woke up with a frog on my tongue: rfm on aftawerks, sophie cooper, yol, ocean floor, anla courtis, robert ridley-shackleton, the slowest lift & f.ampism
November 23, 2017 at 7:15 am | Posted in new music, no audience underground | Leave a commentTags: A thin slice of sexie funk, acid waxa, aftawerks, alan courtis, anla courtis, aphelion, cardboard club, coherent states, concept bongo, coopermania, crow versus crow, curfew tower, f. ampism, four shadows, ikuisuus, isle of dogs, ocean floor, on/off, robert ridley-shackleton, RRS, sophie cooper, soundholes, the slowest lift, unstruck sound centre, vhf, yol
Aftawerks – Isle of Dogs (Acid Waxa)
Sophie Cooper – The Curfew Tower Recordings (Crow Versus Crow Editions)
Yol –On/Off (Soundholes)
Ocean Floor – Four Shadows (Aphelion)
Anla Courtis – Concept Bongo (Coherent States)
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – A Thin Slice of Sexie Funk (Cardboard Club)
The Slowest Lift – The Slowest Lift (VHF)
F.Ampism – The Unstruck Sound Centre (Ikuisuus)
Aftawerks – Isle of Dogs (Acid Waxa) Sold Out Cassette and digital album
Now I may not know my 808 from my 303 but what I can tell you is that this tape is what I’ve been reaching for when I need to get shit done.
Putting the bins out? Check.
Going to argue with the teachers at the kids open day? Check.
Completing that application for planning permission? Check.
For each domestic stretching task I’ve found Aftawerks’ no-nonsense squelch, jaunty computerised bass and pinprick precise beats the perfect mental and physical workout.
I’m in no way qualified to review this with any sense of where it fits into things historically. Some of it sounds like incidental music on Miami Vice, some of it sounds like the tunes kids blast at the back of the bus with extremely complicated hi-hat and clave patterns.
But whatever it is I’m bouncing and moving.
So…am I cool now?
Sophie Cooper – The Curfew Tower Recordings (Crow Versus Crow Editions) Sold Out Cassette and digital album
How low can you go?
On this tape Sophie Cooper goes Mariana Trench deep into the wild and weird world of the orchestra’s most misunderstood instrument – the trombone.
Sophie’s ‘bone is not played for yuks. No sir. Her Avant Garde drone credentials are writ large on a ‘Tribute to LaMonte Young and Marian Zazeela’s OCEANS’. But at the same time the farting bluster that comes naturally from hot brass is not shied away from. In fact it is welcomed in a series of breathy improvisations that notch up extra points for unknown textures and intense control.
At times the brass guffs are joined with real-life human breath totally getting that ‘soft and intense’ vibe Miles perfected on Kind of Blue. On ‘What the fuck was he thinking?’ trumps turn to growls and growls turn to gasps and I’m transported into a world of leather lungs and wax paper aioli, gently expanding and contracting – the rasping hiss as rich in life in a succulent rock pool.
Delicate sound manipulation enters the frame occasionally with ‘Push the Button’s’ double-tracked horns locking together into some hefty warble tone. A pot is twisted and it gets fuzzier and hissier until it reaches Michio Kurihara’s mythical bliss-out proportions.
As it stands, with its site specific jams and improvisations, this tape would be a winner. But add to this the sweet narrative charm and you’ve got a keeper, a real put-on-the-top-of-the-pile-er.
The fabled dial-a-bone sessions link recordings together and are presented unedited and raw…the phone rings, Sophie answers, she asks what kind of jam the caller wants (loud/soft, short/long) and, BBBBUUURRRRRRRRRRMMMMM, she delivers. Classic trombone action.
Who you gonna call?
Yol –On/Off (Soundholes) Cassette
SIDE ON: JUST FIRE. JUST FIRE NOTHING ELSE. FEEDBACK SCOURS CLEAN. YOU DID A CRAP WHEELIE IN THE PARK. GIBBER G-G-GIBBER. ROAR AND RUUR AND RAAR. THROAT IS SORE BUT CAN’T STOP. JUST FIRE NOTHING ELSE. SSSSSSSSQUEAL – BURN IT CLEAN / CUT IT OUT. FIRE, FIRE, FIRE ON A LORRY. SCRATCH/BUFFFFFFGGG. SILENCE. TWO DOGS. BACKGROUND CHUNTER ON A TAPE OR SOMETHING. TWO FAKE PLASTIC ROTTWEILERS. BUMMMMGGGGG—AWWWWWWWWW WHAT THE FUCK IS IN THERE? EEEEEEEEEEE…SILENCE-CLICK.
SIDE OFF. PROTEST WIG. UGHHH. SCRAPE/SCRAPE. UHHH-GHUUUR. DISEMBODIED WIG HEAD ON THE BALCONY OF THE LUXURY FLATS. SCRATCH. CREEEE—WAAAJ WAAAJ. I SWEAR DOWN IT WAS LOOKING AT ME. HAH-HAH-HER. FADED GHOST LETTERS. GUNG-KIDDLE-TOING. SAY SOMETHING ABOUT. BOING. PAINT, SHOES, GLOVES. PING…CRUNCH. IS IT A WARNING? CHUDDLE-RATTLE-HING. CRAZY PAVING. SCRATCH-UG UG UG MADE FROM BROKEN GRAVESTONES ROARRR-R-RAAAH. SQUEAL-EEL. ALWAYS KEEP A SPARK PLUG IN YOUR POCKET. UHG UHG CRASH. SILENCE-CLICK.
Ocean Floor – Four Shadows (Aphelion) CD, Cassette and digital album
These four sublimely beautiful modular synth pieces from one Mr Aonghus Reidy simply ooze out of the speakers like a ripple of ripe camembert.
Opener ‘Airglow’ reverberates round our domestic front room with a poise that turns our little lounge into some ebony-tiled basilica. A devastating presence wearing the monk’s cowl of humility. ‘Shadows’ follows with gentle runs of oscillation that wouldn’t be out of place in a schools and colleges broadcast from 1983.
Things wind down a little with ‘Night’ – shimmering like moonlight on a vast lake the melody moving so slowly it almost collapses. And things are finally put to bed (Ed – groan!) on ‘Slumber’ a real-life lullaby; in equal parts sweetness and sinister.
It’s pretty. It’s lovely. What’s your problem punk?
