records ...were made to be broken!

minimal man

2011-12-31T00:29:00.006-05:00

the shroud of 12"
[1981, subterranean]

full disclosure: i have almost no interest in industrial music. while the san francisco based minimal man (founded by patrick miller) are credited as being one of the more influential bands when it came to narrowing the distance between punk rock and industrial, to me, they were far more than an industrial hybrid. at least at first. their debut release contained elements of cold wave, art rock, post-punk, new wave, avant-garde, experimental electronics as well as noise. it's elements of the latter, mixed with miller's lyrical misanthropy and paranoia that lent to the "industrial" sound, but honestly i think that minimal man's neighbors (and label mates) nervous gender were a better embodiment of the punk goes industrial ethos. there's also the fact that this album is the only one theirs that even sounds like that. their second full length, safari, took plenty of strides forward in terms of listenability; retaining the synth and electronics love, but (for the most part) losing the darkness and edge which made the shroud of such a unique and groundbreaking document. by the time that 1985's sex with god came out, that's when patrick miller would come to more wholeheartedly embrace industrial music... and the results mostly came across like shitty dance music for goths. slave lullabies was a marked improvement over that, doing a much better job of fusing at least the tone of their debut with the recent shift in artistic direction. when minimal man's last album, pure, was released, in 1988, all semblance of what this project was all about was shot to hell as that album mainly consisted of minimal electronic soundscapes. the shroud of may have helped bridge the gap between punk and industrial, but once this group crossed that bridge, they seemed to have burnt it.

the foundation of the band, initially, also included drummer lliam hart (pansy division) and saxophonist / bassist andrew baumer, but miller fancied the idea of the group being more of a musical collective and as such their debut record featured contributions from a myriad of artists: hitoshi sasaki, stephen wymore (pink section), stefano paolillo, michael belfer (sleepers, tuxedomoon), steven brown (tuxedomoon), michael fox (code of honor) and gary miles. interestingly enough, only this and slave lullabies would feature such an array of collaborators, though the band's core would alter with every release; to the best of my knowledge he never worked with one single musician on more than two albums.

as far as mood-setting opening tracks goes, loneliness is a glorious choice. after beginning with an excerpt of a man listing his depression related symptoms, sparse guitar chords, which sound like they're underwater, enter, soon to be joined by a slow drumbeat and moody synth atmospherics. miller carries that opening theme and runs with it, as evidenced by lines like "no one lives but me, shadows are my only friend, and ghosts are all i see". after spending the verse extolling the pros and cons of loneliness, as a condition and a concept, his (lyrical) hopelessness begins to grow in intensity, and so will the instruments, culminating in a chugging apex during the chorus, with patrick's frantic repeated insistence that "ronald reagan and i agree!". aside from just being an awesome song, to me it's also an encapsulation of the climate in the country at the time, and makes me feel faux-nostalgic, since i was like two at the time. the early 80's were a good time for fear.

two people is just... eerie madness, really, since there's not a whole lot of actual substance. the lyrics see our protagonist in the role of either a soothsayer or misanthropic god, spinning a little yarn about how two people in a car, who think they're going far (not sure if that's both literal and metaphorical, but both work), are really just going to die and he's the only one privy to this fact. the macabre subject matter is made more severe by the cold, mechanical music, consisting of random noises (blaring drones, blasting saxophone), the sudden falling out of the background music as well as shrieking vocals. what two people lacks in conventional songwriting, it more than makes up for in menace.

the storytelling structure will continue with high why. here miller recounts a tale about how he scored some drugs off the street and got high before a show. then he proceeds to rhetorically, and repeatedly, ask (yell) "why?" never answering, merely ruminating. at the very least it's a unique take on drug use since it serves as a counterbalance to the glorification of narcotics in music. since his story is left unresolved, it's the bouncing bassline and rubbery guitar chords which ultimately leave a lasting impression on the listener.

after beginning the album with something resembling a normal song, minimal man has been moving further away from the standard verse/chorus/verse pattern ever since. while that could be a risky move, in terms of holding people's interest, patrick miller's brand of nihilism actually seems to thrive more once it's freed from the shackles of convention; hospital is proof positive of that fact. this time he'll go in a different direction with the vocals, adopting a stutter to some words and repeating others for emphasis, definitely not as straight forward. now, due to his delivery, i can't fully grasp the song's meaning, but combining the dark lurch of the music with shouted lyrics such as "she's going to be in the hospital a long long long time!" one can assume it isn't anything sweet. i may not be able to get the gist of what's going on, but there is a good lyrical payoff (which is rather lacking in other songs). one of the things that patrick says a few times in the song's duration is "knowing fully well anything she found would always be mine", he'll follow up that thought just before the song ends with the multi-tracked whisper of "and she found the worms crawling out of her", which was a wonderfully fucking creepy way to end this song.

