador, which rises from a rather upbeat, guitar-fueled neo-Motown drive to a swing groove and then pure Lynchian menace.

A Day Will Come is the most gorgeously jangly, bittersweet number on the album – it could be vintage early 70s Al Stewart with better vocals and production. Deja Vu, with its stomping drums, funk tinges and propeller-blade guitars, is a duet with Iranian blues artist Behzad Omrani.  The final cut is the echoey, muted piano ballad Since You’ve Been Gone.

In terms of pure tunefulness, this is one of the half-dozen best rock albums released in 2015. How horribly sad that the citizens of the nation that for centuries was the cultural capital of the world have been forced to literally go underground to enjoy music like this since the fall of the Shah (and he was no picnic either). And what a fantastic thing that artists like King Raam have made their way to the US. If anyone deserves asylum citizenship, it’s this guy and the rest of the guys who play with him.

Intense, Haunting Frank Flight Band Recordings Rescued from the Archives

For their consistently dark post-Doors vision, brilliant guitar work, epic songcraft and wry humor, it’s tempting to call the Frank Flight Band the British Blue Oyster Cult. Except that the Frank Flight Band’s output has been much more consistent and genuinely brilliant. That’s not meant as a dis to BOC, although that band’s studio output since Fire of Unknown Origin – which was a long, long, long time ago – has basically been a wash. Over the past two decades, the Frank Flight Band’s output has been much less prolific – just four albums – but with the persistent hint that vastly more material is hidden away in a vault somewhere. That myth gets some validation on the band’s latest release, The Usual Curse, streaming in full at cdbaby.

There’s been some turnover in the band across the years. Although former frontman Andy Wrigley’s distinctive rasp is missed, Maurice Watson’s croon is one of the album’s strengths; he’s sort of the missing link between Bryan Ferry and Mark Sinnis. Flight is the rare bandleader who typically limits himself to rhythm guitar and songwriting, while lead player Dave Thornley gets to flex his chops. There isn’t a lot of lead playing here, but it’s choice. Flight draws on influences as diverse as David Gilmour, Robbie Krieger and classic C&W, and Thornley’s terse, spacious, jangly, chiming style is a good fit. For whatever reason, this is the first Flight album where he doesn’t contribute lyrically.

The opening cut, Empty has a doomed sway, Flight’s elegant multitracks and Thornley’s hauntingly bluesy solo over studio drummer Terry Shaughnessy’s shuffle groove. “It won’t be only bricks that fall on the grass that lovers bear…death is in the opening sighs of every interaction,” Watson intones.

The title track begins as a real departure for this band, Watson’s angry, death-obsessed lyrics over Thornley’s web of Beatlesque folk-pop guitar; then it goes electric with an unexpected Booker T-inflected soul groove. Thornley and Flight share writing credits on The Last Train West, a dusky, jangly kiss-off anthem akin to the Doors doing highway rock.

Thornley sings his sardonic, jazz-inflected mid-period Pink Floyd-influenced ballad, Ballet Dancer. Watson returns to the mic for the album’s riveting, anguished, Middle Eastern-tinged, closing clave groove, Unrequited, one of Flight’s half-dozen best compositions. While most of the tracks here date from almost ten years ago, there are also two new tunes. As Flight explains in the album’s liner notes, “In typical FFB cyclical fashion this is the first time all four original members have recorded together since the proto basement tape ‘Leyland Road’ sessions of the mid 1990’s.” The first of the new tunes, the epic Home from the Sea mashes up southern boogie, north Atlantic folk and pensive late 60s Laurel Canyon psychedelia. The second, the surf/spacerock instrumental As Far As The Eye Can See is a dead ringer for the Church circa the early 90s. While the Frank Flight Band’s definitive recording is their 2013 masterpiece Remains, this collection further cements their reputation as psychedelic cult heroes. And raises the intrigue: what else do they have in the can that we haven’t heard?


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