Anla Courtis – Concept Bongo (Coherent States) Cassette and download
Clipped and ribbed thribblings.
Yes it’s the bongo drum – beloved of the beatnik and unwelcome midnight-jammer. But here Alan/Anla Courtis takes the hippie staple and drowns it in several pints of ‘chunng-fhhfhhung’ stretching each dull thud into a warm tropical front. Elastic thumps collect in wildly unstable clouds; popping and clicking like plastic thunder.
Waxy rolls and smears.
Two fifteen minute pieces focus on different approaches. ‘Concept Bongo I’ concentrates on the short-lived resonance that exists in the negative space these drums are designed to hold. Vibration is carefully controlled and limited to strict, neat parameters. The tables are turned on ‘Concept Bongo II” a freer, looser jam, sloshed with reverb sounding exactly halfway between an afternoon with Steve Reich and Faust’s most blunted tapes experiments.
The sound of a million blunt fingertips gently striking pigskin.
The palette of sounds is, understandably, quite limited to these thrilling pops and clicks but this familiarity make me smile nostalgically, like uncovering a well-earned scar when it’s warm enough to wear shorts.
Can I say Bongo Fury? Guess I just did.
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – A Thin Slice of Sexie Funk (Cardboard Club) 3”CD-r
The Cardboard Prince is pretty much unstoppable on this brief funk workout. I’m guessing there’s some new kit involved here as RRS sounds deep, heavier and more, well…sexie on this release.
Enough of the preamble – where’s the beef?
- ‘Eye Just Want 2’ – Chart-ready Brit-funk with indistinct vocals (such a shame I can’t make them out) and an irrepressible squid-beat spurting electric ink.
- ‘Dancing Under the Table’ – A classic RRS instant composition with a riff on jam sandwiches and death(e), the coiling bass line gradually tweaked till it cries Uncle.
- ‘Cheater’ –This one is the cream of a particular creamy crop. Lyrics sound like Cheap Trick! Lyrics sound totally RRS!! The squelching bass line needs to be wrung out it’s so darn wet. Many pots are twisted and drum-fills are added with wild abandon as RRS opens his heart to curse all the cheaters out there.
The Slowest Lift – The Slowest Lift (VHF) Vinyl LP
This knock-out tag team: Sophie Cooper and Julian Bradley (AKA The Slowest Lift) find their spiritual home on veteran freek-retreat VHS for their debut long-player.
Let’s recap. The Slowest Lift excels in duality. Their coupling of (on one side) shocking distortion, tape noise and blistering huff with (on the other) soft slow voices and gentle unhurried compositions make the act of listening like dreaming through an electrical storm.
The prospect their heaving and groaning fuzz will descend into splintered chaos is always hinted at but generally inches back from the brink guided by a warm sonic-sirocco rebalancing the actors like perfectly carved chess pieces.
I guess what I’m trying to say is this is classy but still a psychic bruiser yeah?
Opener ‘Crystal Fracture’ re-imagines something like TOTO’s Africa decamped to the Devil’s Causeway and played by colourful walkers on sharp sticks.
I’m always intrigued by that songs-named-after-the-band/album-titles-named-after-the-band type of thing. Am I to assume that this song ‘The Slowest Lift’ is a mission statement? A brief track to distil the essence of Cooper/Bradley? If so I can report back T.S.L. are a devastating cocktail of the fizzy and the smeared – think carbonated grease!
Strung-out lines of gruffly-tempered fluff skittering in a beam of yellow sunlight next…it’s ‘Bank Holiday Tuesday’ – a slow boil. The birth of casserole-core if you will. ‘Preset’ has the swagger of some undiscovered Ulver back-catalogue gem; cascades of VU-guitar strummage while Transylvanian horns duck and parry.
A lazy hiss of a harmonium fidgets with those darn tachyons shimmering in and out of phase on ‘Hi from the Skyline Swim’. The voice, relatively en clair is delivering a warning of sorts. Watch out for the grandfather paradox perhaps?
Taking a breather I think what I like most is the unpolished air to this remarkable record. The ever-so-slightly discernable patina of tape hiss when another instrument adds to the mix, it’s the sound of unfinished business. ‘EV Plus’ is a great case in point – like two found recordings laid over each other. T.S.L. make like archaeologists digging for treasure that their painstaking research assures them is just beneath their feet.
Song title of the month, ‘Extreme Cops’ is a sculpted meringue, chemically complex but light as air, ‘The Chauffer’ similarly buoyant Compare and contrast to closer ‘Punched’. A concrete overcoat, worn as you sink beneath the dock of the bay.
The Slowest Lift dog-ear a new chapter in ye olde booke of English free-mind collectives.
“SHhvvvHHHuuuhhHHHHHSshsshSShshsSH”
F.Ampism – The Unstruck Sound Centre (Ikuisuus) Vinyl LP
A lovingly prepared Petri dish of ripe exotic beans sprouting quivering tendrils that wrap round my pink toes.
A slushy bubbling and melting ripple permeate each of these nine itchy pieces. Each song a study in Technicolor; detail hanging heavy with Nag Champa and waxy banana leaves.
‘The Loosest Caduceus’ shudders like muscle spasms while ‘Sand/Blood/Glass’ makes me shave my head and begin a Bic-pen trepanation. An over-reaction from an excited listener you think? I challenge you not to seep between these vinyl grooves in search of forbidden knowledge. Me? I napped and woke up with a frog on my tongue. There’s no escape from the cramps!
But lovers of gritty drama and kitchen sink realism will not be disappointed by ‘Absolute Beyond Ill’ as fucking real as ‘tripping’ down the steps of the police station.
Get merry and totally bronzed with AMPISM! Essential.
STOP PRESS: Dwellers of Sheffield ! You can watch f.ampism and a whole host of other RFM faves LIVE on Saturday 2nd December at Regather 57-59 Club Garden Road, Sheffield, S11 8BU. This all-dayer contains Dylan Nyoukis & Kieron Piercey, Historically Fucked, Katz Mulk, Sippy Cup, Giblet Gusset, Acrid Lactations & Joincey, Luke Poot & Duncan Harrison and some joker named Posset. Doors open at 3.30pm and the howling starts at 4pm. Kids welcome. More info here.