blue step is easily the album's noisiest track, and it's also one of the best. the highlight here is a great submerged guitar line which is often buried underneath a variety of noisy add-ons. without that grounding guitar it seems like blue step would just collapse from the sheer chaos surrounding it.

the appropriately titled hatemonger (the song ends with the repeating of "fucking little whore!") once again features a very strong musical foundation; a repetitious, affected guitar chug, which alternates between two particular tones. the relative monotony of it is broken up by another guitar, with its piercing siren-like wails and miller's fractured vocals will match the buoyant quality of the instruments to terrific effect.

following that rousing three song high the album's quasi-titular centerpiece, the shroud, will cool things down considerably. it consists of waves of layered ambient drones, disturbed only somewhat by subdued meandering synth clatter.
now i want it all stands out not only for being one of the scant normal songs on the record, but for the fact that it's actually upbeat to the point of being poppy. considering how things had been progressing up to now, it's pretty jarring. its airy synth melody will pair nicely with that of the distorted guitar and miller will (legitimately) sing, betraying the talk/shouting dynamic which had been commonplace. with that said, it's not all good times as the song's mid-section corrodes into droning guitar clamor, ambient synthesizer sounds, eerie whispers and a nice undercurrent of electronic noise. after that tumult, now i want it all picks up where it left off.

there's a good sparse vibe to the hex of sex, with its slight tribalesque percussion and a memorable anchoring bassline as its rhythmic counterpart. that'll be fleshed out by formless guitar and droning which differs in each stereo channel. lyrically, miller begins by saying how he thinks of all the disgusting animalistic things he used to do with an ex when he's lonely, making sex seem contemptible, he'll then build on that by stating that since the beginning of man, everyone has wanted just one thing, sex, and that word is issued with more than just a tinge of vitriol. fucking may be an instinctual act to him, but not one that he seems too proud to be engaging in.

the duality of minimal man will rear its head once more in you are. the lyrics are essentially an ode to someone he considers dear to him, "you are my friend, you're special to me, you're the one i love", the problem is that the music is so tense and unfeeling that the sentiment comes across as condescension. this actually makes the sappy lyrics much more tolerable. the music revolves around what sounds like a distorted alarm going off, which is joined by feedback and understated guitar noise.

miller retreats back to his lonely place in i don't resist. at this point he seems unburdened and resigned to just letting loneliness consume him, basically offering himself to it with his shouts of "i don't... resist!" there's a strong melancholic guitar melody at resist's core which is haunted by the darker bass chords and atmospheric industrial synth noise.

for having such a natural sounding title, jungle song is ardently inorganic. the no-frills drum machine beat in tandem with the main synthesized melody (two consecutive high-pitch tones followed by a mid) fit congruently with the patrick's theme; once more, though more obvoiusly this time, he will cast himself in the role of creator. now he's singing about how "nice" it is that so many different people (and animals) can coexist in "the same device", linking the mechanical quality of the music with the lyrics. the pauses that are used to separate each statement create a fragmentary format which is impactful in this setting. jungle song, which is (musically) catchy and upbeat, is oddly optimistic, without being backhandedly so, definitely a rarity.

it would have been a little too neat or easy to end the album with the last track, so instead it draws to conclusion with she was a visitor. lacking any ear-catching components, it's best when viewed merely as an outro (despite the fact that it's nearly four minutes long). the lyrics won't extend beyond the plaintively spoken title of the song and they're issued atop pulsing synth tones which are broken up by grim guitar riffs, rudimentary drumming and saxophone that just drifts along in the background. the vocals will gradually rise in amplitude and become increasingly affected by a delay pedal. it's not a bummer or anything, just a bit of a milquetoast ending.

the shroud of may be a (mostly) bleak journey, but it is a highly rewarding one, aurally. seeing as how there's a great deal of emphasis placed on experimentation, specifically with regards to the lyrical aspect of songwriting, it was imperative that the music portion be strong enough to sustain repeated listens, and that was certainly the case here. the moodiness that arose through the group's melding of (restrained) noise, synth atmospherics and post-punk sounding guitars paired remarkably well with patrick miller's ravings. his lyrics, which at times seem improvised, offer the listener a voyeuristic glimpse at the uglier side of the human condition. in short, this is feel good music, since your life probably isn't as shitty as he made his out to be and that's something to feel good about.

