The Ampeater Review

Ampeater Streams the new Uncles record “m4w”

2012-01-12T16:51:19Z

Like a good parent, Ampeater loves each and every one of our digital 7-inches equally. Officially, that is. Behind closed doors, there’s a handful of artists we take home with us–they live on our iPods and in our car stereos. They know our personal Gmail addresses and together we’ve listened, hand in hand, to gentle folk ballads about Goatse. These are the privileged few, and we’d bend over backwards to see their records top the charts. If you’ve been paying any attention to Ampeater over the last few years, you might have noticed that Uncles is one of the elect. They first appeared with a digital 7-inch on AEM092, then returned will a full stream of their last album “Replacing Words With Other Words”. We brought them into the studio for a Casual Business session and included them on our first Concrete Experience mixtape. We’re now proud to offer their latest and greatest LP as a free stream.

	01 This Old Town Download audio file (01 This Old Town.mp3)		02 Green Apple Skoal Download audio file (02 Green Apple Skoal.mp3)
	03 Ballad of Lehigh Valley Download audio file (03 Ballad of Lehigh Valley.mp3)		04 Turkey Water Download audio file (04 Turkey Water.mp3)
	05 Bayberry Lane Download audio file (05 Bayberry Lane.mp3)		06 Clarinets Download audio file (06 Clarinets.mp3)
	07 Heavens Table Download audio file (07 Heavens Table.mp3)		08 m4w Download audio file (08 m4w.mp3)
	09 Palm Reader Download audio file (09 Palm Reader.mp3)		10 Darling Take Your Coat Download audio file (10 Darling Take Your Coat.mp3)
	11 Side of the City Download audio file (11 Side of the City.mp3)

AEM140 Slow Motion Centerfold

2011-12-24T18:56:37Z

Slow Motion Centerfold may seem rather anomalous when viewed alongside the artists we’ve featured in the past on the Ampeater Review. We tend to shy away from music with blatant popular appeal, and the music featured in this particular review has a lot of that. Both tracks could be massive radio hits. Nevertheless, I feel that the appeal of Slow Motion Centerfold’s music extends far beyond the popular and borders on the universal. The Nashville-based quintet draws together the best qualities of mainstream pop-rock, implements them with unparalleled expertise, and forgoes the undesirable bullshit often associated with the genre. Biases aside, it was a band that needed to be written up.

A-Side “Alma Rose” was the track that convinced me. I first heard it several months ago and it’s floated in my head ever since. “Alma Rose” is packed with hooks so memorable that each one could merit a hit and, in sum, they amount to an epic hit. It begins with an ephemeral and melodic guitar riff that soars when the full band kicks in behind it. From here the band sinks into a more subdued verse, fueled by a drum and bass groove reminiscent of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, circa 1999. That comparison is no doubt bolstered by the voice of Alex Hall, whose extensive dynamic phrasing and subtle drawl hint at the power hidden behind the smooth poise. When the chorus finally hits, it delivers all we could hope for, melodic and powerful.

“Alma Rose” derives its unique (oxymoronic?) polished power in part from expert production. Slow Motion Centerfold’s debut album, Rock the Body Language, bears the mark of producer Brian Virtue, whose résumé includes work with main-stream rock icons like Jane’s Addiction, 30 Seconds to Mars, Audioslave, Deftones, etc.
The album is a bit of a throwback to these commercially successful rockers—the crunch of power chords and crash of symbols come across as heavy yet accessible.

Commercial may seem like the antithesis of indie, but it doesn’t have to be. To be commercial, an artist must be popular. An artist cannot be popular unless it appeals to the listener. When you tweak that notion, the rejection of popular music signifies the rejection of the listener. We must then be suspicious of the artist that claims to not give a shit about the public, then, for such claims are inherently paradoxical. An artist with a true distain for the public wouldn’t bother to release an album or perform a show. To do so engages the listener and invites feedback, whether positive or negative. So, in a sense, doesn’t all music seek to be popular?

“Alma Rose” contains much more than the fluff we’d expect from a track with such immediate appeal. The title lyric is a reference to a violinist who was deported to a concentration camp, where he was forced to lead an orchestra of prisoners as they played for their lives. B-Side “Super Grand Master” reveals a similar hidden weight. On first glance, it seems like a textbook pop-rock anthem with so many memorable sections that it’s hard to determine which one is the real chorus. (Is it the vocal harmonies at 43-seconds? The hits at 49-seconds? The unexpected heartbreak chord and reggae backbeat at 53 seconds?) Hidden behind these immediate pleasures, however, the lyrics reveal a mix of highbrow geekdom and punk attitude. The title is a reference to chess, and the verses were conceived as a “string of couplets.” Meanwhile, guitarist Chris Smith describes the principle theme as a “rally cry against narrow minded anti-visionaries who sleep in silk pajamas and are scared of people with Mohawks.”

Slow Motion Centerfold manages to weave these seemingly disparate elements together with ease. That stems in part from the fact that the band is comprised of childhood friends and includes a pair of brothers. Smith notes that “longterm friendship and brotherhood make the songwriting process more challenging but more rewarding. There is a great deal of trust and awareness of what we are all capable of contributing to a song, so if someone’s slacking, they aren’t going to get away with it.” It may be a mixed blessing, but I feel as if the bond between members is a significant element in the equation—it endows the music with added personality and comfort. Process may also factor into it. Slow Motion Centerfold’s compositions all stem from instrumental hooks but were developed piece by piece, as the band members were once scattered across different states. Hall observes that, “We used to write songs by sending pieces of demos through email. Then we’d put everything together during live rehearsals. We still work in this way even though we live in the same zip code.” In the process, we see an inherent balance between the immediate that the reflective—creation and revision.

We can all rattle off a short list of artists that have managed to appeal to the public and the critics alike. However, we tend to view these artists as an exception to the rule, and marvel at how they’ve struck a balance. Slow Motion Centerfold has carved a much more holistic path. Where other artists have seen inherent conflict and struggled for compromise, Slow Motion Centerfold has found the potential for symbiosis. Popular and immediate appeal serves as a gateway to the heavier stuff. It does not detract from the more enduring qualities of the music but, rather, allows the impatient easy access to those qualities.

I’ve been meaning to write up Slow Motion Centerfold for several months. Instead I procrastinated. With each month, I was afraid that I’d miss my window, and that the band would make it big before I got to it. Lucky for me, that hasn’t happened yet, but I’m certain it’s just a matter of time. Now and then a hit comes along that deserves the heavy rotation it gets. The two tracks featured in this review could be those hits. I wouldn’t mind hearing them in car commercials or piped into the aisles at CVS. For now, though, let’s enjoy them from the comfort of our home stereos.

Nate Greenberg

Side A — Alma Rose Download audio file (01 Alma Rose.mp3)

Side B — Super Grand Master Download audio file (02 Super Grand Master.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

AEM139 All Fox

2011-12-19T00:16:10Z

I work at a desk. It’s a big long desk, and most of the time I have it all to myself. So, I listen to music all day long. Sometimes I go on shuffle adventures, sometimes I let whole albums or compilations play through, but more often than not I get stuck on a song that becomes an anthem of sorts for the day. I get so hooked, so intensely enthused about a single musical event that I seldom make it all the way through on the first attempt. After several repetitions of the first verse and chorus I finally let it play to completion, and then again, and again. When I find a gem like this, it goes in a special playlist. The whole process repeats until the playlist swells to over an hour, at which point I send the whole damn thing out to friends as Force Music On You (FMOU) volume X. It’s tough to send folks music without overtones of pretension, so I eschew any greater sense of order and present the whole thing alphabetically by artist, with little to no context or explanation. Of the hundred or so people who subscribe, about 17 download the mix, I would guess maybe 10 actually listen to it, and 2 or 3 send me a note explaining why they loved or hated a particular song. On the week I included All Fox’s “Fit To Advise”, I received 9 e-mails asking if I could send over the complete album, and 7 follow-up emails asking if I had any more All Fox albums. It’s fairly rare for me to include an Ampeater band in an FMOU, let alone one that’s still pending consideration for a review. And yet, All Fox defied precedence and spread like wildfire from the Ampeater submissions box to my personal favorites playlist, to the “most played” section of my closest friends’ iTunes. We do a lot of explaining here on Ampeater, in an attempt to justify exactly why a certain artist merits such a bright spotlight of intellectual scrutiny, but All Fox needs no coaxing to break through the shell of relative obscurity. The music catapults itself across whatever divide supposedly exists between artists and listeners, and once it’s playing you have little choice left but to move and be moved by it.

All Fox is primarily Alex Fox Tschan, a 25 year old from Deltaville, VA who cites his father as his greatest hero, and was very nearly Dr. Alex Tschan, but for a bold decision to redirect his sights towards Brooklyn and a subsequent renaissance in his creative faculties. He left Virginia Tech in 2008 with a degree in Biochemistry, but with a penchant for deep thought and a sense that there remained something unfulfilled in his musical potential. Tschan has been taking tentative stabs at music making for the last ten years, but only saw his talent develop during college, as he found confidence in his once timid voice and realized that he would only (and could only) full explore the range possibilities available to him if he focused solely on his craft. Medical school isn’t exactly known for the range of diversions available during one’s free time, so he put his foot down and kicked a hitch in the hitherto straight-arrow path his life had taken to date. Working crap jobs for crap pay, Tschan made use of the time afforded to him by a flexible schedule to make music. In an interview with Sweet Tea Pumpkin Pie, he reflected, “For me, despite being broke, it has given me more energy and happiness to put towards my friendships, ideas, poems, songs, etc. than I could have ever dreamed. It has been the most rewarding and prolific time of my life, and it feels like it’s just starting.”

Leaving Alex Tschan at home in Virginia, it was All Fox that made the migration to Brooklyn, and he made it with an astonishing purity of intent. Long since a mecca for rising stars, New York has a tendency to attract the kind of assholes who buy guitars to “hit it big”, “make bank”, and “get laid”. All Fox came to our fair town with the hope of growing his art, escaping parental and societal expectations, and discovering what it is that makes music a successful medium for the transmission of ideas and emotions. Whether it’s work on his latest LP, screenplay, poem, or community project, All Fox has the insight of a genuine artist, and the dedication to produce work at a prolific rate. When I last wrote him about his Ampeater submission, he had not one, not two, but several albums worth of material for my perusal that had been completed in the months since his original submission. The songs on this 7-inch are culled from his first full-length solo album Peaceful Heart. Performed with a coterie of musicians on a huge variety of instruments, the album lands somewhere between Sufjan Stevens circa 2005 and Animal Collective arranged for chamber orchestra. Influences range from Sam Cooke to Walt Whitman, and seep out into the music as it skirts the edges of one’s expectations. All Fox’s songs assume a kind of crystalline structure, darting here and there with the confidence that its message can be conveyed in a more sophisticated manner than most pop songs presume. He goes so far as to assume an intelligent listener, or at the very least one that leaves a channel open for suggestion. Songs can take a number of approaches to satisfying listeners. Sometimes they’re linear, moving from Point A to Point B in a swell that peaks and then recedes; sometimes they’re circular, progressing in closed sequential loops of verse, pre chorus, and chorus; but sometimes they’re a wonderful pastiche of influences, attitudes, and impulses that suggest more than define the final destination of a particular songspace. It’s this latter mode that represents the predominant approach used by All Fox, and it’s indicative of a genuinely great mind at work, crafting something potent on a higher order than the blues and folk based idioms that are mixed so thoroughly with American soil you can practically taste them in a McDonalds hamburger. All Fox makes music that’s ever so slightly foreign to the average Joe, but that nevertheless resonates deeply with something fundamental in the human spirit.

In his Ampeater submission, All Fox included a link to download the full album, complete with lyric sheets for each song. Tschan’s words are poetic, and it’s but a small stretch to assume that many of them might have begun as actual poems. I had the chance to speak with Alex on the phone, and he came across as part scholar, part artist, and part philosopher, dispensing wisdom on music (both his own and other people’s) with a kind of insight and reflection that’s rare in young musicians. He explained, “a poem, and a song, and a story, a piece of art, a movie, they’re all the same thing–they could all be called ‘Fit to Advise’”. It’s the notion of transferral across media, that a song possesses an essence that can be conveyed in another form. It’s a more extreme version of the reduction that happens between record and stage; a great symphonic epic performed on solo acoustic guitar is still that same song, its essence is just captured using a different set of tools. I get the sense that All Fox would make music with the world if he could wrap his hands around mountains and smash them together. He explained, “Melodies happen in my head, and it’s my job to make sure I get them down. Sometimes I hear whole songs, fully orchestrated, but I don’t always have the tools to make them a reality.” The success of A-side “Fit To Advise” is in joining together odd rhythmic fragments into a song structure that’s wholly unorthodox and yet captures listeners in an organic flow from section to section. It’s almost classical in its motif-oriented composition, introducing sound objects or textures that grow, evolve, and re-appear at various points throughout the song. Every word, every sound is intentional. When you listen, focus not only on the music or lyrics, but on the intersection of the two. Pay attention to how the soundscape colors the text, and whether it remains constant or fluctuates across multiple repetitions. There’s meaning stuffed into every crevice of this song, and I question whether I’m “Fit to Advise” (har har) on the author’s primary intent, or whether there even exists such a thing in the complicated brain of Alex Tschan, but I nevertheless present the lyrics here for your consideration as you listen:

Hey little brother! Let’s go for a ride!
But clean that look off your eyes first.
Man, I told you before! … if i’m fit to drive, then I am sure as hell fit to advise you.