Cardboard Club / Hissing Frames
-ooOOoo-
acting out ‘rain’: joe and dulcie murray on duplo chat, kek-w
September 27, 2016 at 8:10 pm | Posted in new music, no audience underground | Leave a commentTags: 19f3, cardboard club, dulcie murray, duplo chat, joe murray, kek-w, moon mist music
Duplo Chat – 5th July 2016 (tape, possibly on Cardboard Club?)
Duplo Chat – Duplo Chat (tape and A5 artzine, Moon Mist Music, edition of 30)
KEK-W – “Three-Inch Improv” (3” CD-r, 19F3, edition of 9)
Duplo Chat – 5th July 2016
It’s the Summer Holidays [Editor’s note: well, it was when Joe submitted this article – such is the painstaking editorial process here at RFM] and the perfect way to avoid the blistering sun, thrashing hail or apocalyptic floods is to stay in and review tapes with the kids. This time Dulcie, our youngest, takes the helm and listens to two new mysterious Duplo Chat releases.
Over to you Dulcie…
It sounds like something trying to escape from inside a box, in the middle of the wind. It’s a croaky old machine, rusted up and about to malfunction. A tired robot tap-dancer is on their coffee break. The wooden spoon hits against the side of a porridge pot.
We turn the tape over and…
It’s a person acting out ‘rain’, a broken wooden flute. Static on a TV with no signal. A deep voice booms from within a mask. It’s shovelling up snow and then scratching the spade against the concrete beneath or drawing with chalk a small pattern or jagged shape (bump not cobbled); a donkey pulls a cart full of apples.
What do you think of the packaging?
Errr… it’s like something that you’ve found in the bottom of a shopping trolley. It looks icky.
What do I say? Startled guitar and dry tape noise in a dimebag. File under ‘skink-musik’.
Duplo Chat – Duplo Chat
We use the same approach on this slightly longer tape that bears all the hallmarks of our Robert Ridley-Shackleton (but… fingers on lips, shhhhh).
Our survey says…
This time I hear a frog with a person in its throat… making cookies; a sad elephant crying about losing its family in the Metro Centre. Now it’s slowed down applause (from the 90’s), a phone turning on… an android heart-attack. This sounds like rewinding an old movie… a DVD glitching out. A clown squeezing their big, red nose or Darth Vader whinging.
What do you think of the zine Dulcie?
Oh great… orange is my favourite colour. It looks like teabags have been pushed onto a glass table and you’re looking at them from underneath.
What do I say? She’s damn right and on the money!
Go Duplo!
KEK-W – “Three-Inch Improv”
A delicious DIY release from the heart of rural England and the mind of the mighty Kek-W.
Across the 10 short tracks Kek engages dark electronics, FX-heavy syrup and static-spitting instruments. It’s a trip, man, but who cares what I think? Bring on the child labour and zero-hours contracts. Dulcie whispers to me…
Sounds like a falling star, sleeping sparkles just keep coming and form rainbow rain. // A pet band! The cat’s on the fiddle and the dog’s on the drums. // Electro Adams Family but scary …something weird is going on. I hear chanting. // Bassy beatz are suspenseful with tiny wailing, or sucking spit through your teeth. // A happy bee goes to work on the train. // Chugging pins. // Space disaster movie with slow trombones. // Wrenching open a bag of manure. // A dying bag of rocks.
This tasty disc comes in an old-fashioned wage-packet including yellow n’ black micro-art piece, an homage to Stryper?
—ooOoo—
occasional donkey: joe murray on robert ridley-shackleton and faniel dord
April 12, 2016 at 12:05 pm | Posted in new music, no audience underground | Leave a commentTags: cardboard club, dante's ashtray, faniel dord, joe murray, robert ridley-shackleton
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – Private Spray (tape, Cardboard Club)
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – Nothing Can Stop Robert Ridley-Shackleton (tape, Cardboard Club)
Faniel Dord – Valentino (tape, Dante’s Ashtray / Cardboard Club, DA007 / CC24)
Faniel Dord – Breakfast Wheel of Fortune (CD-r or download, Dante’s Ashtray, DA006)
Another day, another bunch o’ tapes from the Cardboard Club slap & rattle on the door mat. Blimey! It’s seems like the ink is only just about dry on the last set when these follow ups sneak in. I prepare a restorative fruity cocktail and get jiggy.
I dig into Private Spray first, revelling in the fresh forest-green sleeve and matching tape expecting to sniff zingy pine-sap. But rather than spicy resin I’m getting an alt-memory forming; the Amphetamine Reptile records folk rejecting macho rock poses to delve deeper into Chrome’s synth-blend. Odd, but strangely… yeah, why not?
A feedback whine (continued through the majority of the tape) fights over crackle and a charming cardboard box drum solo. The milky casiotone still bleeps but this is very much darker in spirit (and I know that’s a terrible journo cop-out) but with mentions of
Dad’s poorly
and cleaning up spillages I can hear the ‘d’ being very carefully taken out of the disco. But the fear not… the lollystick rattled in a drain pipe approach still prevails!
As ever I’m wrong-footed by the young RSS. Firstly a keyboard workout apes Sun Ra on his electric-wump, that gives this tape some serious chops. But it’s the occasional spoken word interludes that act like a magician’s sneaky misdirection, your ears go one way and your brain the other. So a song about America (RRS’s favourite country he wonkily claims) is actually about the pigeons in the back garden (or yard). Another fine RRS joint.
What’s next out the hat? It’s a damn mission statement, a rebel-rousing cry that’s what. It’s a throaty terrace chant of Nothing Can Stop Robert Ridley Shackleton plucked from the roomy fedora. And, as if to prove the point, RRS gets all YES and ELP with 15 min pieces of mind-pie on each side of this tape.
I remember, years ago, hearing The Fall’s Twenty Seven Points for the first time on a car stereo as we tore through rural Durham. The crap stereo, buggered exhaust and reckless speed made everything mushed-up and indistinct. The bass had been absorbed by the petrol tank so it was only treble that ricocheted around the car as our passengers rode the waves of excited panic. The backwards ‘whoosh’ of the occasional car, building or donkey we passed built up into a layer of swooping and tumbling air further confusing our drenched souls. And that hairy experience dear reader is painstakingly rebuilt on Side A (studio). That’s for damn sure.