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blue step

mosquito the rapist

2011-03-06T01:44:00.031-05:00

[mosquito der schänder]
(1977, marijan david vajda)

slasher films are generally regarded as the lowest form of film by critics, christians and cunts (feminists) for their general lack of substance and substantial use of violence toward women, but biographical accounts of real crime have a social function most slasher films don't, (in my humble opinion) exposing what seems to be the thin veneer between the impulses of a rational person, and those of a killer. while the genre is definitely over-saturated with its share of serious character studies and re-enactments of real crimes, a few stand out for their distinctly graphic and outrageous portrayals of real murderers; placing all of the focus on personal motivations in a not-so-subtle ploy to evoke sympathy for the disturbed rather than trouble the viewer with any discernible sense of morality (and really, it's more fun that way). films like 1990's henry: portrait of a serial killer (based on the murders of henry lee lucas) and, more recently, aileen wuornos' 2003 biopic 'monster' present compelling arguments for the interest in this type of storytelling. both are shockingly bleak accounts of horrific acts committed by remorseless products of our own society, outcast at a young age and unable to reclaim or find solace in ordinary lives, giving us an opportunity to easily psychologize crimes that otherwise wouldn't be terribly relatable (a quick search on the crimes of either murderer proves to be a pretty grim one); however, these honest representations would be anything but honest if they didn't include the brutality that made them so notable to begin with. it all certainly makes for strange escapist fare when these films are actually effective though, as you begin to sympathize and even share the stakes in their murderous conquests. whether their intention is to provoke emotion, or at the very least, discussion, humanizing antagonistic figures can't be an easy task.
marijan david vajda's 'mosquito the rapist' (aka bloodlust) certainly tries its best to manipulate perspective by presenting the account of germany's "vampire of nuremberg," kuno hoffman, in the best light possible. vadja constantly flashes back at every possible opportunity to remind the viewer of the connection between some heinous act and a past event that led him to commit it - bringing vajda's personal definition of subtlety into question, although i doubt anyone able to read this (with the exception of some lucky parolees) could find a story about kuno hoffman easy to watch without some constant reminder of his humanity. hoffman, beaten so severely by his father that he was left a deaf-mute, led a pretty difficult life. he spent most of 1971 closely following death notices in the newspaper in order to immediately break into local cemeteries and engage with the recently deceased; molesting them, drinking their blood with a glass straw, and sometimes even cutting their heads off, overall defiling at least 34 corpses. not one to let a good opportunity pass him by, he shot a guard in a local cemetery who had interrupted a very private session with a corpse. that same night he shot a couple parked in a wooded area, stripped them down, and completely drained them of blood. the guard actually survived and was able to point out his attacker, leading to a lengthy trial and a life sentence for hoffman (since released in 2004 and living quietly in nuremberg, according to some fairly specious info on various websites). vajda stays true to the facts though, and spares no detail. even the addition of some exaggerated characters and details for effect don't distract from the austere portrait he creates, but ultimately seem pointless since hoffman's crimes were larger than life, anyway. heavy-handed but thoroughly enjoyable, and highly recommended to fans of the exploitation genre in general.
werner pochath (billed here only as "the man") plays kuno too well, with his intense eyes, kind face, and understated demeanor; he's exactly the kind of guy you'd expect to be waiting outside of an elementary school in a white van, only...he rides around on a moped (a real life fact that actually played a small part in his trial). vajda attempts to let the story speak for itself at first, as we watch kuno deal with life in his environment. while at work his boss sends a co-worker over to explain the fact that he's earned a well-deserved raise (establishing the fact that he's both deaf and mute), and he seems to understand (assuming he can read lips) and looks fairly content about the news. fortunately for him, he's unable to hear his co-workers gossiping about him behind his back shortly afterward, but kuno's proud moment is officially ruined for the audience. on the plus side, it's also the only moment in the entire film where you can really manage to pity the poor guy. after work he rides back to his apartment, and like a real life scene in any poor tenement, a woman hangs her laundry in the courtyard as her alcoholic husband gives their son a very public beating. their daughter (a quirky teenage girl who seems friendly with kuno) joins her mother in an attempt to help the boy, but the assault only stops when kuno tries to fight him and ultimately receives a good blow to the head. while kuno is dizzy from his injury, vajda takes the opportunity to insert one of about five hundred flashbacks to reveal something about his upbringing. obviously triggered by the incident in the tenement, he recalls being harshly beaten by his own deadbeat father as a teenager. kicked and punched until he's too injured to move, he's forced to watch his very young sister get molested just inches away as she rings a bell for help. probably one of the most graphic child molestation scenes i've ever witnessed in a film, and, although brief, it's just...pretty fucking shocking. the girl truly looks and seems all of eight years old, and although they're careful not to show her face at most angles, even as this older man pulls down her panties and rubs her, i'm kind of always expecting to see an older girl's body subbed in at the very least. i could be wrong, but i'd be interested to learn how they even pulled that off. anyway, she successfully struggles her way out of her father's grip and lies next to kuno on the floor while their father smashes her favorite doll in response to her defiance.
finally inside his apartment, we're given more insight into kuno's personality. now a collector of creepy porcelain baby dolls, he takes a moment to caress one as he stares at a portrait of what i'm assuming is his late mother. he then goes to the balcony with the intention of giving one of his dolls to the teenage girl next door, but accidentally drops it and they both watch as it falls to the ground and shatters (and he remembers his father laughing and stomping on his sister's doll again).
later that night he walks down a busy street and is approached by a big madame who sets him up with a fat, pushy prostitute (some favor) who for some reason isn't just satisfied with the money she's been given and feels the need to berate kuno (who's understandably hesitant) because she's in a rush to get it all over with, and "time is money" after all. kuno tries to rest between her saggy tits for a while but when he doesn't get around to putting out, she immediately chases him out and he ends up back at home, where he passionately tears one of his larger dolls apart. he then pours ketchup on his hands, and all over some newspaper, just to lick it off, afterward flopping down on his couch as if completely overcome with ecstasy. weird, weird stuff.
at work, one of his co-workers sees him playing with a doll under his desk and though kuno manages to hide it behind a locked drawer in time, the man brazenly runs up and pulls at the drawer creating a scene, insisting it's all proof enough that kuno is a weird pervert and that he intends to call his union so he won't be forced to work in the same office. his notions are easily dismissed by their boss and he's asked to go back to his desk before the union is called on him. kuno's co-worker does, however, manage to fuck up of kuno's work when a jar of red ink spills all over his desk as hoffman looks on in utter defeat, smearing the stuff all over his hands and mouth, allowing his co-workers to publicly witness his descent into madness. another flashback gives us further insight into what he's feeling at that moment - at a school for deaf-mutes he concentrates on school work at his desk, unaware that the children behind him seem to be plotting to embarrass him. a boy runs up and pulls at his work, overturning a pot of red ink and spilling it all over the desk as all of children in class quickly gather 'round to witness this, while their helpless teacher does nothing in kuno's defense.