Hey little brother, whatcha got on your mind???
I guarantee you I’ve been below that line.
So I wouldn’t worry!
Between drugs & women… you’ll be doin’ alright if at least one ain’t hard to find.

I know you burn with desire, but easy tiger, she’s so lovely & complex.
Please, take my advice before you start…

I know you’re dying to try it, but easy tiger… have you researched its full effects?
Please, take my advice before you start…

And if you’re ever feeling expired! Well, easy tiger, it goes one right through the head!
Please, take my advice before you start…

B-Side “Engelhard Grocery 1997: Mama’s Outta Stamps” is a beautiful ascent to an extended instrumental outro. After a single verse we’re lifted up by layered guitars, strings, and scattered percussion. It’s a cathartic release after the relative chaos of “Fit to Advise”. I was recently asked by a music loving friend if electronic instruments were now the predominant method of creating music. The answer is certainly “no”, but that’s almost beside the point. That some people even consider this a binary question is my main concern, and a continued source of bewilderment to me. Most of All Fox’s songs exist in a realm that pull heavily from both sides of this spectrum–acoustic banjos mingle with heavily processed electric guitars, digital production, orchestral strings (sometimes electrified), and even oboe. Most people develop proficiency with a tool and then only later discover the creative possibilities made possible by the skills they’ve acquired. All Fox turns this paradigm on its head and brings artifacts into being almost as an act of immaculate creation, inspired by nothing more than some whisper in the back of his thoughts that he’s then able to harness and make real. The result is not only praiseworthy but almost enviable. He’s currently working as part of a collective, inspired by the psychology of Jung and the poetry of Rumi. I’ve been sworn to secrecy on the details of the operation, but there are exciting things coming our way from All Fox, so stay tuned while he learns to move mountains. In the interim, you can download the complete album at BandCamp for $8, or save some dough and steal it from this artist-endorsed MediaFire link.

Ben Heller

Side A — Fit to Advise Download audio file (01 Fit to Advise.mp3)

Side B — Engelhard Grocery 1997: Mama’s Outta Stamps Download audio file (02 Engelhard Grocery 1997 Mamas Outta Stamps.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

AEM138 Rocketship Park

2011-11-30T16:59:54Z

Rocketship Park draws its name from a playground in the hometown of creator Josh Kaufman. It’s an appropriate metaphor for an artist whose music balances bittersweet reflection with a hopeful childlike wonder. At some point we realize that we’re too big to fit through the mouth of the rocket shaped slide but, with luck, we never forget how much fun it used to be. Kaufman remembers and conveys that in the music on his new album, Cakes & Cookies. Here too, we get a convenient metaphor. The album entices the sweet-toothed listener with a cover illustration of the eponymous delectables and a unique promotional offer—each copy purchased comes with a free homemade cookie! While one must never judge an album on the dessert, here it provides a taste of the contents. Rocketship Park’s original blend of symphonic folk-pop is rich, immediate, and above all, homemade. NPR noted that it offers “a sense of peace and nostalgia that grounds even the most anxious of listeners.”

Rocketship Park is the main creative outlet for Kaufman, a Brooklyn-based instrumentalist, vocalist, songwriter, producer, and pâtissier. Kaufman has been an invisible force in the scene for several years. His talents as a side-man and producer have brought him to the stage and the studio with the likes of Dawn Landes, Caithlin de Marrais, The National, Josh Ritter, Yellowbirds, Balthrop Alabama, and Higgins. He has also collaborated with previously featured artists Benji Cossa and the Unsacred Hearts. Kaufman seems at ease in the limelight, though, and the new album reveals that his most impressive talents may be compositional.

A-Side “Swan” is a small masterpiece—a warm and comfortable track with the potential to provoke a profound emotional response. One would not often use the term epic to describe a two-minute composition but it’s the only appropriate term here. The track begins with a simple but powerful chord progression that swells with each successive repetition. “Swan” reaches phenomenal heights, but it never loses the stable foundation on which it is based. With the heart of a folk ballad, it remains sincere and straightforward. Acoustic guitar and banjo dominate the mix, while innumerable textures flesh out the rough edges with a lush background ambiance. The brass arrangements, subtle and beautiful, are responsible for much of the effect, with contributions to harmonic depth that makes the simple composition glow. Lyrics prove to be another focal point. The track revolves around a single phrase:

I tried to see him,
but he was halfway gone.
Just a battered bird now,
he used to be a strong, strong swan.

The sentimental image evokes a sense of loss that darkens the euphoria of the instrumentals. The words don’t sink in when they are first stated, but they become more and more powerful with each repetition. On one level, they suggest a cynical reversal of the ugly duckling’s maturation into an elegant swan. But I suspect that the message is not just cynicism. Kaufman’s choice to ruminate on the line—rather than to bury it behind more words—emphasizes its emotional weight. When I reflect upon the image, I do not feel duped by an empty metaphor but, rather, privy to an intimate and heartfelt confession.

B-Side “See You” takes the same essential ingredients and draws them out over a much longer span. Kaufman delights us again with a simple chord progression full of harmonic momentum. The dominant hook is the falsetto vocal line that delineates verses as an interlude. However, Kaufman remains a compositional minimalist, and lets the track unfold at a leisurely pace. When the layers of horns, washed out guitars, and noises finally escalate, they seem like a meditation on the words themselves. Although the song clocks in at nearly five minutes, it seems to bypass time altogether. The loops continue to weave on in our sub subconscious even after the music itself has faded out.

Cakes & Cookies marks a slight shift in process since Off & Away, the artist’s debut album released in 2007. Rocketship Park has downsized from a band to a solo initiative. In some senses, the shift is just semantic. Kaufman has always been the main impetus behind the project, and even the material on the new album includes important contributions from guests—most notably, Dawn Landes, Bryan Devendorf, Travis Harrison, and Nate Martinez. Some of these musicians also appeared on the artist’s debut. However, Rocketship Park has coalesced primarily around the visions and efforts of Kaufman. In another recent review, I noted the Toronto-based artist Del Bel’s evolution from a one-man studio project to a twelve-member collective posed to take the stage. Rocketship Park has headed in the reverse direction. Kaufman never lost his original vision of a grand, symphonic sound, with rich layers and textures. Nevertheless, the intimate atmosphere of the studio seems to have meshed well with the individual and reflective nature of the music. Kaufman uses a lot of overdubs, but it’s not about the overdubs. He employs them as a means rather than an end, to emphasize compositions that remain simple and personal at the core. Even when I listen to these multilayered recordings, I can’t shake the feeling that Kaufman is seated over in the corner of the room, strumming a battered acoustic and singing his lyrics directly at me.

A homemade cookie has universal appeal. However, it’s also a nice gesture that illustrates the very essence of Rocketship Park. In an age where most people get their music on the internet, the artist becomes distanced from the listener. This is true of double-platinum mainstream artists and obscure independent artists alike. But the cookie is a solution—it’s a warm personal touch in a cold digital era. I feel pretty much the same way about RocketshipPark. Kaufman’s music doesn’t merely satisfy your sweet-tooth, but also resonates on a deeper level. You’ll find yourself drawn to it for the same reasons you favor your grandmother’s recipe over the store-bought brand. The ingredients are preservative free, and they’re baked with undeniable love.

Nate Greenberg

Side A — Swan Download audio file (01 Swan.mp3)

Side B — See You Download audio file (02 See You.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

AEM029-1 The Unsacred Hearts (Follow-Up Review)

2011-11-14T19:22:50Z

Issued almost two years ago on November 30th 2009, AEM029 introduced The Unsacred Hearts as a band in the midst of a sea change, caught between their early roots as a firebrand post-punk outfit from Blue Point Long Island and an uncertain future as a group of poetically inclined and musically intelligent adults with jobs, law degrees, wives, and children. For the last five years The Unsacred Hearts have been working towards their latest album, fixing on it like a distant star that’s always visible but just barely out of reach. Instrumental versions of the songs have been floating around for years, serving as the soundtrack to band members’ lives, both informing and being informed by this great transition. Drummer Travis Harrison even walked down the aisle to an early version of B-Side “Flesh and Bone”. Working off and on at Serious Business Music with a coterie of friends, the album began to take shape, and at last The Unsacred Hearts completed and released The Honor Bar. We’re thrilled to follow up on our original 7-inch with two tracks from this release, which is available now on CD and Cassette from Serious Business Records.

I spoke with drummer, producer, and engineer Travis Harrison about the new record and the impetus behind The Unsacred Hearts’ change in musical direction. It was, he explained, an attempt to make music that was more accessible, and that he could put on at home without being asked to turn it down or off. The band simply wanted to make the kind of music that they themselves wished to listen to. After years of punk-inspired invective, The Hearts wanted to recast themselves in a mold that spoke more directly to their current situation. When their self-titled debut was released in 2004 they didn’t have families or careers. There’s a reason that the music-to-beverage-matching website drinkify.org lists “The Unsacred Hearts” recipe as 4 oz. Marijuana, 4 oz. Ginger Ale, and 1 oz. Macallan Scotch. They were once young dudes making loud music. Now they’re medium-young dudes making listenable music. It’s a change that makes most musicians uncomfortable, like they’re giving up some essential part of their being by sacrificing the attitudes they developed as teenagers. But what The Unsacred Hearts understand is that their energy and enthusiasm isn’t gone, but rather rechanneled into creating a lush musical territory they were once too drunk or nearsighted to fully render. Singer and lyricist Joe Willie sums this up wonderfully, “While we made our bones on ultra-distilled rock and roll, weird chords and wild live sets, we always led with the heart. Loud and fast, yes, but the sonic boom was just the straightest line to the truth.”

If “the truth” is something that can be distilled into a song (and I believe it is), then Joe Willie is a kind of musical oracle. In his earlier days he came across as a frenzied beat poet frontman, as if someone had given Jim Morrison the stage at an open mic and handed him an eight ball of cocaine. On The Unsacred Hearts’ latest material he comes off as sage-like, split somewhere between Tom Waits, Lou Reed, and Gil Scott-Heron. The acoustic landscape of this album is less jagged than in past attempts, and Joe Willie’s spoken vocals float atop a more serene trajectory, allowing for greater focus on a blended aesthetic and lyrical turns of phrase. In his summary of the album, which is itself a masterful bit of prose, he turns back to New York as a cyclical influence on The Honor Bar. He explains, “The Honor Bar evokes the city of New York itself or, rather, the city resounds in The Honor Bar. The maelstrom and beauty of the city comes across in the sparse, unerring beats, the stark instrumental phrases, the myriad voices in whispers and shouts. Webs of sounds, words and images — all traffic on the Bowery and midtown sky scrapers — juxtapose with the sweet intimacy of the fire escape and 2AM walks down solitary side-streets.” It’s a soundtrack not for New York City, but an abstraction of New York City, for those precious few moments when you lose yourself completely in the web of monolithic architecture and compact humanity.

A-Side and title track “The Honor Bar” fades in to a tumble of percussive thunder and giving way to hand drum percussion and a driving figure on acoustic guitar set to the walking pace of your average long-legged New Yorker. The instrumentation is lush, with glockenspiel, bass, piano, accordion, electric guitar, and a compressed drum set added to the mix at the chorus. There’s an electronic vibe to this track that’s unheard on previous recordings–the tinkered drum sound and distorted melodic figure on the outro all hint at an extended sonic palette for The Unsacred Hearts. It all serves as a backdrop for Joe Willie’s baritone musings, which are heard with a new depth and resonance thanks to the relative tranquility of the musical accompaniment. This was the last song completed for The Honor Bar, and best encapsulates the attitudes driving the band’s project in self-reinvention. This is music I could read to, music I could work to, music I could put on and ignore, but what makes it special is that I wouldn’t actually want to do any of those things. Something about it continues to command listeners’ full attention, and it does so through a great depth of musical vision rather than pure volume. This more than anything is a sign that The Unsacred Hearts aren’t just growing up and continuing to make records–they’re maturing.