The pocket-jazz sound dominates on the ‘live’ Side B. A drawn-out burr and crackle, similar to radio interference, that gums up all available sound-holes like putty. It’s the sound of a tractor beam from a low-budget sci-fi film, the background dream-noise of dentistry students, the dry rustle of marram grass beneath a stout boot. But this time RRS concentrates on rhythm rather than texture so a careful weaving and interlocking takes place. This complex sound of plaiting braids ends with the gnomic
If you don’t like it go to another school, that’s what they say.
Having satisfied myself with a fix of the ole’ RRS I’m ready to check out a new name for me, Faniel Dord. Faniel is a mucker of RRS it seems, and on checking out his Dante’s Ashtray site I can see he’s a busy fucker too.
This little tape, Valentino (it’s maybe a C10 max) is a mixture of brief lo-fi songs and dirty limericks that reek of a genuine wonderful outsider.
Think Sexton Ming, or even think of the late great Rammellzee. A unique world view has been fully formed and populated. It’s over-ripe and ready to burst so only needs the barest squeeze to explosively grow.
Faniel explores the kind of raga-blues that wouldn’t be out of place on a Sun City Girls record with full-twang guitar and primitive, primal moans and howling. The fidelity is lovingly low and blown-out hissy, I think this is recorded on a mobile phone, dig, so much so ‘Down Separate Rivers’ threatens to grow the folk club a new damn beard.
There’s yuks for sure… the limericks are dumb and daft and wonderfully rude but the goonery takes a back seat on the closer/title track. This blissed-out troubadour ‘ahhs’ and strums a ditty as full and wide as the Mersey and shows the Scouser’s inherent understanding of psychedelia – always leave a toe-hold in reality.
The CD-r, Breakfast Wheel of Fortune stretches the formula (psychedelic skiffle, scatological humour) and adds a soupcon of The Fugs ‘this-hootenanny-could-disintegrate-at-any-point-into-frenzied-screaming’ menace into the mix.
Some songs are furiously strummed and blurted out as if the words are hot spitballs. Some worship at the gates of Joe Meek’s Holloway Road flat with a gravy boat full of space-age echo and exotic overdubs. But it’s the twitching-curtains of suburban Satanism are the most curious edition to Faniel’s world view and worked out on songs like ‘Kiss the Hoof’, ‘Siding with the Devil’ and ‘Din Din Demons.’ So, maths fans, that’s roughly 23% of the songs on this disc referencing interactions with THE DARK ONE. Blimey… Venom would be happy with that average.
But no amount of daffy vapes can hide the serious intent behind ‘Dead or Alive’; a seven minute acoustic guitar landscape that starts all Richard Bishop, travelling via Sketches of Spain and ends in DIY Harmolodics and secretive moaning. Fucking classy what?
This CD-r is also available from the Dante’s Ashtray site (gosh… another satanic reference) and the god-fearing curious can click here to get an earful.
—ooOoo—
through our cat’s head: joe murray on lieutenant caramel, nils quak, robert ridley-shackleton, the moth kingdom, buddly tuckers
March 18, 2016 at 10:23 am | Posted in new music, no audience underground | Leave a commentTags: buddly tuckers, cardboard club, joe murray, lieutenant caramel, meudiademorte records, nils quak, robert ridley-shackleton, spam, the moth kingdom
Lieutenant Caramel – Überschallknall (tape, SPAM / Meudiademorte Records, Spam 15, edition of 60)
Nils Quak – In Girum Imus Nocte Et Consumimur Igni (tape, SPAM / Meudiademorte Records, Spam 14, edition of 40)
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – God (tape, Cardboard Club)
The Moth Kingdom – Bleeding Cherub (tape, Cardboard Club)
Buddly Tuckers – S/T (tape, Cardboard Club)
Lieutenant Caramel – Uberschallknall
I’m listening to this directly after jamming Ben Gwilliam’s freezer-burn tape that my esteemed colleague L. Vollar covered a while ago. For a second I think the opening door-slam from the Lieutenant is a direct psychic-echo from Ben’s frosty vacuum death. Rest assured readers, it’s not. This is an altogether different beast.
This silky smooth Caramel is in fact bona fide French electronic composer/film-maker Philippe Blanchard who is tweaking the desk like a daemon on this Music Concrete beauty. Five exceptional pieces are collected on the banana-yellow tape. I say… shall we dance?
You dig that Luc Ferrari tape-mesh right? Then tune into ‘Die Grosse Liebe’, a cryptic crossword of sound that despite the fiendishness of the clues fits as neatly as a half-dozen eggs in a box. The sharp detritus from a traveller’s DAT is the fuel and these snippets slam together making my eyes riffle in REM despite the bright February sunshine. Coiled bass notes fairly boom out of the speakers during ‘Die Obdachlos’ in a way that should make any tape-denier check their dolby and scrub out their ears.
The wonderful piano/ice-drip/wrenching rope trio dominate ‘Der Teufel’ revealing a natural timing and swing that’s as syncopated as any King Oliver. It’s as delightful and light as meringue, the sort of music I could imagine going through our cat’s head.
There’s a JAZZ FROM HELL quality to ‘Andreea’ but rather than give me a tension headache (bloody arse Xappa) this massages my temples with sweet oil and pungent herbs. The resulting fumes relax me in rag-doll positions, all bent legs and lolling tongue.
But this relaxation is short lived! Taut piano-wire is strung up like some Hellraiser-inspired installation on ‘Tot eu Tot’. A bruised thumb plucks the assembled strings releasing dull ‘poings’. A calloused hand rubs their metallic length to leech out pico-symphonics. This is no dark-gothic remembering but a brightly polished chrome-dream, Ballardian in temperament.
Damn don’t waste money trawling the collector-scum market for hi-brow tape-composition! Throw open your doors to nutritious SPAM!
Nils Quak – In Girum Imus Nocte Et Consumimur Igni
Hey! This tape speaks to me man. In the insert there’s a tiny note from Nils that says this whole tape was conceived “in stolen moments of mid-life angst”. I’m with you brother Nils! That’s the kind of thing I need tattooed on to my manky ankle.
So, does it sound angsty? Is it half full of piss and vinegar, half full of maudlin tears? Doesn’t sound it to me mate… this is synth-based raffles for sure, but the mood is exploratory and playful.
The many short tracks are neatly divided into carefully prepared drones, deep enough to lose yourself in and bleep-and-booster electronic pitch-bubbles that float nice and pretty with the occasional headlight shinning through the fog to pick out the detail real peachy.