aside from a few factual accounts of kuno's personal perversions here and there, the first fifteen minutes of this film seem more interested in exposing the plight of the impaired through the eyes of one man, perceived here as an overgrown child too inept to achieve any adult aspirations. a deaf-mute just trying to get along in a harsh, unbearable reality with no shelter from the cruel discrimination he endures every day from anyone who might cross his path. vadja explains away kuno's every odd impulse as a necessary outlet, even as these impulses intensify and manifest themselves in the form of nightly, almost religious, rituals with his dolls (another real-life fact stemming from a purported obsession with the occult), hinting at violent tendencies just beneath the surface.
it seems as if this man's world is a hopeless one, but his relationship with his neighbor's daughter seems to mature and it's possible to see a different life shaping for kuno, after all. she's the only person who shows him any kindness (to her mother's dismay), unable to sense any strangeness about him; even his unhealthy affinity for dolls seems more like the fixation of an average hobbyist. she looks to be about kuno's age but she appears to be somewhat stunted herself, acting much younger than she looks. her only passion is an all-consuming love for twirling around in circles, and in that way seems a perfect match for kuno. her warmth and sensitivity, among other things, certainly appeals to kuno but he makes no attempt to consort with her. in fact, one might think she was bothering him. the nervous manner that seems to make everyone else afraid to deal with kuno, attracts her to him more and she finds little ways to engage them in "conversation" (which mostly consists of grateful looks and small gestures). her mother suspects kuno's true feelings but the girl seems either too immature or too spacey to share them and professes only to loving clouds; her life's dream an intangible, childish wish to "dance over the rooftops and caress the whole world".
having a space cadet for a neighbor actually works out in kuno's favor when she allows him to raid the family shed, as he finally has access to the tools he needs to break into a church and defile a corpse. yay! unfortunately, he finds that indulging his whims hardly helps to curb his urges, and begins paying visits to the recently deceased on a nightly basis, dismembering and playing with their body parts. aside from the film's exploitative international title, referring to kuno's actual experiments with necrophilia, little allusion is made to any sex acts with corpses, but werner polchath's glacial performance throughout the film is so genuine that his obvious signs of arousal and excitement over his actions provide some of the best (and scariest) moments in the film (certainly creepier than the cheap, absolutely fake looking corpses he's consorting with). kuno names himself "mosquito" and his crimes are reported in the local newspaper, causing some panic around town (or at least a lot of water cooler talk at the office) and kuno is thrilled with his new-found fame, even when it makes it increasingly difficult to break into the church, forcing him to choke a guard in order to carry on with his business. kuno does manage to gain some confidence from the situation and he's able to ignore his co-workers' mean-spirited antics.
he won't be the only one successfully pursuing his goals, though, as the neighbor girl gets her big break when she puts on the new dress her mother gave her and climbs up on the roof of their tenement for an inspired and fairly impromptu dance performance for the entire neighborhood. either unwilling or unable to hear her family warning her to stop, she twirls to the edge and falls straight to her death. a trip to a whorehouse fails to comfort kuno as he hallucinates about his long lost beloved while two paid hookers go at it in front of him.
wrought with grief, kuno visits the girl's grave, removes her body and when he's finally able to physically express his true feelings for her, he realizes he is just embracing a cold, lifeless shell of her (formerly) lively self. unable to commit, he thrusts himself into the arms of another dead woman, taking the perversity up a notch as he sucks her blood through a glass straw.
i've had this argument before, and i've seen it mentioned elsewhere as a criticism of this film in particular, that this sort of act is nonsensical as the body would be commonly embalmed before being set out for burial, but natural burials (apparently a very environmentally stable alternative to more modern burial practices) explain that away pretty easily. the rest of the film plays out with basic re-enactments of the events that helped kuno earn his place on obscure goth girl vampire blogs when his rampage culminates in the murder (and exsanguination) of two innocent lovers, quietly humping out in the woods. a minor variation of note, instead of the gun, kuno uses a tool borrowed from the neighbor girl's shed to beat the couple to death with, which is a considerably more violent way to go.
a passport dropped at the scene leads detectives straight to kuno's office, where he's ultimately arrested (a markedly abrupt but realistic ending). aside from some slow pacing, and an obnoxiously 70's soundtrack which is better suited for a softcore porn, it's a great, surreal, piece of eurotrash i'd recommend to fans of jörg buttgereit's work (nekromantik, schramm), since it involves many of the same themes and may have been of some inspiration to him.