B-Side “Flesh & Bone” is a lyrical pastiche of musical and literary references. Some are undoubtedly intentional and some maybe incidental, but none come off as heavy-handed. Rather, they succeed in evoking the spirit and ambiance of entire songs and imparting some part of their essence and meaning on “Flesh & Bone”. The complete lyrics are below, with footnotes:

Picture me, picture you, in a picture book(1) we’re paging through
Picture me with the slings and the arrows(2), picture me when the dirt road narrows
On a hill, far from home, straits of Gibraltar, streets of Rome(3)
Mississippi River rolling slow, lost in the rain, Juarez, Mexico(4)

When you’re tired, when you’re on your own
I’ll be there, flesh and bone
I miss you, baby, when the river bends(5), I miss you, baby, when the dirt road ends
Picture me, picture you
Picture me, perchance to dream(6), picture you, beside the stream

When you’re weary, when you’re on your own
I’ll be there, flesh and bone

1.) The Kinks — Picture Book: “Picture book, pictures of your mama, taken by your papa a long time ago. // Picture book, of people with each other, to prove they love each other a long time ago.”

2.) Shakespeare — Hamlet: “To be, or not to be, that is the question: // Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer // The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, // Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, // And by opposing end them?”

3.) Bob Dylan — When I Paint My Masterpiece: “Oh, the streets of Rome are filled with rubble / Ancient footprints are everywhere / You can almost think that you’re seein’ double / On a cold, dark night on the Spanish Stairs”

4.) Bob Dylan — Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues: “When you’re lost in the rain in Juarez // And it’s Eastertime too // And your gravity fails // And negativity don’t pull you through // Don’t put on any airs // When you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue // They got some hungry women there // And they really make a mess outta you”

5.) The Country Gentlemen — Down Where: “Down where the river bends // With God’s help we’ll meet again // Under the same old sycamore tree // Proud of each other in the land of the free // I’ll go down to the ocean blue // Just as close as I can to you // This old ocean might keep us apart // But it won’t keep you dear from out of my heart”

6.) Shakespeare — Hamlet: “To die, to sleep // To sleep—perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub! // For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, // When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, // Must give us pause—there’s the respect // That makes calamity of so long life.”

These references weave an intricate subtext to the song, evoking numerous depictions of death and forcing us to consider the nature of human memories and interactions. The Picture Book reference suggests that we document our own lives only to convince ourselves that we’ve had substantial experiences once we can no longer feel them so acutely. And yet, though memories fade, some experiences persist across time, and there’s an element of humanity’s presence that we can seemingly access through locality or state of mind, as indicated by the reference to When I Paint My Masterpiece. But through all this, through hardships and struggle, what should be our relationship with death? Is it an escape or a demise? Joe Willie engages this conversation with a text of his own, profoundly contemplating man’s position on this earth and our relationship to a hazy past and a precarious future. This interaction is realized musically as an acoustic ballad, giving way to vocal counterpoint between Joe Willie and guest vocalist Jaymay, in an exchange that grapples with the eternal nature of true love, which is wholly supported by Willie’s lyrics and simultaneously problematized by the various references sprinkled throughout the song. Once fully teased out, it’s a brilliant polemic that’s typical of Joe Willie’s remarkable insight as a lyricist.

To round out his description of The Honor Bar, Joe Willie writes, “The Honor Bar is certainly not for everyone and neither are The Unsacred Hearts. When we formed, our only goal was to make rock n roll. We did not ask, what is cool, what do people want to hear, or what should we wear. The only question was, how do we keep playing rock n roll? And, over the years, we kept asking that question with each new song, each live set bringing a response. When we last asked, the answer was The Honor Bar.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Ben Heller

Side A — The Honor Bar Download audio file (01 The Honor Bar.mp3)

Side B — Flesh and Bone Download audio file (02 Flesh and Bone.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

AEM137 Del Bel

2011-11-07T20:57:27Z

Del Bel began in the studio as an outlet for the compositions of Tyler Belluz, a Toronto-based multi-instrumentalist. The talents of Belluz must run deep, since to list them all on the Del Bel press-kit required the liberal adjustment of the page layout. He is the principal compositional force behind the collective, and plays double-bass, electric-bass, drums, guitar, accordion, organ, and, musical saw on the artist’s forthcoming debut, Oneiric. From what I gather, the final instrument on the list is not some sort of saw-toothed synthesizer but a very real and very sharp handsaw played with a bow, much like a violin.

Belluz has the credentials to be a one man band, but he’s also recruited ample assistance since he began work on Oneiric in 2010. Del Bel has evolved into a collective effort, and the album credits reveal—when you make it past the surprise mention of the musical saw—that Belluz is supported by an ensemble of epic scale and experience. To list all the projects in which the collective’s dozen members have been involved would require a veritable retrospective of Toronto indie-rock since the turn of the millennium. Members of the collective hail from Broken Social Scene, Do Make Say Think, Bry Webb Band, Happiness Project, Ohbijou, Flowers of Hell, Sun Parlour Players, and countless other bands that I haven’t bothered to list, but which are probably worthy of mention. The link between Del Bel and these illustrious acts, however, is cemented by more than shared members. Del Bel is a child of the creative orgy that spawned super-groups like Broken Social Scene in the first place. These artists share a collective heritage in an era of free love and free downloads, where a band does not represent an exclusive relationship, and where the amount of projects a respectable musician may be involved in is limited only by the number of accounts he or she can bother to register on Facebook and MySpace. The inherent philosophical framework seems exemplified by the scene in Toronto, although Belluz insists that it’s become a worldwide phenomenon. “I don’t think Toronto has more collectives then other cities,” he explains. “In our case, we don’t want to be confined to playing the same stuff, day in and day out. It’s quite exciting trying to remember the songs in the middle of concerts.”

Del Bel plans to perform with a (marginally) stripped-down ensemble of nine. “I still have other people that recorded on the album that want to join live” Belluz jokes, “but I think I gotta keep this band smaller than a hockey team.” Already, the collective is so large that transportation to shows requires a caravan of automobiles. Nevertheless, with nearly all nine members involved in three or four additional active projects, I wondered whether logistics might prove problematic. “I haven’t run into too many problems trying to organize this 9 person band,” Belluz explains, “but by all means, I need to book these people way in advance.” With regard to creative process, Del Bel seems to have happened upon a functional dynamic rare for bands of such size. Belluz oversees the artistic direction of the collective, but encourages other members to contribute to the compositional process, with the observation that, “it would seem a bit controlling to direct someone on how to cry into their instrument for desired effect.” Thus, Del Bel has coalesced into a more permanent fixture, poised to step from the shadow of the prolific resumes of its membership.

Oneiris, a term that signifies a surreal state, is an apt title for the album—slated to be released on Friday, November 11th in CD, vinyl, and mp3 format—which evokes a thick dreamlike atmosphere. Like a dream, its full of unexpected twists and turns. The eleven tracks on the album all sound very different. A-Side “No Reservation” and B-Side “Invisible” give a pretty accurate indication of the vast range of styles represented. Nevertheless, the tracks seem united by a common bond that is difficult to pinpoint.

A significant part of the bond is Lisa Conway, whose dynamic vocals and fresh lyrics mark the Del Bel aesthetic. Belluz describes Conway as a major creative force behind the project, and frames her role in the band as all but crucial. Therefore, I was surprised to learn that Oneiris was initially recorded as an instrumental album. Belluz hints that it took a bit of coercion to get long-term co-collaborator Conway on board with the project at first. “She only quit three—maybe four—times,” he jokes. “Technically the songs were conceived as weird little instrumentals. But I knew in my heart she would be the (only) one to sing on them.” Upon further listens, however, we may notice the mark Conway’s indecision has left on the music. Del Bel seems to draw its unique personality from the uncertain maturation process. To imagine how it might have sounded otherwise would be to imagine Harry Potter without the scar, or to imagine the Canadian topology unmarred by glaciers that carved it’s lakes and mountains. “I still can’t imagine anyone else’s reaction to trying to fit vocals lines to the instrumental tracks, confesses Belluz. Conway’s additions are shaped by the unique demands she faced in fitting vocal parts to compositions that had developed without them. She has taken great care not to intrude upon the music’s instrumental core. The tracks unfold at a leisurely rate, and Oneiris includes several instrumental interludes. For instance,“Invisible” forces the listener to wait nearly a third of the track time for vocals to drop. When they finally do, Conway’s line maintains a tasteful deference to the ensemble, buried behind wispy synths and a persistent piano drone.

In general, Del Bel devotes a lot more attention to instrumental detail than the typical indie band—even the typical twelve member indie band, if such an archetype exists. This comes across not only in the shape of each composition, but also in the intriguing arrangement of acoustic and electric elements. The whispers of keyboards wash over earthy drum grooves and the unpredictable slaps and creaks of a double bass. Ample credit is also owed to Heather Kirby, who mixed the tracks. All tracks on Oneiris suggest a focus on timbre over melody or harmony. “No Reservation”, for instance, builds toward a chorus unusual for its stark lack of harmonic movement, anchored by a memorable riff forcefully delivered in unison by vocals and instruments. The tune evokes the cabaret-jazz of a bygone era, but it does so with deceptive minimalism, capturing the vibe but rejecting the details. I recalled a memorable trumpet solo on the track but upon repeat listens, I suddenly realized that there is no trumpet solo whatsoever. A few growls and single-note burst evoke the sensation as convincingly all the borrowed notes of a Dizzie Gillespie solo. In that respect, Oneiric seems philosophically a closer relative to a film score than any album by the indie-rock collectives from which it draws members. And indeed, Del Bel has contributed to numerous film scores, which is a nice accomplishment if you remember that the group has yet to play its first show or release its first album.

In short, the ingenuity of Del Bel shines through in the grand scale of the vision, and in the tactful precision with which it has been realized. Listeners will be seduced by the top-notch production and arrangement, while the emotional weight of the composition and nuanced musicianship will keep them hooked. This music has a lot of layers, and it’s bound to resonate with most audiences.

Nate Greenberg

Side A — No Reservation Download audio file (01 No Reservation.mp3)

Side B — Invisible Download audio file (02 Invisible.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

CE02 Concrete Experience Digital Mixtape: Ritual

2011-10-30T17:54:13Z

“Just Like a Drummer” — The Wave Pictures (AEM083)
“Adderech Arada” — Debo Band (AEM016)
“You Lit Up For Me” — Spirit Kid (AEM026)
“Malea” – Darlingside (AEM121)
“Feathers & Fur” — Hank & Pigeon (AEM110)
“Policia” — Pistolera (AEM039)
“Sway” — Chrome & Ice Queen (AEM124)
“Hymnal” — Jerome Ellis (AEM059)
“27 Strangers” — Villagers (AEM112)

I grew up in Boston, where I was brainwashed from birth to love the Red Sox. Despite its liberal reputation, Boston’s commitment to open-mindedness falters when it comes to baseball. If two men fall in love and decide to marry, they will generally find acceptance—unless one of them roots for the Yankees, in which case there will be hell to pay.

Naturally, raised in such an environment, I was a devout follower of the Red Sox by the time I had learned to use a toilet. My loyalty was completely without motive, conditioned almost completely by the geographical coincidence of my birth. Nevertheless, I viewed it as a personal choice in which I could take due pride. I declared my colors—the same red, white, and blue of the star spangled banner, but far more meaningful to me) and pledged allegiance. In the years to come, I mastered long division by calculating the batting averages of my favorite sluggers, and baseball was the closest thing I had to a religion.

Of course, my unfounded fervor eventually burnt itself out. It’s been six years since I moved away from Boston, but even before that I had ceased to take even a passive interest in sports. Gradually my childhood heroes drifted from memory, displaced by new concerns and interests. However, there is still one ballplayer who stands out from the others, and it isn’t for his accomplishments on the field. I recall Nomar Garciaparra because, every time he stepped up to the plate, he would systematically adjust the velcro straps on his batting gloves—left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right. It was a ritual that fascinated me as a child, but which seems significant even now.

Most rituals—no matter how profound or banal—can be broken into simple steps which appear inconsequential in isolation. Only together do they evoke a tradition far grander. A man passes his hand from spectacles, testicles, wallet, to watch. He is crossing himself. Miss a step or reverse the order and he becomes just a pervert groping himself. Many rituals are so deeply embedded into the course of life that we don’t notice them. If somebody sneezes, you say “God bless you.” If somebody hands you a joint, you puff, puff, and pass it to the left hand side. We rarely stop and wonder why. And yet, it’s the repetition of these baby steps—always in the same exact sequence—that transforms the mundane into the sacred and gives definition to the infinite possibility of existence.