So, at points you have shifting plates of beaten steel rubbing over each other, sensuously vibrating. Then the mood changes to a bubbling electro-bongo beating out a Roy Castle rhythm. Again things switch for a heavy oil by-product jam, all crude slurping and melting blackness as eventually bee drones get drowned in heavy syrup.
But within the constant shape-shifting there’s something gnawing at me, a familiarity that I can’t quite place. And then it dawns like a big orange sun, I’m getting huge nostalgic wafts of Manchester’s late, great Disco Operating System in the Sci-Fi vibrations. Yeah… the radioFONIC is in the house and churning up gravity with some wicked deepness.
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – God
Are you ready for card?
…asks Robert as the wonderful God cranks up.
It’s a good question. Are YOU ready for card? Am I ready for card? Are any of us really ready for card? Many pixels have been rearranged into shapes that spell out RRS and this dude is fast becoming The Shaggs or Gwilly Edmondez or The Fall or something?
Point one. He’s a true original voice – that distinctive pocket jazz ‘whhhuuurrrrr’ backs these jams like a Sunny Murray ride-cymbal smashhhhhh. The tinny ‘b-tish, b-tish, b-tish’ of an ancient casio-tone drives each tune and is the kind of thing that would make Mark Ronson sweat his structured quiff flat as a pancake. The stream of consciousness lyrics baffle with gnomic platitudes,
Believe in yourself
is crooned with s.o.u.l. direct from a d.i.s.c.o. club, circa Rotherham 1983. Reader… nothing really sounds like Ridley-Shackleton.
Point two. The unshakeable resolve. RRS has his formula; he’s carved it out like a sailor with their whale bone and now… he owns it. There’s no pretence at any progression or change. You know what you’re getting right from the distinctive artwork to the gristly Dictaphone work. Every second is a reference to the world Robert has created from yogurt pots and toilet duck. But like all great artists who create their own unique sound there’s still the capacity to surprise. Any slight deviation from the norm becomes a quantum leap, a forehead-slapper (just think back to Dylan’s electric shazz-nazz for the crowd to cry ‘Judas!’) that makes you go
eh?
Halfway though side two the frippering flutter gets as dense as any Niblock-block and a micro second could be those jokers-euro Farmers Manual.
Point three. The unfettered urge to create. A prolific artist at the best of times, RRS keeps on moving, moving, moving letting no grass grow under his velvet pixie boots. The zines, tapes, label(s) and releasing other folks jaxx keeps these idle hands far too busy for the devil to slip on a pair of gloves. If I was a religious man I’d be questioning the BIG GUY… is this more divine influence?
The individual tracks mobius in on themselves (in less enlightened times they might have called this a concept tape) so a divine perspective is woven through each song, even the painfully honest ‘Sex Thug’ until we start where we once began.
So, when the dust settles, what are we left with? Another Ridley-Shackleton joint that’s the same as the rest? F’sure.
Another moreish peek into the wild and frightening world of Robert Ridley-Chaka Khan. Damn right!
The Moth Kingdom – Bleeding Cherub
A fellow traveller called LOAM hops into a time machine and takes me back to my teenage years; joss sticks, Answer Me! zine and lo-fi tapes of scratchy guitars.
Super simple songs played on acoustics and electrics. The odd maraca and piano sample get sprinkled over things like tangy za’atar. LOAM sings along with a deep reverb painting dark pictures of cruel nature and harsh life.
In his label write up Robert Ridley-Shackleton confesses his lack of knowledge of this kind of ‘folk’ sound, and me… I’m equally, embarrassingly clueless. But what I do know is this starts to sound better and better as the sun sets, a smoky whisky appears and things unwind and unravel, beautifully illustrated on the ‘Corpse of the Crow’. Check it out.
Buddly Tuckers – S/T
A collaboration between CHROME and ROBE (a pyjama-clad RRS, I’m guessing) where that pocket-jazz sound is the filter through which electric solids and field recordings are mashed.
The overall doof is classic Cardboard Club; a mid-table throttling, damp rustle and condenser-mic ripple. But underneath all this graphic industry ghostly voices waft like ripe Camembert.
At one point some keyboards squawk with the ferocious virtuosity of Islam Chipsy playing with sheepskin mittens on… it’s all treble attack released in careful blocks.
The universal balance is kept via crunchy Dictaphone work; Dr Strange summons up celestial choirs from a separate dimension – you can feel them but not quite hear them.
Fans of all this NOISE genre should give this one a try for some sweet floral catharsis.
—ooOoo—
employees of the month: joe murray on hardworking families, jon seagroatt and ian staples with bobbie watson, stuart chalmers, ramleh, robert ridley-shackleton
December 19, 2015 at 10:23 am | Posted in new music, no audience underground | 1 CommentTags: bobbie watson, cardboard club, don't drone alone, format supremacy, future vinyl, hardworking families, ian staples, joe murray, jon seagroatt, must die records, ono, ramleh, robert ridley-shackleton, stuart chalmers
Hardworking Families – Worse than a Stranger (tape, don’t drone alone, edition of 50 or download)
jon seagroatt ian staples with bobbie watson – deathless (CD, Future Vinyl, CD1501 or download)
Stuart Chalmers – Loop Phantasy No.1 (CD-r, Must Die Records, edition of 50 or download)
Stuart Chalmers – Loop Phantasy No.2 (CD-r in fold-out sleeve, Ono, edition of 50 or download)
Stuart Chalmers – Loop Phantasy No. 3 (Preview) (self-released download)
Ramleh – Welcome/Pristine Womankind (7″ vinyl, Format Supremacy)
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – Self-Titled EP (7″ vinyl, Cardboard Club, edition of 100)
Hardworking Families – Worse than a Stranger
My most favouritely-named artist in the No-Audience Underground offers us a tape woven like a friendship bracelet. This time the grubby threads are replaced with electric-pylon-hum and carbon-monoxide-alarm-shriek, backed with sparse bristling gristle. It moves like folded towels; the texture flexes and changes under stress.
‘Bryantwood Road, Washington Street’ swells with double intensity in places then turns back on itself, revelling in its own knock-kneed skinniness. Serious knob-twiddling releases the kind of low bass throb that gives your tin-pot dictator a wet dream as they disperse an angry mob. But the icing on this beefy cake is the see-saw panning of a single sickly tone that wraps itself, like a possessive lover, round your brain stem in three dimensions.
