can’t feel my toes: joe murray on faniel dord, shareholder, stuart chalmers, yol, jazzfinger

September 23, 2016 at 12:20 pm | Posted in new music, no audience underground | Leave a comment
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Faniel Dord – The Curse Of The Dripping Jaw (CD-r or download, Dante’s Ashtray)

Shareholder – Five Mile Throwdowns (self-released tape or download)

Stuart Chalmers / Yol – Junk Seance (CD-r & collage in decorated envelope, Quagga Curious Sounds, QCS_090, edition of 30)

Jazzfinger – Beachy Head / Moroccan Car Park (D. Harwood Remix) (7″ vinyl in screenprinted cover, Distraction Records, DIST23, edition of 100)

curse

…and here’s another thing.  Cock-punks talk about ‘meaning it’ but the NA-U are well used to full-immersion in their practice.  No-one dials this shit in.  You’re either totally committed or you may as well settle back to watch Oranges Are Not The Only New Black.  Or something.

Here are four examples of total commitment.  Are you sitting uncomfortably?

Faniel Dord – The Curse Of The Dripping Jaw

Faniel Dord kills the song, deletes the long-form drone and brings back the radio play with his utterly bonkers, psychedelic horror noir – THE CURSE OF THE DRIPPING JAW.

It’s a story as old as storytelling itself; the mortal narrator lifts the veil between the two worlds, receives an ancient and evil wisdom and is then cruelly punished for his trouble.  The gods are such dicks yeah?

It’s totally base, crude and infantile, as Dord swoops through a cast of barely comprehensible characters each revealing a grim (and usually dripping) secret.

So far, so Spike Milligan, but what sets Dord firmly in the wonk-camp is his eccentric timing and ‘rude kid’ narrative. Voices speak over each other, interrupt, argue and go off onto muttered tangents.  They lose their script and adopt different accents mid-sentence.  These characters are not so much unreliable as actively confusing and devilishly impish.

And like all good radio plays the incidentals lend an extra layer of gosh.  This being a Faniel-joint, fings get rambunctious and frenzied quickly; the foley work stands proud but with deranged intention, like planting a fresh turd in a gravy boat.  The musical numbers have a twist of the Alan Bishop about them as the spaghetti-western-meets-his-Uncle-Jim vibe informs a couple of tunes or even the warbling of (deep breath) Wings!

If you’re looking for the perfect antidote to po-faced rumble and plinks dial ‘F’ for Faniel and get in touch with your inner-Rawlinson (NSFW).

five-mile

Shareholder – Five Mile Throwdowns

BRONTOSAURUS-MONOLITH- QUIT -MUSIC FROM THE VERY EXCELLENT SHAREHOLDER LURCHES OUTTA MY ‘PHONES TODAY.  TREACLE-THICK AND HOT-SWADDLED IN 50,000 TONNES OF FUZZ AND DISTORTION.  Q:SOUNDSLIKE?  A BLACK WREATH OF A VOICE OFFERS DARK CRITIQUE WITH A POET’S EYE.  SUPER-HEAVY, WITH SERIOUS DAMAGE INTENDED, TWIN GUITARS MAY MOAN, MAY ROAR, MAY MAJESTICALLY IMPLODE – AT ODDS WITH THE WORLD AND AS QUICK AS PLUCKING A DUCK. THE TRAP SET LAYS BURIED DEEP, DEEP, DEEP THEN HOPS FULL-FRONTAL CRASHING AS FLINT ON STEEL (WITH ALL THE IMAGINED SPARKS). MEAT TENDERISER BLUSTER MIXED WITH THE DRUNKS WITH GUNS DEDICATION TO PURE THUDDING REPETITION. SAY IT ONCE, SAY IT AGAIN, KEEP ON SAYING IT.  MOMENTS OF RESPITE ARE SLIM BUT OFFER SOME COLD COMFORT: HUGE CHUNKS OF IT IS MORNING ARE SPECTRAL AND SPIDER-LIKE, MORPHING INTO A GAMELAN CHIMING – A LEAKING BEAUTY.  AN UNEXPECTED MADNESS DELIVERS AN ACCUSATION,

IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF YOU

MAKING STRANGE BEDFELLOWS WITH COLD HOURS, A GENUINE CREEPY FOOLER (GLAD I CAN’T UNDERSTAND A WORD). WHEN A ROUGE BASS NOTE NOSES IN, ALL PINK AND AQUIVER, I WONDER

CAN YOU BE BOTH MATTER-OF-FACT AND IMPASSIONED?