Several tracks on this mix speak to the theme of ritual in this way; they chronicle everyday events with precision and insight to reveal the hidden inner ritual. So it is when Conor J O’Brien of Villagers transforms his daily commute into an epic journey in the track “27 Strangers”

The bus was late
It forced us all to congregate
27 strangers made to stand and wait

With the title lyric, O’Brien cuts the undefined crowd into twenty-seven individuals, whose daily rituals intersect in the melting-pot of public transportation. The lyrics spin a beautiful tale—subject matter universal enough that anyone could relate, yet treated with such precision that most listeners will feel drawn to look at their daily grinds with heightened awareness. As the story unfolds, O’Brien subtly introduces the idea of inevitability, an unnamed force that guides our everyday actions.

That’s why I’m late.
My dearest one, what can I say?
And tomorrow it could be the same,
When I do it all again.

The narrator suggests that his path is not a choice, and does not make excuses for an action, the repetition of which seems destined. Indeed, what can he say?

“In The Ridge” by Hank & Pigeon approaches the theme from the same general tack but from somewhat stranger perspective—that of a pigeon. The pigeon character is a regular character throughout the duo’s work but, in this track, he is introduced. Generally, we don’t read too much into the actions of pigeons. They eat, they shit, and they sleep. After all, we’re talking about an animal with a brain the size of an acorn. But here, the pigeons actions take on a new weight, and become a presence far more dear than construction, noisy neighbors, or other more plausible explanations for the strange sound guitarist/vocalist Alex Wernquest hears emanating from his apartment walls every day. Actually, it’s unclear whether the lead pigeon is real or imagined. But as a tangible and physical embodiment of the phantom noise, the bird becomes a sort of breathing and feathered ritual.

Pushing our tolerance for absurdity one step further, The Wave Pictures draws attention to ritual though highly imaginative and bizarre imagery. The sparse aesthetic and simple pop progression of “Just Like A Drummer” leave the listener free to focus on the lyrics—thankfully, since they are both vivid and unusual enough to require our full attention. The first time I tuned in, they washed over me as a nonsensical wave of the whimsical. It was only gradually, that I began to sense that the words relate a more tangible storyline.

The sun came in like a pack of orange spaniels
Through the window, under the ledge
Under the curtain, on their bellies
Creeping and bending

What is the story behind the words? Well, I’m pretty sure it’s about sunlight—probably daybreak—creeping through the window. Yet clearly, the point of interest is not the action, but rather the extended metaphor. There’s nothing inherently exceptional about sunlight, but here we view it as a pack of orange spaniels (whom I envision to be invertebrate jelly-dogs) snaking over the windowsill. “Just Like A Drummer” is everyday life as seen through the eyes of a genius, a lunatic, or both, under which even an image so cliché as daybreak may thrill and delight. Lead singer David Tattersal’s desperate whine accentuates the frantic intensity of this unusual mind-frame. Yet , perhaps the true accomplishment of the lyrics is the way in which all the extended metaphors weave together into a semi-coherent tapestry. The story hinges on the refrain, “Just like a drummer, I wake up to the thunder, of your typewriter.” These three phrases suddenly make sense together, just like the motion of a hand from spectacles to testicles, so on, and so forth. But the order is completely bastardized in the extended outro, which implements brilliantly a tactic usually left up to third graders in school districts too poor to afford plastic recorders—the round. In this case, the round consists of a three phrases segment, the peak of one cycle overlapping the trough of another, such that they connect in new and bizarre ways:

I wake up with the thunder (just like a drummer)
Of your typewriter (wake up with the thunder)
Just like a drummer (Of your typewriter)

The mismatched round pairs phrases with echoes that don’t make sense. To compound the chaos, this three phrase repetition is pitted against a four chord progression. What seems like a beginning becomes the middle in the next repetition, the entire refrain cascading into a figurative Ouroboros—the mythical serpent perpetually swallowing his own tail. It’s no wonder that Tattersal can’t help but crack a laugh after a couple of cycles.

Life is full of rituals, but rarely are these practices so pronounced—and so taken for granted—as in music. Of course, every genre has its own specific set of rituals. A pop ballad builds from verse to pre-chorus to chorus, with a bridge inserted after the second or third chorus and, perhaps, a double chorus at the end for dramatic emphasis. A concerto includes three movements, each centered on specific themes and variations. A jazz quartet knows instinctively to play the head, pass around solos, repeat the head, and tag the final four bars to end a tune. Yet such devotion to rituals seems at odds with the creative spirit so crucial to music. Thus, most music seems to strike an appropriate balance between adherence and defiance, a process which we may view as its own ritual.

Darlingside’s “Malea” was written to accompany a dance, and adapted to the rituals which this purpose demanded. The rhythmic focus—from the crisp drum beat to the percussive claps and note skips on the chorus—is a throwback to this intent. These are traditions that go without saying in dance but, in this context, become a spicy and somewhat novel addition to the mix. “Malea” is a bold departure for a band whose sound is generally marked by folksy arrangements and radio perfect vocal harmonies, yet it’s a risk which pays off considerably.

In “Adderech”, Debo Band draws on numerous traditions but breaks from them all at whim, in the quest for a formidable groove; and it definitely finds what it’s looking for. The band is an amorphous collective of musicians whose eclectic sound spans oceans and centuries. Most Western ears will pick up on the Afrobeat (specifically, Ethiopian) influence which, admittedly, is prominent. Yet those familiar with Ethiopian music will not be surprised to learn that the group formed in Boston rather than Addis Ababa, in 2006 rather than 1976. Gabe Birnbaum puts it well in his November, 2009 review on Ampeater. “They manage to straddle a lot of seemingly contradictory positions. On the one hand, their music is deeply traditional, including a lot of covers of Ethiopian Folk and Pop songs from decades ago, yet on the other it is staunchly contemporary, incorporating original compositions and traces of the individual members other projects, which range from the dramatic Post-Rock silent-film soundtracks to dancehall derived experimental Eelectronica.” The product honors the traditions and values of its diverse influences, without buying into the specific rituals wholesale. It’s a brew which accommodates the “tautly stretched and rolling time feel that locks in perfectly with the wonderfully twitchy and propulsive Ethiopian eskista shoulder dance commonly performed alongside the music,” and yet, creates new rituals and grooves of its own.

Pistolea treads a similar tightrope, meshing Mexican Folk with the Rock, Pop, and Jazz of New York. It’s a tasteful and energetic foundation, on which songwriter Sandra Velasquez preaches soapbox politics. In fact, the music accentuates the political message, which centers on immigration reform and civil rights. In the final lyric of “La Polica,” Velasquez rattles off a list of adjectives that could be used—by friends and foes alike—to caricature the band: “terrorist, feminist, Mexican, American, condemned, dangerous, PISTOLERA.” But she says all this in a language which the bigoted system she attacks would be unlikely to understand. Meanwhile, the music cements the band’s heritage, which lies on both sides of the border, far more viscerally.

In Jerome Ellis’s meditative “Hymnal,” ritual is again cemented by the music rather than lyrics. In fact, there aren’t so many lyrics to speak of. Like most loop based compositions, “Hymnal” takes hold of a few simple ideas and explores them meticulously—in this case, for nearly thirty minutes. The progression is so gradual that it’s almost indiscernible from one minute to the next, until suddenly it’s shaken beyond recognition. Through such careful rumination and premeditated destruction, the main themes gradually shine.

Of course, a hymnal is itself a sort of ritual, and the choice of titles cements this ideal, although Ellis’s take is woven from a far more expansive history of tradition. In fact, I feel as if he takes on the entire history of music—impossibly vast terrain—as his inspiration, and nearly manages to cover it all. The mysterious drone which slowly swells into a song sounds like the dawn of time. Or, rather, it sounds like the soundtrack to the dawn of time, since obviously primitive musicians didn’t have access to synthesizers. All that’s missing is the voice-over narrated by Leonard Nimoy. Soon, a chant emerges from the sci-fi soundscape, accompanied by tribal percussion. It builds toward a saxophone lead, which evokes the stereotypical but universally recognizable pulse of African music, while harking back to Coltrane’s modal compositions or, perhaps, the work of Rahsaan Rolland Kirk. On and on, the history flows. We pass through the European Classical tradition in a few minutes, from blues to jazz, and beyond. Prominent (and often disconcerting) sound effects mark the most dramatic moments. The applause of the crowd, for instance, becomes a recurring theme. This itself is a strange ritual—why do we slap our palms together to show respect after a performance and, so often, drown out the final note?

The more I contemplate ritual, the less I understand it. In most cases, it seems arbitrary, and yet, so profoundly poetic. Why did Nomar Garciaparra adjust his batting gloves? I imagine he did so because he did it once accidentally and it worked. The repetition was most likely just superstition. Of course, humans seem bound to this sort of behavior. Rituals exist in every society all around the world. It’s natural, since each moment offers infinite possibility and demands infinite choice. We come to a crossroads, and we wonder whether to turn left or right, but the possibilities are far vaster than that. We could back up, halt forever, continue straight into the unmarked woodland between the paths, get out of the car and climb a tree, dig a hole, sit on a stump read a book. Ritual saves us from all that. It tells us exactly what to do and how to do it, beautiful for its complete disregard for reason. And it’s completely dependent on our blind adherence. The moment we notice it, the power is shattered.

Yet if, after a period existential crisis, we return to ritual, aware of alternate possibilities, our adherence is more meaningful still, because it’s intentional. Once we are aware of ritual, it becomes a choice. Some of the tracks exemplify ritual, some defy it. Others merely talk about it. But I think in exemplification, defiance, and discussion alike, they share an important trait—awareness. Through pushing ourselves to notice ritual, we arrive at perhaps the most fundamental freedom of artistic expression. Or, at the very least, we give our eleven-year-old fans something to remember.

Nate Greenberg

	Track 1 — The Wave Pictures: Just Like A Drummer Download audio file (01 Just Like A Drummer.mp3)		Track 2 — Debo Band: Adderech Arada Download audio file (02 Aderech Arada.mp3)
	Track 3 — Spirit Kid: You Lit Up For Me Download audio file (03 You Lit Up For Me.mp3)		Track 4 — Darlingside: Malea Download audio file (04 Malea.mp3)
	Track 5 — Hank & Pigeon: Feathers and Fur Download audio file (05 Feathers and Fur.mp3)		Track 6 — Pistolera: Policia Download audio file (06 Policia.mp3)
	Track 7 — Chrome & Ice Queen: Sway Download audio file (07 Sway.mp3)		Track 8 — Jerome Ellis: Hymnal Download audio file (08 Hymnal.mp3)
	Track 9 — Villagers: 27 Strangers Download audio file (09 Twenty Seven Strangers.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

AEM136 Santah

2011-10-23T18:09:24Z

A couple weeks ago I revisited The Mighty Boosh episode “Searching for the New Sound”, in which the famous Bongo Brothers Rudi & Spider enter into a psychedelic journey through time and space to find their band’s “new sound”. As I sat there watching, I knew on some level that it was hilarious, but I was nevertheless paralyzed by the realization that this parody spoke to me on a level that it perhaps shouldn’t. My bandmate and I seem to reinvent our sound every gig, veering wildly from country to electronic, from rockabilly to black metal, and back again. And I don’t think we’re the only ones. There are hordes of reasonably competent musicians searching for their “new sound”, while going great lengths to avoid the common tropes of rock and roll, like a virus that might spread to consume everything in sight, leaving them left with nothing but pentatonic scales and skinny jeans. What they fail to realize is that these bits of musical kitsch are the proverbial building blocks of civilization, and when used in interesting new ways with a bit of creative enthusiasm are infinitely more compelling than whatever noise we might conjure in our attempts to eschew convention. In other words, there’s a reason we love pop music–it draws on its own past successes and expands upon them while culling inspiration from an increasingly large and varied pool of influences. We recognize something familiar and comforting in every pop song, even as it pushes the fold of our expectations. At exactly 22 seconds into Santah’s magnificent A-Side “No Other Women,” I saw with perfect clarity how decades of rock and roll can ferment into something powerful. This shit’s 110 proof, and it blew me clean off my feet.