Side two introduces us to the ‘Pasternoster’ an augmented field recording made in some brutalist concrete nightmare – it’s pretty darn cavernous! Rubberised breadsticks get rattled in a quiver as assembled umpires discuss furniture polish (quietly). The sweet swish of Air Max on a dusty floor makes dry circles in my ear buds while some joker miked up the fire escape. And, to add a point of detail, these recordings are reconstructed without electronic condiments, they are never rushed or fudge-sticky.
The dull thud of capitalism is gradually tuned out… but not before Hardworking Families is decorated as employee of the month.
jon seagroatt ian staples with bobbie watson – deathless
We’ve got used to imaginary soundtracks for films; so what about a record of a book? Jon Seagroatt, Ian Staples and Bobbie Watson must have bloody loved Steven Sherill’s 2004 novel The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break because they’ve based their immaculate playing ’round its 313 leathery pages.
Jon and Ian play a particular flavour of experimental music that’s as charming as the soft ‘plonk’ of a well-lobbed shuttlecock. It’s sparse and serene with a gritty undercurrent of processed drones/electronics over a keening flute (and probably other woodwind family members).
In parts it’s as English as teabags and disappointing caravan holidays, but there’s something that keeps me thinking of the Rune Grammofon back catalogue with its clear sound and chilly cadence.
The croaky swell of hot breath pushed through copper pipes nestles well with the shimmering slide guitar and post-production twiddling. Bobbie’s minimal vocals (there’s only a couple of minutes worth on the whole disc) are kept back as a secret weapon and hauntingly warped like silvery raindrops. It’s a very classy listen.
But what’s going to make you uncles and aunties sit up and click on the links is the connections this band are mixed up in. Check this out: the dark-folk of Comus, spooky beards Current 93, power-improv legends Red Square and, strangest of all The Temple City Kazoo Orchestra? These folk were no-audience before many of us were born.
Sit up straight, turn off that god damn phone and listen to this in flickering candlelight.
Stuart Chalmers – Loop Phantasy No. 1, Loop Phantasy No. 2, Loop Phantasy No. 3 (Preview)
Ya’ll know I steer clear of the dreaded hyperbole. I’m not one of those ‘BEST BAND EVER’, ‘THIS SHIT CHANGED MY LIFE’, ‘I WAS BLIND AND NOW I CAN SEE’ kinda zine-writers (Ed – feel free to add sarcastic comment here) [Editor’s note: I’m saying nowt].
But this time I throw my regular Northern caution and cynicism out the window and claim these three recordings THE MOST IMPORTANT SALVAGED TAPE LOOP RECORDINGS EVER YEAH.
What? Like…ever?
I hear you ask.
Yes
I answer with a calm, clear voice.
Like in the whole 100 year history of recorded music?
You probe,
even including the oft- mentioned high- water mark of looping Tom Recchion’s Chaotica?
You add. I merely smile and press play on the device of your choice.
You must listen, you must listen to truly understand
I chant with glassy eyes.
Anyway… fuck yeah! That’s what I’m saying. If you want to know where looping is right now in 2015/2016: PLAY THESE RECORDS. If you are looking for an instructional map of what’s possible with simple tape loops, a couple of pedals and some hot ears: PLAY THESE RECORDS. If you want to open up that valve in your stomach that helps you release gaseous tension: PLAY THESE RECORDS.
From the Stone Age goof with lovely sounding rocks to James Brown’s well-drilled fonk to Larry Levan’s sweaty yoga-stretch to Prince Paul’s magpie fingers we all love a loop. The act of repetition does something to that brain/body connection. We smile, we twitch… we bust a fucking move. And with that repetition comes the delicious recognition of the eventual slip, the change, the move out of the established pattern that leaves us all grinning at our cleverness – we spotted it first! We picked up on that micro-change that slid away from the beat like a rubber Mungo Jerry.
You want examples? Hard data yeah? Take ‘Loop Phase 4’ on Loop Phantasy No. 1. A single xylophone reverberation and gated piano-hammer strike, plays with a gentle jarring. It starts to overlap. It returns on itself and sets up an internal rhythm and logic cell that mutates gently over four sweet minutes. A final few seconds of digital crunchiness brings us to a shuddering climax.
And while …No. 1 and …No. 2 are definitely more swoony and dreamy …No. 3 employs the kind of up-tight funk cut-up David Byrne dreams of in his SoHo loft space. What’s that? More evidence? OK… slurp this up: ‘Pop Plunder 20‘ is equal parts Van Jackson/Dicta-frottage and wonky thumb. Jeepers.
Students of tape culture – your set-text has arrived. Screw in those earbuds and get seriously twisted.
Ramleh – Welcome/Pristine Womankind
This is real treasure! A box of stash from 1994 has been recently opened up for the N-A U. Naughty noiseniks Ramleh are in full-on thug-rock mode here with a guitar, bass, drums and electronics line-up shattering the song format by being so astoundingly belligerent.
‘Welcome’ is a one-riff-then-lurch-into-electronic-breakdown sort of thing. The twin guitars are bone-crushingly heavy and swing dangerously like a bowling ball rocking about in a wet cardboard box. The cymbal crashes are worthy of a separate mention as they sizzle like Bonzo walloped them with his heavy oaks. The overall sound is pretty bloody angry… pissed wasps taped into an empty jam jar. It’s buzzing.
On the flip ‘Pristine Womanhood’ is even more exposed and unconstructed. It starts and ends with a menacing closing-time choir howling something threatening. In between this terrace chant the electronics shift up a gear to give Theremin-style whoops over duelling twin-guitars; less Judas Priest and more Deliverance decamped to damp, dirty Cumbria.
But how do you get a copy of this heavy, heavy slab? Although the Format Supremacy label is now pretty much defunct, sending a reasonable £4 in the UK (inc postage) or £7 for anywhere else in the world (inc postage) via Paypal to hasan.gaylani@btinternet.com will secure a fresh copy of this oily sump-jam.
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – Self Titled EP
The singular Mr Ridley-Shackleton takes his trademark scuff-jizz and lays it on some hot wax, man. I’m totally delighted to say that the gritty Dictaphone feel is in full effect with no attempt made to clean up this shit for the fussy pants vinyl crowd. Some people are forever cassette souls.