THE SURLY/CONFIDENT DREAMLIKE IS ANTHEMIC TO THE POINT OF FINDING OUT WHERE JIM KERR LIVES, RINGING THE BELL AND THEN KICKING HIM RIGHT IN THE NUTS.  SHAREHOLDER – ALWAYS FILLING ARENAS.

junk-seance

Stuart Chalmers / Yol – Junk Seance

An almost indescribably excellent collaboration from the King of the Loops and the Master of Kinetic Poetry.

The frantic pace and electricity of opener ‘World on Fire’ shakes my varmints like Kid 606 did back in the day when it was acceptable to wear Hi-Tops.  It’s a hyper-real explosion fizzing with extra-strength gristle taking Yol’s scorched-earth screams and Stuart’s Dictaphone frot into strange new territories.

A stunning symbiosis starts to take place.  I’ve always been fascinated by the politics of collaborations; who gives and who takes, where the total becomes more than the sum of its parts, how compromise can open up new avenues of grot.  And here you have two artists seriously leaning-in to each other; the methods start to bind in a ferric DNA with the hoarse throat and metallic tinkle meshing perfectly with the sophisticated Dictaphonics.  Check out the liquid tape-scree (sodium burning bright) and desperate industrial voodoo cures [Editor’s note: typo for ‘curses’?  Don’t care – I’m leaving it in.] of shattered lung on Rusty Rats.

Did you?  Recovered yet?

And those moments just keep coming and coming; ‘Pop Eats Itself’ and ‘Secret EVP Door’ [Editor’s note: my favourite track, astounding] crackle and fizz like blistering paint.  The sound bubbles up with malevolence, rippling and roaring with an evil turpentine stink.  Small moments catch my magpie eyes… is that Leonard Cohen, a castanet, a dropped coin?  Has Yol keeled over and fainted?  Why can’t I feel my toes?

Closer ‘Best Shot’ is like a peak into a fantasy dimension.  Puppet-master Stuart controls a rogue Yol and pits him against the real thing using the in-built slurring qualities of the Dictaphone to mimic and provoke.  It’s a pointed statement, with added whirr… the muscular text smudged into granular sound poetry.

beachy-head

Jazzfinger – Beachy Head / Moroccan Car Park (D. Harwood Remix)

Jazzfinger drill deep into the earth on ‘Beachy Head’.  Smudged groans overlap each other like large terracotta tiles.  The high-tension pings pepper things up.  A forever-murk of old tape gunk, air-to-air recording techniques and telepathic improvisation grease the wheels in ways only Jazzfinger can.

As ever, listening to a Jazzfinger jam, equal and conflicting forces tear at your brain; the urge to submit and go under, drown in the pregnant fullness or treat this with an archaeological bent and carefully sift through the multiple layers, up to the armpits in rubble and soft red dust.

As reviewer I had to flick between approaches to bring you back this missive and found myself spending hours, possibly days putting the needle on and off, on and off, never quite sure if it was night or day, making astral travel a distinct possibility.

The flipside,’Moroccan Car Park’, is an eccentric remix, bold in terms of scope that shimmers from barely-there gossamer tones to full-on horn blasts perfectly echoing the ‘whale talk’ vibe of side A.

With such rich material to work with D Harwood is wise to craft a self-standing structure, distinctly recognisable as Jazzfinger, yet strangely unfamiliar and distant.  This wonderful blend swirls like pungent spice or choking incense, filling the room with deep memory.

Packaging detail: This seven-incher comes in a deluxe package… an eccentric fold out sleeve that nestles the precious wax like a lotus flower.  The dark image is, essentially, blacker than black with a delicious tackiness [Editor’s note: presumably Joe means ‘to the touch’, not ‘cheesiness of design’] and sulphur whiff.  Includes download code too for the ultimate customer service experience.

—ooOoo—

Dante’s Ashtray

Shareholder

Quagga Curious Sounds

Distraction Records

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