I don’t know much about Midwestern songsmiths Santah, but their 7-inch landed with a splash in the Ampeater submissions box, and I’ve been entranced by its mix of hook-laden vocal lines and layers of controlled fuzz. Stanton and Vivian McConnell double on guitar and vox, with Tommy Trafton on keys, Otto Stuparitz on bass/vox, and Steve Plock on skins. There’s a brand of upbeat pop music breaking through the surface of indie gloom, like a gentle hand on the shoulder of the genre, saying “Hey man, it’s gonna be ok. Just dance,” and Santah’s the best of the bunch. I could write an entire review about the first 22 seconds of A-side “No Other Women”. It’s not so much an introduction as a launch mechanism, an entry into the song that proclaims excellence and follows through in bold strides. The predominant sound of this sequence is an ever so slightly distorted guitar tone, supported chordally by the piano and with a percussive emphasis on each downbeat. The main melody is repeated twice, with the last note held, repeated twice more, and then held again while building in preparation for the vocal entrance. The track kicks off with a “Whoa!” and proceeds in what’s either 12/8 time, 3/4 time with 4 bar groupings, or a very slow 4/4. Hey, it’s rock music, who the fuck really cares, but this rhythmic change-up ends up being the predominant feature of the song, and might go largely unnoticed by most listeners. Most really really catchy songs have a single lynchpin decision that makes them so infectious. It’s the difference between a great song and one that takes residence in your skull, bouncing around in short little snippets while you go about your business. Truth be told, I’ve had the Macarena stuck in my head for 17 years. Whether I really want to admit it or not, that’s a damn catchy song, but I digress. What carries “No Other Women” past the first half minute is Stanton McConnell’s resplendent voice. It’s young and vibrant in a way that eschews any accusations of frivolity and instead conjures imagery of a life waiting to be lived, with open roads stretching in every direction, tempting you to shoot away for an adventure, leaving gas bills unopened, house abandoned, and pets unfed. I have a tendency to ignore lyrics in songs, half because I can never understand them, and half because I’d rather find my own context. I generally turn to lyrical content when I run out of musical fuel, so it’s a compliment of the highest order that I have no idea what McConnell is saying, and don’t particularly care. What interests me is the impression a song gives as a whole, and whether that impression is but a sketch of something interesting or an immersive world I can crawl inside for three minutes. Songs like “No Other Women” are why iTunes added a repeat-one button–I could leave it on all day, and I actually have on several occasions. When a song starts out with such tremendous momentum, it’s always tempting to listen for echoes of the opening in subsequent sections. I’m often tortured by songs that bust out a killer lick just once and then refuse to repeat it in any form, but Santah kindly treats us to a refrain of the intro melody in the vocal line, including the fantastic moment of “Whoa!”, this time shouted repeatedly and extended to “Whaowhoaoooo” and supported in lush harmonies. It’s a merciful template for a song, giving us the right hooks in the right proportions, using a composite of familiar recipes to make something new and arguably superior to any of its ingredients.

When I’m met with an A-side that blows me away, I immediately assume the B-side will temper my wildly positive expectations and prove the artist in question to have little or no depth of talent. I begin formulating paragraphs as to how I might excuse the oddball B-side in light of the A-side’s marvelous qualities. So, when the B-side turns out to be terrific, I have to step back and revise my game plan. Santah’s B-side “Neighbors & Cousins” is one such shining example. The song unfolds into a vamp at walking speed, powered by a fuzzed guitar strumming eighth notes and an almost tropical bass line set high in the mix. I’m trying to avoid using the word “sunny” to describe this song, as it’s plastered all over Santah’s press material, but there’s something about it that’s inarguably…sigh…“sunny”. Whether it’s the bass hook or the vibrato in the lead guitar tone, something about this song invokes a beach weather mentality that gives this 7-inch a particularly uplifting quality. It’s also refreshing to hear a real (or close facsimile of a real) piano tone. In a world in which most anybody can play a few chords on synthesizer and loop it in Ableton, it’s nice to hear the percussive thump of piano keys being used to good effect. I feel like I’ve maybe harped a bit on how conventional and sunny Santah’s music might seem, but there’s weirdness here too, which is what separates their intelligent song craft from (and elevates it above) the uninspired masses. Take a listen to the breakdown at about 3 minutes in–it’s a pretty ballsy move to interrupt a song with so much momentum to introduce a spoken word section over bass, drums, and a dissonant little piano figure. But it works, and instead of killing the song’s meticulously crafted vibe, it builds tension leading into the coda and snaps the listener back into the song as it builds to its grand conclusion. I don’t mean to infer that this was some careful formula, mapped out on paper long before the song even existed, and that’s the danger of writing about music–it’s so easy to strip a song down to its bones, and by the time you’re done imposing methodologies you’ve killed whatever magic once existed. I’m sure the origin of the ending tag to “Neighbors & Cousins” sounded more like “Bro, bro, listen, let’s just like, do the thing we do earlier, but kinda crazier here, bro” and less like Adorno dissecting Mozart, but my editors only allow me to say “bro” six times per article, and I’d probably exceed my quota if I went this route. In any case, my point is that it’s easy to kill good pop music with criticism. It’s something that’s fundamentally meant to be felt and understood without the need to articulate its various nuances. If it had to be explained, it wouldn’t be popular, now would it? Needless to say, this 7-inch requires no explication for maximal enjoyment, so you might want to skip all this drivel, crank your speakers, and hit play on Santah’s wonderful 7-inch.

Ben Heller

Side A — No Other Women Download audio file (01 No Other Women.mp3)

Side B — Neighbors and Cousins Download audio file (02 Neighbors and Cousins.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

Zeb Gould releases new album “Forget The Great Heart”

2011-10-18T20:45:05Z

When we last wrote about Zeb Gould in April, we gave him some pretty high praise: “Gould’s music has universal appeal. That’s not to say that it’s universally liked, but rather that it’s universally likable. There’s something about it that wholly transcends its roots in American traditional genres and communicates successfully in a language that need not be translated into any other for one to immediately grasp its poignant and beautiful essence.” And you know what? Six months later we still feel the same way. That’s why we’re thrilled to introduce Zeb Gould’s new album “Forget The Great Heart,” available now through the Ampeater Music Store and iTunes.

Zeb Gould — Forget The Great Heart

Gould’s music has universal appeal. That’s not to say that it’s universally liked, but rather that it’s universally likable. There’s something about it that wholly transcends its roots in American traditional genres and communicates successfully in a language that need not be translated into any other for one to immediately grasp its poignant and beautiful essence.

Format: 192kbps MP3

1. Forget the Great Heart
2. Red Star Blues
3. Bibi Andersson
4. Little Grey Finch
5. Red on the Vine
6. Dream of the Draft Horse
7. Slow as Snow
8. Fare Thee Well

AEM135 Thick Shakes

2011-08-24T21:37:07Z

The Monks, The Gories, and The Detroit Cobras are staples in the litany of hip influences on modern music. For those of you who keep copies of this list in triplicate on your desks, just go right ahead and add Boston’s Thick Shakes to the top. Though they cruise on a road paved with discarded Nuggets compilations, they approach the mess of American garage rock with a remarkably refined aesthetic that brings a measure of control and sanity to a style of music that otherwise tends to run completely off the rails. At their core, these are songs made for dingy basement clubs, by dudes who don’t own cases for their instruments and drummers who make do with two broken floor toms and a cymbal made from soup cans and duct tape. The standard of musicianship is traditionally low, dominated by repetitive four chord riffs, half-sung/half-shouted unison vocal lines, and endless moments of disjointed slop. But that’s more a personal impression than a real assessment, and each band has its own particular swagger. The Monks tend to be on the experimental side, The Gories on the punk/slop side, and The Detroit Cobras on the motown/soul side. That said, the Venn diagram of their respective approaches to music is almost all overlap, and Thick Shakes are right smack dab in the middle. To anyone who’s spent weeks in their underwear listening to the Nuggets and Pebbles discs on repeat: Thick Shakes will be your new favorite band.

There’s something about organ (and I mean real organ, not this silly synth shit), that gets me off my ass in an instant. It’s like an invisible call to arms, a post-hypnotic suggestion that I must immediately rock the fuck out. Combined with driving snare hits on 2+4, some seriously blown-out guitar, and infallibly punchy vocals, this is music to dance to, to sweat to, to take amphetamines and freak out to. As Thick Shakes guitarist Tim Scholl explains, it’s “American R&B and blues, filtered through young British kids back into young Americans.” Generations of disaffected youth channeling each others’ music across the pond and claiming it as their own. To that I’d add that it’s also been filtered up a generation, to musicians who have varied tastes in (and unrestricted access to) the full spectrum of American popular music, from folk and country to blues and soul. But this panoramic view of musical history doesn’t always produce the best bands. There’s a tendency to reach for the stars and try something “new”, which almost inevitably results in something “terrible”. When the Rolling Stones set out to make music, their only goal was to be the best blues band in town. They didn’t see Exile on Main Street coming down the road, not even close, but as we all know, they eventually grew into something much more than an American blues cover band. It’s because that growth happened naturally that they made such a phenomenal contribution to rock and roll.

Thick Shakes has a similar approach to music-making, and it’s what distinguishes them from the mass of psychedelically inclined proto-punk garage bands that never quite made it. I get the sense that Thick Shakes isn’t trying to do anything special, but that’s exactly the attitude that makes them such a treasure. In his thoughts on Thick Shakes, Scholl went on to explain that “‘Musicians’ (his quotes) have a tendency to add this and that to songs, which can make them interesting, but a lot of times just sort of amounts to wankery. We write the songs, and then work on the proficiency of playing what we’ve written. We aren’t a ‘jam band’ (again, his quotes)”. I love that quote. Back when radio hits and 78RPM records demanded a crisp 2:30 per track, concision was a valuable asset in songwriting. We’ve since conquered the technical limitations that once constrained popular song form, and with an ever-expanding subset of artists who indulge in endless wankery, it’s refreshing to hear a band that says what it needs to say and gets the fuck out.

Lindsay Crudele, Tim Scholl, Matt Mafera, and Jerry MacDonald are the brains, voices, and fuzz behind Thick Shakes. MacDonald pretty much summed up the band dynamic with one word: fun. “It’s fun to get together and do what we want. It’s fun to do that in front of people. It’s fun when people like it. Ultimately we were going to have fun anyway.” Crudele corroborates, “Our dynamic feels easy for me because I feel close to the others, insofar as I’m marrying one of them (Tim) and the others are close friends. Learning to play and sing, and do it in front of people all seemed like an insurmountable mystery, so to be able to pull it off to whatever degree is a lot of fun, and then to do it with people I enjoy. The songs are like the intersection of nonsense party music with a bunch of vexation.” As much as I appreciate the barely-of-this-world-tortured-artist, I’m infinitely more impressed when seemingly stable, functioning human beings enjoy life so fully that their cup spills over and floods their music with a genuine passion.

As a native Bostonian living in enemy territory, I’m naturally fond of songs that shit on Boston’s numerous detractors. A-Side “Go Back to New York” is a playful jab at transplant Bostonians who bitch about America’s finest city. Sure, the bars close at 1am when the trains stop running, the winters are cold and bitter, cars aim to kill pedestrians rather than avoid them, and the entire city possesses an almost cultish enthusiasm for the Red Sox (so sue me, I bought a Sox license plate), but Thick Shakes make a good point: You live here, right? Stop complaining, or leave. Go back to New York, asshole.

The musical recipe is simple to describe but tough to follow:
1) Find a hook
2) Build a song around the hook
3) Pick an uncomplicated topic or situation, and describe it
4) Make music

Of course, there are other essential ingredients to this mix (I already mentioned the ass-thumping organ), and the first that comes to mind is the phenomenal voice of Lindsay Crudele. Fans of Erika Wennerstrom and the Heartless Bastards or Rachel Nagy and The Detroit Cobras will feel right at home with Crudele’s assertive alto. Maybe it’s that I’m somewhat used to hearing female lead singers, but it didn’t even occur to me until I spoke with Crudele that there are more Mick Jaggers in the world than Poly Styrenes, and that rock music isn’t exactly an encouraged career path for talented young women. Crudele recalls, “I went to shows all the time throughout high school and college in addition to dabbling in instruments. After I graduated, my coworker in radio, an engineer and musician named Bob C., asked me why I didn’t play in a band myself, told me that I should and that I could, and I didn’t have a good answer. I felt like there was a wall between the stage and me, I thought playing in a band was some magical privilege and it didn’t occur to me to try it for myself. I also didn’t see very many female faces up there or at shows in general, where I was used to watching from the back of the club because the front was too violent. In 2011, I don’t think much has changed. At a recent show, the only time I got up to the front was when I was performing onstage. A sound guy recently tried to show me how to turn on my own amp. I spoke up about how a lot of my music scene peers were supporting some really misogynistic music and I was told to get a sense of humor. We played a show where I was the only woman onstage all night and Tim pointed out that wasn’t entirely true — there were naked women painted on the drum kit. Anyone can start a band but it took a while to open my eyes to that I think in part due to the climate. A few years later, I emailed Bob our recordings and was like, ‘This is your fault!’ That kind of encouragement should not be understated.”