I’ve spoken before about the RR-S ‘pocket jazz’ sound and this is still evident in big fucking lumps. But in his duffle coat he’s sneaked in a Hall & Oates that play fragging keyboards and warm-whumping beats. The delivery, classic RR-S; part polite hip-hop MC/part loose-soul-maverick, makes me think of Guru Gwilly Edmondez and imagine what a dream duo these two would make.
It’s time to Kross up the Kriss, Kriss up the Kross
and
Oh baby! Hold me
leak out slowly like mercury from a fractured thermometer.
Over the five tracks the texture gradually moves from limp AM radio jam to stiff grogram shuffle. By the time we get to ‘No Grey Area’, this seven-inch-closer, minute hairs are a riffled burr on the bright tape. They bristle like magnets.
Your generous ears will no doubt latch onto the construction and form here. I know it’s going to sound like highfalutin crit-jizz but RR-S sculpts his music; building things, not so much in blocks but in the thin layers he uses in his postal art. This thin layer becomes a second skin, a grimy bandage on your wrist, spare ends flapping in the wind.
Where can you pick this hep-platter up? Try the unstoppable Cardboard Club blog for £4 of direct action.
—ooOoo—
– on Must Die Records
– on Ono
circuit diagrams soaked in brandy: joe murray on robert ridley-shackleton and waste farm
October 23, 2015 at 7:14 am | Posted in no audience underground, not bloody music | Leave a commentTags: cardboard club, joe murray, piped in from head office, robert ridley-shackleton, waste farm
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – Sober Junkz (tape, Cardboard Club, CC11, edition of 12)
Waste Farm – Waste! (tape, Piped-in From Head Office Records, pifho017)
Robert Ridley-Shackleton – Sober Junkz
The singular RRS drops another mind-bomb on our door mat with Sober Junkz, an almost unconscious unraveling of the super-ego.
Adopting the persona of a middle-aged DJ Ridley-Shackleton mumbles through an unhinged afternoon show with nothing but Whitehouse audience recordings to play instead of Toto’s Africa three times per hour.
This pure right-brain shuffling between gentle coughing and distant feedback (er… like the rains down in Africa) sits uncomfortably with the braggadocious whittering concerning RRS and Kanye facing up as presidential candidates.
As ever the packaging is classic Cardboard Club [Editor’s note: above are scans of my copy]; masking tape and crayon daubed with careful joy around a plastic zip-loc. But it’s the sheer ‘otherness’ of this tape that shifts it to my ‘caution’ pile, clearly marked, to ensure I play this when I have my full faculties about me. Without a suitable warning this tape could set up a feedback loop of intense crypto-listening that can lead to gentle catatonia!
In an act of retro-vandalism I replaced the name ‘Cage’ with the name ‘Ridley-Shackleton’ in my handy Penguin Cassette Guide:
Cornelius Cardew, our own British avant-gardiste, is quoted as saying that there seems to be a sense of logic and cohesion in Ridley-Shackleton’s indeterminate music. ‘The logic’ Ridley-Shackleton replied, ‘was not put there by me.’
He can say that again! Even so, a tape like this of highly experimental music does give the listener an excellent chance to work hard at the apparently impossible music…what it all means is anyone’s guess, but perhaps one should not take it too seriously. The transfer is atmospheric rather than sharply focused. (March p204)
GREENFIELD, E. LAYTON, R. & MARCH, I. (1979). Penguin Cassette Guide. Middlesex: Penguin Books Limited.
Joe fucking Orton me like!
Waste Farm – Waste!
This conundrum snuck into a package from that Shareholder Sandy Milroy and feels like a solo project from a dude in a skinny tie surrounded by banks of antique synths. To complete the scene a TV flickers blue smoke from the corner of the room while circuit diagrams are soaked in brandy. Got a mental picture?
Side one opens with a sound as tactile as silvery-birch or slippery elm. The wooden electrics shimmer all over ‘Dale Baker 201’ making it hard to pick up, running through my clumsy fumbling thumbs. But it’s light man, relaxed and all; a smiling face at closing time on Princess Street.
Then the mood changes to delightfully sleazy as ‘Spoonfood’ (electronic tones pump like a punctured sausage…slow offal ooze) and ‘Woomb’//‘Meat Scarecrow’ (three-note stabs uncover a crystal skull – each beam of reflected light hints at an alien tone) soundtrack that thick tentacle wallop the Belgians seems to favour. OK… a bit more grit; you’re accepting the invitation to an empty.
Side two drops a clue to its Caledonian lineage as ‘The Specimen’ merges distant street chatter with a lolloping synth line. So far so good… but when that thick bass tone drops it’s like Wolf Eyes’ ‘Stabbed in the Face’ decided to get really fucking stroppy. Gloopy like black molasses the jellified tones stick to your hands, face and chest. It’s probably best to just submit, I think, until I find myself pounding a bleeding fist against the wall, thumping out this slow heart-beat, riding the waves of limp sizzle and ruddy ripping. I’m locked in and they are slowly approaching!
Balancing the fine line between head-banging euphoria and deeply unpleasant industry.
Serving Suggestion? Check out this euro-weird animation LIGHT YEARS. Use your eyes to see but plug your ears into WASTE FARM instead.
—ooOoo—
i’m all for baubles: joe, luke and rob on robert ridley-shackleton’s cardboard club
February 20, 2015 at 1:14 pm | Posted in new music, no audience underground | Leave a commentTags: bob tale, cardboard club, duplo chat, faniel dord, hissing frames, improv, joe murray, lathe cut, luke vollar, mutant pop, new music, no audience underground, noise, outsider art, picking speeds, picking speeds g.o.l., robert ridley-shackleton, smithers, tapes
Picking Speeds G.O.L – Shirty Shorts (tape, Cardboard Club, CC01, edition of 10)
Duplo Chat – Just Chattin’ (tape, Cardboard Club, CC02, edition of 7)
Bob Tale – Toxic Shock Demo (tape, Cardboard Club, CC03, edition of 5)
Smithers – Is Ure Carpet Right? (tape, Cardboard Club, CC04, edition of 12)
Picking Speeds – Afternoon Vans (7” lathe cut vinyl, Cardboard Club, CC05, edition of 10)
faniel dord / Picking Speeds G.O.L – Who can I help? / Back is Block? (tape, self-released)
[Editor’s note: a parcel from blog fave outsider artist Robert Ridley-Shackleton is always a treat. Tipping its contents onto the kitchen table affords a view into another world, existing orthogonal to our own, in which Robbie has become a giant star by mimicking, satirizing, collaging or obliterating the cultural detritus he finds slung out by, well, everyone else. He is a noise-womble. Shortly before Christmas he decided his label Hissing Frames was no longer a large enough pouch to hold his prodigious output and the sub-label Cardboard Club was born. Being a generous guy, he sent copies of the half-dozen initial releases to me, Joe and Luke (this was just before the new era of gender equality at RFM) and so we decided to write a joint review in which we’d each begin at a corner and chew our way in until we met in a perverse Lady-and-the-Tramp-eating-bolognese-style three way. Here goes. Joe first:] Picking Speeds G.O.L – Shirty Shorts This slinky tape is a single-sided wormhole, a backwards trip through the looking glass.