Thick Shakes strike a careful balance between a fullness of sound and a minimalistic approach to music making. The natural distortion in the recordings on this 7-inch is the result of meticulous planning — both tracks were recorded with vintage mics and preamps to 16 track tape with hot levels and some tape delay and reverb added to the mix. It’s an analog approach to recording that we’re sending to shit with a digital 7-inch, so do yourselves a favor and pick up the real thing at Aurora7. It’s just $6 and goes to support some great music. B-side “Neighbor’s Goods” has the percussive groove of The Monks’ “Boys are Boys” but with the tempo set to stun. Musically, everything slots in perfectly here–memorable hooks and clean fills that don’t seek to impress but instead focus on keeping everything rock solid as the song moves forward. The success of Thick Shakes is in the clarity of execution, and the distinction of individual sounds. The vocals, bass, guitar, drums, and organ each inhabit their own space, and have a well defined role within the group dynamic. Sometimes the organ and guitar blend together as a single sound, sometimes the bass and organ do the same, but I get the impression that the group sound at a given moment isn’t the result of some happy accident, but rather a rehearsed decision with an effect on listeners that’s known and understood by every member of the band. In other words, these guys are really, really tight, and in that respect, they’re a world apart from most other bands with a similar sound. Moreover, there’s something pejorative about the label of “Nuggets redux” that’s oh so tempting to slap on Thick Shakes. Nuggets or Pebbles or whatever implies that the artist in question is somehow a shining musical beacon amongst a sea of dreadful schlock. But it’s the other way around, really. Blues, punk, rock, and Americana are lost influences these days. It’s rare to find a band that’s willing to embrace a raw aesthetic and make music that’s authentic to their own experiences. So much is lost when creation becomes this distant and cerebral process, but Thick Shakes keep it real. I noticed that almost every member of the band is eager to dismiss his or her own musical talent and training:

Lindsay: I’m not under any illusion that our band is a means to a living. Music isn’t about business for us.

Tim: I’ve been involved in music one way or another since childhood. If not playing or writing, then actively listening, always. I’ve never played guitar, or really written songs before.

Matt: I grew up playing percussion in school bands, I taught myself to play a kit in junior high. I never took either very seriously. Thick Shakes is my first band, and I’m not really sure I would have joined a band under many other circumstances, it was the right mix of good friends with similar abilities.

There are no delusions of grandeur here, no lifelong aspirations to play Shea Stadium, just some folks who love music, can play a few instruments, and decided to give it a go. Consider that none of it would have happened if Bob (remember Bob?) hadn’t given Lindsay just a little push towards the stage, and it becomes kind of a heartwarming story. And so, we have Bob to thank for the sounds of Thick Shakes, and Thick Shakes to thank for the sounds on this 7-inch. Give it a listen, but you might want to stretch beforehand, as dancing is required.

Ben Heller

Side A — Go Back to New York Download audio file (01 Go Back to New York.mp3)

Side B — Neighbor’s Goods Download audio file (02 Neighbor’s Goods.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

AEM095-1 The Powder Kegs (Follow-Up Review)

2011-08-17T16:45:34Z

This is a followup single. Interested readers are encouraged to check out AEM095 for more free music and information.

Last year, The Powder Kegs earned our attention with their catchy and energetic cuts “La Mariposa” and “Shake Me Down” on AEM095. Since then, they’ve refined their sound and have a new album, The Amanicans.

Historically, the sophomore album is a litmus test. It requires the artist to strike an appropriate balance between old and new and, no matter how artfully he succeeds, the he can expect a certain degree of shit from fans who think he leaned too far in one direction. Indeed, sophomore albums invite criticism. However, if an artist can make it past the sophomore album hurdle without receiving too much shit, we must view this as a mark of considerable success. Indeed, the sophomore album is the key measure by which we may distinguish the bands we really like from the bands we only think we like.

The Amanicans offers much to enjoy and leaves very little to wish for. Moreover, it marks a major step in the artistic development of the band. The new material is darker, heavier, and considerably more substantive than the material on the debut EP, and it draws upon more diverse influences.

With pronounced shades of Punk and Brit-Pop, A-Side “Broke Time” has the requisite punch to capture the attention of any listener sedated by the previous album’s laid-back vibe. Yet these new influences do not seem incongruous;the music retains the salient features that drew us to The Powder Kegs in the first place. The tune commences with the artists’ characteristic lush falsettos, accompanied by a twangy guitar lick. After a few cycles, the beat drops, satisfying the listener’s more visceral audio-needs with a solid foundation upon which the composition unfolds. The crisp bass and drum groove persists throughout several refrains (repetitions of the title lyrics) and verses, offset now and then by a chorus. The mellow half-time feel of the chorus does not threaten to undermine the escalation of the composition, but rather serves as a respite, and each time the verse/refrain reappears, it’s rehashed with heightened intensity. The build culminates with a heavy pentatonic riff accentuated by a strong back-beat—an ending that fans of The Powder Kegs’ previous material might find abrasive, had we not been eased into it so gradually.

Like so much of The Powder Kegs’ material, both new and old, B-Side “The Sea” is marked by falsetto and harmony. This time, however, those characteristics are re-contextualized against the backdrop of eerie drugged-out lullaby reminiscent of the Beatles during the height of their LSD years. The composition’s loping three-beat pulse, occasionally shaken by isolated five-beat measures, adds to the general sense of uneasiness. As the composition builds, the many distinct voices (instruments) within the dystopian dreamscape appear ready to coalesce. And yet, our expectations are never satisfied—which is precisely what makes this track so satisfying. The triumphant horns that so hopefully buoy the end up from the depths of delusion are ultimately tethered to the seafloor, and leave the listener tantalizingly close to the surface, inches short of harmonic salvation. Cheesy ocean metaphors aside, “The Sea” represents a bold departure for a band I so recently praised—but nearly wrote off—as accessible.

In fact, the Powder Kegs do remain accessible, but The Amanicans demonstrates a slight penchant for the experimental that I wouldn’t have necessarily anticipated from the band I wrote up just last year. They’ve taken a few risks—enough to maintain our interest without fucking up the original recipe—and it really shows.

If you like what you hear, The Amanicans may be purchased at music.thepowderkegs.com. Now you can pat yourself on the back for supporting starving independent artists and also for having impeccable taste!

Nate Greenberg

Side A — Broke Time Download audio file (01 Broke Time.mp3)

Side B — The Sea Download audio file (02 The Sea.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

AEM134 Quiet Loudly

2011-06-01T04:21:49Z

Imagine that the members of an iconic rock band suddenly grow tired of their work. They still know how to write a hit, but they’re sick of hits. It’s almost too easy, and they see through all the tricks they once employed in blissful ignorance. Unanimously, they decide that they don’t want to be in a rock band any more. But under contract, they’ve agreed to release one more album under their label. They propose an experimental final album, but the label rejects it. The fans demand rock. Consequently, the band decides to trick the label and fans, and disguise the avant garde behind a thick cloak of the usual tricks. At first, they view the album as a parody of their former work.

However, in the creation of this parody, the jaded musicians—now freed of past pretensions—discover that they still love to make music. The problem had not been the tricks themselves, but rather their uninspired implementation. Suddenly, the band feels compelled to parody the parody, and revel excessively—if furtively—in the excess. And, when the new album drops, fans, critics, and band concur that it’s a hell of a lot better than anything released before.

Biographically, Quiet Loudly shares little in common with the aforementioned hypothetical rock band. Certainly, these guys aren’t burnt out stars, and they’re not under contract to a corporate label. From what I gather, they’re just a bunch of normal dudes. However, I feel that the metaphor is a useful way to approach the final product—the music. When I listen to Quiet Loudly, I sense the spirit of renaissance. Quiet Loudly rehashes old ideas in ways that surprise and invigorate. Despite the considerable competence and perspective demonstrated throughout their epic album Soulgazer, the band manages to tap into the euphoric eureka of the middle-school rock-star wannabe who has just discovered an awesome new chord. And perhaps they also smile knowingly at his dejection when he learns that it’s only an A7. The result is not strictly satirical, but perhaps we may understand it as the parody of parody. We may wonder whether duplicity in parody signifies negation or exponential multiplication. In the case of Quiet Loudly, it seems to be a little bit of both simultaneously. These guys definitely don’t take themselves too seriously, but they also seem to poke fun at bands that degrade the craft by not taking music seriously and whose appreciation of the artform does not extend beyond the ironic.

Max Goransson (guitar, vocals) explains that the inspiration for the name Quiet Loudly came from his exploration of extreme dynamics. “I was trying to explore regarding the impact and significance of breaks or ambiance in what would be considered otherwise loud, epic music,” he elaborates. Yet he also admits that the name was a joke at first. It stuck because the band liked it… and because they had already created the MySpace page. True, the contradiction posed by multiple layers of intention and chance seems a tumultuous vantage point from which to understand a band. Yet I challenge you to ask yourself, how else could we approach a band with a name as paradoxical as Quiet Loudly?

Quiet Loudly pays due homage to its roots. Soul is clearly a major influence—hence the name, Soulgazer. The band also embraces rock-n-roll, in its countless permutations—classic-rock, punk-rock, grunge-rock, alt-rock, indie-rock, post-rock, insertprefixhere-rock. Yet, even in direct allusion to these numerous traditions, the band refuses to buy into any one of them wholesale. Always, I sense a process that involves the extraction of the best features from these genres and their rearrangement into new shapes.

A-Side “Be My Baby Mama” challenges the conventions of pop composition, but rests upon such stable foundations that a casual listener might not even notice that anything is amiss. Harmonic and melodic simplicity obscure the underlying innovation. The tune begins with a three-chord progression which seems bound to spark a sense of deja ecouté. The first two chords are rock staples, while the third chord is the predictably-unpredictable heartbreak chord. The rhythm hints at R&B a bit too obviously. When the vocals enter, we perceive a verse. When the drums kick into full throttle and the distortion thickens, we perceive a chorus. A catchy vocal hook—accentuated by all the right harmonies—confirms our suspicions. But all the evidence proves deceptive.

“Be My Baby Mama” does not return to the sections we instinctively perceive as verse and chorus and, thus, we can not appropriately label them as such, though still we cannot conceive them in any other way. The tune veers into an extended outro full of compositional twists that, cumulatively, reveal epic grandeur. The momentum builds as harmonies are layered below the lead vocal line. It continues to mount with the auxiliary support of a soaring electric guitar solo. Finally the parts converge on the refrain, of which the climax is marked by piercing falsettos. However, having reached this mighty summit, Quiet Loudly refuses to take the scenic route back to base. Instead they skydive—forgive the continuation of this cheesy metaphor—with an unexpected a capella breakdown that proves to be the coup-de-grace to our cliché expectations. As with most of the tricks in Quiet Loudly’s arsenal, the a capella breakdown is not inherently unprecedented. However, it is completely re-contextualized and rarely—I feel compelled to add—has it been implemented to such delightful effect in any context.

Breakdowns of this sort are a risky venture. At their best, they may leave the listener awestruck. “How the fuck did they think of that?” More often, however, they undermine the whole composition and leave the listener confused and disappointed. “What the fuck were they thinking?” The line between these diametrically opposed outcomes is actually vaguer than one might suspect, but it seems indisputable that Quiet Loudly falls on the correct side. To begin with, the breakdown strikes a healthy balance between unexpected and incongruous. I did not anticipate it but, in retrospect, it seems to have been foreshadowed by the layered harmonies which preceded it. Moreover, it lifts the lyrics of the refrain—“you could rescue my bloodline”—to our attention. The plea casts an additional layer of irony over the satire posed by the raunchy pickup line that the title so convincingly insinuates. For these reasons—in addition to the sheer precision of its execution—the tune lingered in my memory after a single listen.

“I Would Be Your Man” may seem an unusual choice for a B-Side. From the start, I appreciated the poetic logic of the progression between a tune called “Be My Baby Mama” and a tune called “I Would Be Your Man.” However, I couldn’t dismiss the itty-bitty technicality that Quiet Loudly neither wrote the track nor received principle performance credit. The song was written by Gunfight, another Brooklynite outfit whose sound falls within the expansive umbrella of rock but occasionally tests these limits. Quiet Loudly is featured on the track but, on the mp3 they submitted to Ampeater, the id3 tag reads Gunfight. No mention of a feature. I liked the music, but I was a bit perplexed.

The missing link proved to be “Brooklyn Heat,” a compilation curated, engineered, and mixed by Shane O’Connor. Through this initiative, a handful of underappreciated local bands—whose ranks include both Quiet Loudly and Gunfight, in addition to previous Ampeater featured artists Shark? and Quilty—were given the opportunity to cut track at Monsterland Recording Studio. (At this point, I can’t resist the urge to give a shoutout for the upcoming MMNY Festival at which all these bands are slated to perform on June 21^st). In fact, Quiet Loudly did lend a hand (several hands?) to the version of “I Would Be Your Man” featured on this digital 7-inch. The original recording of “I Would Be Your Man” has a prominent folk vibe, with slide guitar and sound effects that seem like they may have come from a spaghetti western. But, in the studio, Gunfight decided that their track would benefit from a large ensemble and turned to Quiet Loudly—a decision probably influenced in part by the fact that they share a bassist, Anthony Aquilino. The result is a rowdy rendition which portrays the energy and urgency of the live show in convenient mp3 format.