Drink me!
…he says. And as a veteran loop/noise/collage/mungtape operator, who are we to argue with Mr Picking Speed G.O.L.? As a whole this tape serves as a map of several territories. Across 45 minutes or so we visit a number of kingdoms and principalities. As you’d expect it’s a Babel of languages and customs, but the seasoned underground traveller is quick to pick up the meaning behind the semi-industrial clatter and howl. As tasty as a bowl of salty olives we find ourselves listening to a squid inexpertly fitting the lid on a Tupperware box, the sinister whisper of a faraway ghost, spoken word fribulation and the all-to-human cut/jaxx organ hiss-pokery that makes the heart sing. But of course these groovy individual parts build up into a more complete picture. The very fractured nature of the edit leaves clues regardless – a lo-fi gentleness, a light touch with the FX, a funny-bone caress [exhibit A: a jalopy take on the lone toker’s ‘Wake me up before you Go-Go!’]. The last 10 minutes or are a gentle comedown with the warm, soft rattling of one of my favourite Dictaphone techniques – smooth pocket jazz. Being a trainspotter type I like to have a flutter on the hardware involved. My guess? It’s the Olympus PearlCorder S701 in the left hand pocket of a Navy blue Duffle Coat. As Picking Speeds G.O.L goes about his daily business play and record are surreptitiously engaged allowing said Dictaphone to pick up all the tweedy scratching but nothing more. It’s a sonic buffering of which I never tire. Now me:
Duplo Chat – Just Chattin’
Bob Tale – Toxic Shock Demo
Smithers – Is Ure Carpet Right?
faniel dord / Picking Speeds G.O.L – Who can I help? / Back is Block?
[Editor’s note: as my much loved/horribly abused walkman is finally broken beyond repair, my ability to listen to tapes is currently very limited. In order to get through the above I had to listen to them in a row one afternoon whilst off work with a heavy cold. I think this was a pretty good way of experiencing them but, on re-reading, my notes are brief and don’t make much sense. Mea culpa.]
So, both Luke and I got copies of Just Chattin’ and both of us were left scratching our heads. It appears to be a full tape of what Luke described as ‘quiet HNW’ – like a tabletop of clockwork noise makers, overwound and recorded with the levels in the red and then mastered so as not to wake the neighbours. Towards the very end I think I started to understand the itchy scrabbling of it all but this one wasn’t for me.
Toxic Shock Demo by Bob Tale is a short performance by Robbie’s lip-curling, Elvis-channelling, bequiffed, Alan Vega impersonator. His breathy squawks slide over a trilling, pitter-patter (more treble than) bass line. I’d be disappointed if he didn’t record this wearing a leather cat suit. Duped onto tapes recycled from The Children’s Talking Bible which means that as Robbie cut out a mellifluous voice said
…who should he see walking towards him but Elijah!
…which in my fragile state made me laugh pretty hard. Then cough.
Is Ure Carpet Right? by Smithers (‘Jon & Rob’) begins with some brute radiophonics – all wabwabs and squiggly pot-flipping with poorly earthed pylon fuzz and 8-bit cheat mode flicker – then a storm of harsh noise gathers over which protestations are groaned. In amongst the gurgle loops I think I heard:
In your dreams!
…and…
We’re not dead, we just look it!
…but who knows? Outdated methods of communication – Morse code, fax machines – struggle to be understood over noise whipping like tent fabric in a blizzard. And then it’s done. More Children’s bible:
…before the cock crows, Peter…
Heh, spooky.
Lastly from me: the split tape Who can I help? / Back is Block? by faniel dord (which I’ll go out on a limb and suggest is a pseudonym of Daniel Ford) and Picking Speeds G.O.L (no, I don’t know what the acronym stands for either).
The faniel dord side is something completely unexpected: actual, y’know, music played on actual, y’know, instruments. Over the course of five songs guitar and ukulele are picked and twanged with aplomb, lyrics are sung in a clear and decipherable manner and a dog joins in for added down home, back porch authenticity. It is funny and charming and an absolute pleasure.
…which is also how the Picking Speeds G.O.L. side could be described, though for very different reasons. Reminding me of 2013’s Piano Sonatas for Prepared Oven Mitt, this is a similar stream of consciousness recording seemingly allowing unmediated access to core Robbieness. Is this what it’s like being him? Could be. We hear pocket scrabbling dictaphonics, details of surreal errands (returning socks to the butcher), bursts of mutant electro pop and in-character-with-husky-voice musings on traditional Christmas decorations (from which this article takes its title). Whilst acknowledging that to some this must sound like inane self-indulgence, I can’t get enough. If there was such a thing as Robbiecam I’d have it on constantly in a little box at the top right hand corner of my laptop screen. What is he playing at?
…and finally Luke on:
Picking Speeds – Afternoon Vans
I will get right to the grit of it and declare that this is a straight up shazzy slice of drizzly English weirdness: we get the junk foraging, we get the two note laments on knackered keyboards, we get looped synth squelch with sleazy crooning and we get untamed scree blurts all slapped across the platter with much gusto and flared nostril.
I can almost picture Robert finding a £5 keyboard in his local charity shop, selecting the preset ‘sex grind’ and frightening the old dears with pelvic thrusts before getting booted out for making cyber growls and dog bothering feedback. I guess this mental image is fed by the knowledge that the guy can carry off a purple leather jacket – not something you can say for most people. [Editor’s note: heh, heh – bang on. This criminally limited lathe cut is boss cracked and a high point on which to end our tour of Shack’s Cardboard Club.]
—ooOoo—
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