I once believed that I had outgrown my love for scorching guitar solos when I graduated from high-school but “I Would Be Your Man” forces me to question my assumptions. I now suspect my soft spot did not diminish but was simply shrouded by a thick cloud of skepticism. Actually, the guitar solo is only the tip of the iceberg. The cut is an unabashed rock anthem. Yet it is full of tasteful subtleties that become more evident with repeat listens and which shed a new light on the boisterous excess. Perhaps this is why it penetrates the cloud of skepticism, and calls to me. I also suspect that a healthy dose of excess is prerequisite to the party vibe so convincingly evoked.

Some music is inherently loud. Some music is not. Heavy metal was made to be blasted. Antonio Carlos Jobim was not. Quiet Loudly seems to realize this. The band demonstrates a rare ability to make the calm moments boom, and can find tranquility in the midst of the thickest distortion. Check them out. I hope that you—like the hypothetical iconic rock band, and like me—will find your love for the classic rekindled by their astute and fresh perspective.

Nate Greenberg

Side A — Be My Baby Mama Download audio file (01 Be My Baby Mama.mp3)

Side B — I Would Be Your Man Download audio file (02 I Would Be Your Man.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

Announcing: The Ampeater Follow-Up 7-inch Series

2011-05-06T19:55:08Z

Over the last year, we’ve received many 7-inch requests from artists we’ve already featured. It’s always been our mission to help introduce our readers to new music, so we’ve been hesitant to double up on artists. Plus, our original reviews are generally so exhaustive that there’s usually not much more we can say about a band without beginning to repeat ourselves, or resorting to childhood anecdotes. But, we do love the artists that we feature, and we’d like to continue to help get the word out about their music, long after the original 7-inch review’s been buried in the archives. So, we’ve come up with this: a Follow-Up 7-inch Series. We invite any artist that’s received a previous review to get back in touch and hit us up with two new tracks. We’ll do a shorter write-up, basically updating everyone on any new artistic developments, tours, etc., and giving some context to the new tunes. We’ll also link back to the original review, and give it a chance to reach some new listeners. Sound good? Head on over to the Ampeater Submit page and send us some music!

AEM133 peopling

2011-04-29T05:25:11Z

The relationship between rock music and straight up terrible noise is a long and complicated one, punctuated equally by periods of domestic tranquility (Sonic Youth’s easy-listening records), malicious abuse (Metal Machine Music and its descendants), and toothless hypocrisy (remember Test Icicles?). Like in any lovers’ quarrel, outsiders tend to draw lines in the sand: some people like their chord changes neatly separated from their feedback freakouts (sometimes even, they like feedback freakouts over chord changes), while others come to realize that they never liked the noisier stuff to begin with, even though they feel guilty enough about their tenuous allegiances to talk up the experimental tendencies of bands like Animal Collective with something approaching seriousness. Finally, there are people who felt that rock music had become bloated and disingenuous with its increasing lip service to the avant-garde, a mongrel artistic commodity aimed at weekend warriors and self-hating yuppies who claimed to love the Velvet Underground but invariably left the room about four minutes into “Sister Ray.” These people, to borrow a term from Lester Bangs, albeit in a slightly different context, could be called “White Noise Supremacists.” These were individuals who, on the one hand, had developed over the course of decades exposed to pop radio and concept albums an ideological revulsion to all things melodic, rhythmic, and marketable, and, on the other, had suffered enough actual brain damage in the process to enjoy aesthetically the sound of vacuum cleaners and police sirens howling in the dark, wet urban night. Somewhere along the line, this group’s wiring had gotten disconnected from the mass-cultural mainframe and found itself channeling the random and nihilistic ambience of real life.

Listening to A-side “come home eccentric” off peopling’s self-titled EP is a bit like receiving a stray transmission from the ambivalent midpoint of this self-alienating process, its origin about equidistant from the poles of “fun” and “not fun.” There’s a confessional quality to the track’s stylistic indecisiveness, a kind of emo music for people with no feelings whatsoever. Let’s describe the thing: what we hear first is the static blast of a shortwave radio between signals, reaching out hopefully to the shadow-world of long-haul truckers and emergency responders. Then we get a two note bassline burbling up like primordial tar underneath the whole thing. If this was a Spaceman 3 record, all you’d need to add at this point would be some stiff-lipped Brit moaning about Jesus and hey, six minutes later, you’ve got your single in the bag. But peopling isn’t really about tribute in any normal sense, and so, about one and a half minutes into the jam there’s an abrupt switch into blurt-y, shout-along synth-pop not completely unlike an under-circulated Screamer’s bootleg. The effect of this transition is comparable to stabbing an RCA cable repeatedly into the broken input on your iPod, only to have the thing connect half-way through the song and at way to high too high a volume. It’s really pretty awesome, not only because of the visceral thrill of hearing drums and bass and synthesizers and human voices after all that hissing, but also because of the crippling sense of shame you feel for having secretly wanted this kind of thing to happen all along. “Please, turn into an actual song,” whispers your lizard brain, while the higher cortexes that control things like art appreciation and pretentiousness shake their heads like a disappointed girlfriend. The song part of the song continues for about two minutes more before being enveloped once more in crackle and hum. As far as outbursts go, it’s up there with screaming “Freebird!” at a Merzbow performance.

The kind of raw self-consciousness at work on this track is rare in any genre, especially one as dehumanizing and purist as power electronics. Since it’s impossible to listen to Whitehouse albums for actual enjoyment, those who find themselves attracted to noise for whatever reason have to develop rock-solid ideologies to support their counterintuitive fandom. These beliefs run the gamut from garden variety suburban listlessness to an extreme willingness to ingest psychedelic drugs. Whatever the pretext, the point is that the genre always operates in relation to some kind of contrarian rationale, feeding the listener’s urge to become more and more like the non-person he or she wishes so hard to be. Cueing up noise is probably the closest music nerds get to self-actualization, scarifying themselves into iconoclastic ubermenschen through a pair of headphones and the comfort of a bean bag chair. peopling latches onto the latent hypocrisy of these self-flagellating gestures with a unique courage, twisting the deadened headspace of their target audience into something that is equal parts satire and introspection. It has the same humor as a soul-shattering gulag joke.

“summer such and such,” the slighter, shorter B-side to “come home eccentric” works along similarly critical lines, opting to dispense with the cathartic midsection of its sister track in favor of sheer anxiety. A pretty bedroom pop song buried within an echo chamber of squeaks and burps, the piece ends before any resolution can take place. At one minute and fifty four seconds, about the length of time “come home” takes before shooting its payload, you can read the cutoff as an intentional blue-balling. In the notes peopling contributed to us with his music, he calls this track “heartbreaking.” I’d call it simply cruel.

Being a white noise ideologue is admirable, in some sense, but also myopic. Back in the half-formed prehistory of garage rock, bands made noisy recordings filled with feedback and garbage acoustics by accident. Eventually, some people began to find these technological imperfections more interesting than the three-chord bash-alongs they helped preserve. Noise, at a certain point, became an intentional choice rather than an understandable mistake. Now a symbolic referent to the conditions that created rock music rather than the crap side-effects that prevented an ideal incarnation of “Louie Louie” ever being produced, noise became more than an instrument like a guitar or a saxophone; it became an idea, something to believe in. What came next is well-preserved in record store geology: no-wave, Japanoise, Throbbing Gristle, Darkthrone, glitch. Subgenres became defined by their level of audio fidelity, the amount of time on a record dedicated exclusively to found sounds and ring modulators, the degree to which static blasts of varying textures and pitches could be constructed into recognizable verses and choruses. peopling looks at this contrived landscape and hold up the mirror, documentary-style, crafting two-to-five-minute studies into the personal effects of prolonged exposure to stuff most sane people would never want to understand. Even psychopaths need to be analyzed every now and again. All you goners, it’s time to meet your shrinks.

peopling is the solo noise project of Ronnie Gonzalez. He records and lives in NYC. These tracks are from his self-released six-song EP, available for sale now through Ampeater Music, and coming soon on iTunes.

Ben Lasman

Side A — come home eccentric Download audio file (01 come home eccentric.mp3)

Side B — summer such and such Download audio file (02 summer such and such.mp3)

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

CE01 — Concrete Experience Digital Mixtape: Transposition

2011-04-29T04:21:30Z

The Ampeater Review is stoked to announce the release of the inaugural Concrete Experience Digital Mixtape, which we curated in partnership with Concrete Experience, a new quarterly journal of contemporary photography and creative art. Each issue of Concrete Experience will contain work loosely related to a particular theme and which we will augment with a soundtrack inspired by the theme and featuring exclusively Ampeater artists. The theme for this issue is transposition.

1: “The Wanderer” — Translations (AEM101)
2: “Wade in the Water” — Jean-Rene Ella (AEM020)
3: “For Sparrow” — Cabinet of Natural Curiosities (AEM058)
4: “Alain Delon” — Francois Peglau (AEM107)
5: “Dogwood” — Ashraya Gupta (AEM010)
6: “I Don’t See It That Way” — Extra Life (AEM006)
7: “Settlers Song” — Uncles (AEM092)
8: “We Are the Hunters” — The D’Urbervilles (AEM066)
9: “Satellite of Love” — Color of Clouds (AEM009)
10: “Empire State of Mind Edit” — Blissed Out (AEM114)

An ex-girlfriend once accused me of transposing my anxiety regarding an upcoming exam onto our relationship. Put off by such indiscrete psychoanalysis, I dismissed her comment, and within a month we had parted ways, despite the fact that my exams and any anxiety they had allegedly provoked were already behind me. I recalled my ex-girlfriend’s words recently, though, as I scoured hundreds of recordings in search of the handful that would become the inaugural Concrete Experience Digital Mixtape.

My ex-girlfriend studied Comparative Literature; a detail which I failed to appreciate at the time but now seems enormously consequential. If she had preferred linear algebra to poetry, her notion of transposition may have involved points and axes rather than romance. Had she studied music, she may have conceptualized it as a fixed-interval melodic shift. Of the countless ways to define transposition, some are inherently more malleable than others. In retrospect, my ex-girlfriend’s indiscreet psychoanalysis was a blessing in disguise, because it pushed me to approach the theme from a principally emotional angle—had I decided to write about fixed-interval melodic shifts, I would have already run out of things to say. Moreover, it prompted me to evaluate the moral implications. Perhaps I really did transpose my anxiety but, so what? What’s so bad about transposition?

Yeats muses, “How can we know the dancer from the dance?” Along the same lines of inquiry, we may question whether music could exist without the musician—or for that matter, if it could exist without the listener. Practically speaking, I propose that it could not, just as we needn’t pay taxes on the imaginary number i. A somewhat more prosaic metaphor may be the famous conundrum—when a tree falls in the forest and there’s nobody around to hear it, does it make a sound?—for which the only reasonable conclusion is who the fuck cares? Music unheard bears no relevance to humanity. By this standard, all relevant music must involve the listener and becomes, ergo, an act of transposition. So, why these ten tracks?

The mix is intended to stand on merit of the music alone, with its ten diverse tracks offering something for everyone. The relationship between the individual songs, however, as well as the relationship between the songs and the theme, is a little more abstract.

Let’s begin with “Alain Delon”, a humorous and totally groovy exploration of an impossible dream. “I can’t take it,” whines Francois Peglau in the opening lyric. “I’ll never be Alain Delon.” He’s referring to the star of vintage French cinema known for his memorable of role as le solitaire—a suave, handsome and brooding anti-villain. Conceptually, Peglau’s wish is easy to relate to, since nearly everybody has hoped to become a star. However, as the song unfolds, we sense a hint of sarcasm, and are drawn to question whether the true idol is the man or the character. The tension escalates in the bridge (if you can understand French) with sound clips from a 1970s interview in which the aging actor explains his recurring role. Does an actor stepping into character signify an act of transposition? If so, we must speculate about the agency involved. In other words, does the man become the character or does the character become the man? Who is the real Alain Delon, or has he ceased to exist?

Of course, the notation of identity is complicated for actors and non-actors alike, perhaps especially so for someone like Peglau, who describes himself as Peruvian/French/Argentinean. He began his career as guitarist of Lima-based indie phenomenon Los Fuckin’ Sombreros, but now resides in London where he recently recorded a solo album. I mention this not tangentially, but to point out that Peglau, so to speak, wears many hats, a trait shared by several artists on this mix. Ashraya Gupta was born in India and lived in England and Cincinnati before winding up in New York. Jean-Rene Ella was born and raised in Cameroon but eventually made his way to Indiana where, most improbably, he now works as an organic chemist. Of course, a compelling background does not necessarily lead to good transposition—nor does good transposition necessarily lead to good music—but it certainly gives the artist inspiration to draw upon.

Although Gupta’s international background is not immediately evident in this small sample of her work, the process of continually reinventing herself has left indelible marks on her music. This is clear when you look at her artistic progression. She’s best known as singer of The Kitchen Cabinet, an indie folk-pop quartet, yet her solo music represents a significant and bold leap for Gupta, who manages to forge new aural ground with just a keyboard and her own vocal chords. Gabe Birnbaum, who profiled Gupta back in October 2009, observed that “though this barebones set-up could prove monotonous or boring in another’s hands, Gupta carries [the music] with her voice alone.” Even though her vocals are relatively low in the mix, the intimacy of Gupta’s delivery and her sparse harmonic arrangements make them seem extremely close, as if we’re listening to her singing to herself alone in her apartment. The music, which occasionally swells to high volumes, unfolds so organically and hypnotically that we’re only aware of these ebbs and flows peripherally.

I’ve never heard a more authentic blues recording than Ella’s rendition of “Wade in the Water”—a bold claim to make of any song but particularly of one released on YouTube in the site’s fledgling years. The song’s charm lies in its un-indulgent simplicity and emotional honesty. Anyone who’s picked up an electric guitar understands the seductive allure of the three-chord twelve-bar blues. It practically begs for gratuitous shred-solos. As a result, many blues musicians are no more tasteful than the average 80’s hair band—and considerably less entertaining. People tend to think of the blues as an American archetype, like baseball or apple pie, but we must remember that the ingredients are considerably more diverse—African rhythms and European harmonic conventions baptized in the holy water of the muddy Mississippi. That Ella made the transatlantic journey himself may explain his authenticity. His parents also played a role. Ella’s French-born mother introduced him to the folk music of her country while his father got him hooked on Gospel. When Ella sings the blues, it is a personal history, a heritage, that he’s tapping into. Organic chemistry may not be terribly relevant, but it indicates a lot about Ella’s lifestyle. He’s not famous, nor does he seem to aspire to stardom. We wouldn’t have heard from him at all were it not for a series of homemade videos on YouTube, which he posted only after encouragement from friends.

To return to Peglau, it is worth noting that his personal history has influenced not just his musical or lyrical content, but the very code in which it is written. His recent songs are in English. For anyone who grew up in an English speaking country, this fact may seem insignificant, but for Peglau, who used to write more in Spanish or French, it involved conscious effort. Peglau explains that, when he first arrived in London, he was uncomfortable with the language, and used songwriting as a way to increase his fluency. Is translation also a form of transposition?

We might expect a band called Translations to shed light on this matter. Indeed, they do, although the type of translation they employ has nothing to do with language. Ben Heller touched upon this dichotomy in his original Ampeater write-up of the band in June 2010: “Translations are acutely aware of their place in history, even before that place has been culturally affirmed by more than a small handful of fans and critics.” In other words, Translations is a band that can tell us not only where they’re going, but also where they’ve been, and with remarkable accuracy. They manage to sound both cutting edge and retro at once, with crunchy punk-era guitars offset by electronics—surprisingly premeditated for a band whose attitude and exuberance might suggest a singular focus on rocking out. In spite of the hidden self-awareness, though, Heller notes that the members of Translations place their music at “different crossroads on the map of New York rock & roll.” This highlights just how much personal leeway the act of translation involves, and might explain why Google Translate is still searching for the perfect algorithm.

In fact, genre transposition—the re-contextualization of diverse and often archaic influences—is a dominant theme on this mix. The process becomes particularly clear in cover songs, such as “Satellite of Love” by Color of Clouds, since it’s easier to spot points of alteration. In this instance, singer Kelli Scarr’s airy vocals and the song’s extended final chorus transforms Lou Reed’s embittered original into a dreamy fantasy. “We Are the Hunters” by The D’Urbervilles and “For Sparrow” by Cabinet of Natural Curiosities, while not covers, also fall under this general mode of transposition. In contrast to the deliberate consciousness that sets Translations apart, Extra Life takes a more holistic approach in “I Don’t See It That Way”, borrowing from metal, medieval folk and math-rock. If you’re wondering how such diverse influences can coexist peacefully in a single song, they don’t. Jolting between time signatures, it’s rhythmically so unpredictable that you’d have a hard time finding something to tap your foot to, let along dance to, but if you just let it sweep you around, you’ll get an interesting ride. The song constantly seems to be waging war on itself to the extent that you wonder if the band is even in control of what happens. Of course, they must be, as the parts are so complex that it must have taken a lot of rehearsal. Yet, Jake Brunner, who penned Ampeater’s post on the band in October 2009, notes that frontman Charlie Looker’s manipulation of musical material “goes far beyond the look-what-I-can-do aesthetic of many similarly technically proficient musicians,” and that his compositional process lets “the notes tell him … the rhythmic organization, as opposed to entering the creative zone with a preconceived idea of which moves to employ.”

With Uncles, this manipulation is both musical and lyrical. I was skeptical when I first heard New York native Dan Bateman’s thick southern accent which, suspiciously, is present only when he sings. It turns out, though, that there’s a natural explanation. As a child, Bateman often visited his uncle in Alabama, who introduced him to music by singing to him in that same thick drawl. Eventually, Bateman took these songs back to New York and collaborated with Will Schwartz to create Uncles (so named in homage to his Alabama kin, one assumes). Yet Uncles is not ashamed of its urban roots and the duo’s lyrics—ranging from profound to profane—sound a lot more like Jack Kerouac than anything Bateman’s uncle might have sung. “Replacing Words with Other Words,” the title of Uncles’ latest album, alludes to this juxtaposition. The music brings separate worlds together and seeks to reconcile them, such that we walk away from it with a heightened perspective of each. When I think of settlers, I imagine Plymouth Rock, the Oregon Trail, or something similarly obsolete in this world yet “Settler’s Song” addresses settlers of a different sort, finding poetry in the urban grit and poverty of the immigrant’s New York. Above a sentimental guitar figure and warbling synth, Bateman sings:

Cracked and torn
Faces scorn
Dominicans sipping 40 ounces
Sitting bent up on the metal grate on the nail salon
I want to hear my shit pumping
from an SUV down a side street bend
Or on the lips of obese women
Yakkity yakking in the supermarket

I’m reminded of a pivotal moment in Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being when a European discusses the beauty of New York. “Beauty in the European sense has always had a premeditated quality to it,” observes the novel’s protagonist. “The beauty of New York rests on a completely different base. Its unintentional… Forms which are in themselves quite ugly turn up fortuitously, without design, in such incredible surroundings that they sparkle with a sudden wondrous poetry.” His lover, an artist, cryptically suggests that such unintentional beauty is the final phase in the history of beauty. What does “final” imply? Do we infer that it signifies the demise of beauty, or the pinnacle, or both?

Either way, it’s easy to see why such an unintentional art is the most resilient, as it requires no motive. Perhaps, after all, music can exist without the musician. Without the musician, however, the listener becomes responsible for recognizing music in the honking of horns or the pelting of the rain against the windowpane. We might even say that the listener becomes the musician, just as practitioners of found art are called artists. Oscar Wilde’s Vivian attests to this in the author’s 1891 essay, “The Decay of Lying:”

To look at a thing is very different from seeing a thing. One does not see anything until one sees its beauty. Then—and then only—does it come into existence. At present, people see fogs, not because there are fogs, but because poets and painters have taught them the mysterious loveliness of such effects. There may have been fogs for centuries in London. I dare say there were. But no one saw them, and so we do not know anything about them. They did not exist till Art had invented them.

It seems the process of transposition is reversed in unintentional art, for instead of converting intangible experience into art, we’re taking existing forms and converting them into emotion. Plato banished artists from his utopian Republic on the pretext that representation dilutes an ideal. He was talking about intentional art, yet I suspect that he would have been even more critical of unintentional art, for if intentional art obscures an ideal, unintentional art doesn’t even attempt to relate to an ideal. Plato seems to have viewed art as a photocopy, where each successive copy is fainter than the last, until finally the page is blank. What he doesn’t account for is what we add, and our additions are often unintended. Alvin Lucier’s seminal sound experiment “I am sitting in a room” demonstrates the failure of the copy machine metaphor. He records his voice and plays it back into the room which he records and replays again, repeating this process ad infinitum (or so it seems, the total work is about 45 minutes long). His voice is quickly warped, morphing into the resonant frequencies of the room, creating a haunting ambient soundscape rather than silence.

And so, the last track on the mix is a remix that revels in a glitch. The original song, Jay Z’s “Empire State of Mind,” is one that everyone is familiar with, unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past two years. What we may not have noticed—I myself did not until Ben Lasman’s August 2010 review drew my attention to it—is the miniscule glitch that occurs at the 21-second mark in and repeats every so often afterwards… Blissed Out’s remix, “Empire State of Mind Edit,” is the magnification of that glitch to extreme heights. Of course, Blissed Out is quite aware of what they’re doing and, as Lasman surmises, so was Jay-Z.

It’s a strange little imperfection to find in a more or less immaculately constructed pop song. Something ostensibly unrelated to musicianship or writing, but still too much there to be considered an oversight. Every ten seconds or so it pops up out of nowhere, grinding at the gears of the chorus, tearing the whole jam apart from the inside out like an armful of bot fly babies … Rap is quite a bit different today than it was a decade ago, sure, but where most heads like to whine about the lyrical transition from the socially-conscious to the fiscally-conservative, it’s also important to note how that thematic shift has been mirrored in the genre’s musical methodology. Sampling, record scratching, the infinite repetition of a breakbeat were all transcendent sonic malfunctions, punk gestures stemming from the same kind of technological anti-humanism as playing slide guitar with a lead pipe or cutting up your torso with a bunch of broken beer bottles thrown hatefully at the stage … Which is why, when Hova’s biggest hit in years comes accidentally equipped with incessant, intrusive noisiness, we not only get a throwback to the auto-destructing golden years of rap, but an exciting insight into how this sort of musical antagonism could pop a hole in hip-hop’s fat-suit.

But if that’s so, we’re treading into another phase of beauty that Kundera’s couple did not imagine, since this is the deliberate representation of unintentional beauty. And so, with each successive layer of transposition we vacillate between the tangible and intangible, the real and imagined, and somewhere in the midst of all of this a complete picture begins to emerge.

Unfortunately for my girlfriend, her accusation backfired. Rather than seeking to appease her, in the following week I grew even more concerned about the upcoming exam. Perhaps I’d flipped the switch, and had begun to transpose my romantic worries onto academics. More likely, though, I just resented her for making me so self conscious about it all, which is why I urge you to push everything you’ve just read to the back of your mind and give the tracks a relaxed listen.

CONCRETE EXPERIENCE is a new journal of contemporary photography and creative art published quarterly and based in Seoul, South Korea committed to delivering an engaging alternative to standard art and literature periodicals to creative-minded audiences. Incorporating a variety of writing styles and aesthetic sensibilities, it locates itself at the interstices of high and low art, litmag and fanzine, fiction and journalism, conceptual and concrete, all wrapped up in a beautiful and enduring journal-cum-objet d’art. Our guiding mantra—“let the words vibrate”—embraces the way we want readers to interact with CONCRETE EXPERIENCE; rather than churn out a lineup of unrelated articles or photography features, we carefully curate the magazine as a whole, providing readers with a cohesive and comprehensive unit.

Nate Greenberg

	Track 1 — Translations: The Wanderer Download audio file (01 The Wanderer.mp3)		Track 2 — Jean-Rene Ella: Wade in the Water Download audio file (02 Wade in the Water.mp3)
	Track 3 — Cabinet of Natural Curiosities: For Sparrow Download audio file (03 For Sparrow.mp3)		Track 4 — Francois Peglau: I’ll Never Be Alain Delon Download audio file (04 Ill Never Be Alain Delon.mp3)
	Track 5 — Ashraya Gupta: Dogwood Download audio file (05 Dogwood.mp3)		Track 6 — Extra Life: I Don’t See It That Way Download audio file (06 I Dont See It That Way.mp3)
	Track 7 — Uncles: Settler’s Song Download audio file (07 Settlers Song.mp3)		Track 8 — The D’Urbervilles: We Are The Hunters Download audio file (08 We Are The Hunters.mp3)
	Track 9 — Color of Clouds: Satellite of Love Download audio file (09 Satellite of Love.mp3)		Track 10 — Blissed Out: +Empire State of Mind Edit+ Download audio file (10 Empire State of Mind Edit.mp3)