"maybe a bit to slow for some people but remember, it were the seventies. so it's not only watches and cheeses that comes from swiss."- trashgang (imdb).

mutter

2011-02-28T23:27:00.014-05:00

du bist nicht mein bruder
[1993, what's so funny about..]

(partially) rising from the ashes of berlin's awesome post-punk outfit, campingsex, was mutter. following that group's demise, thomas "max" müller (vocals, bass) and florian koerner von gustorf (drums) joined up with kerl fieser (bass) and frank behnke (guitar) to create an entirely different beast. while florian and max's prior group embodied pretty much what you'd expect from mid-80's post-punk (with the added bonus of rocking harder, moping less); mutter was.. heavy. rate your music labels them noise rock, but i feel pretty meh about that. it doesn't help that they're not so neatly classifiable. du bist nicht mein bruder (you are not my brother) oftentimes teeters dangerously close to doom metal but (thankfully) max's vocals, as well as style, help mutter avoid some of that genre's more theatrical trappings. when you add to that a penchant for discordant feedback, experimentation and top notch production values (best with headphones!) you've got an album that would just as easily fit today on something like the crucial bliss imprint; heavy, but genre-bending, rock with experimental and noise leanings.

about twenty-three seconds is all it took for me to fall in love with this. seriously. album opener lachen ist billig (laugh is cheap) starts out with a slow snare drum-led cadence and dual channels of screaming feedback, but as soon as that heavily distorted bass comes in, whew, it's a thing of beauty to my ears. a warbling guitar loop will occupy the right channel, while the left is consumed by a tandem of feedback and textural guitar chords (read: noise). the center is taken up by drones and that same introductory drum pattern. when it's time for the chorus to roll around we're greeted to a bombastic, but slowly seesawing, bass riff, while müller barks out the song's title, aided by multi-tracking of his vocals. there's so many sonically good and captivating things going on here that it's almost overwhelming.

strangely enough, they'll follow that up with the acoustic guitar and harmonica-based alles, was du schon immer hören wolltest (everything that you always wanted to hear) and.... well, it quickly becomes an interesting mix of things that shouldn't really go together; florian's rich drumming would seem to be far better suited for something a bit harder, the acoustic guitar will be paired with a terrific (electric) bassline and there's also distorted guitar noise thrown in, seemingly just to clash with the effervescent harmonica. so, yeah, this is somewhat of a headscratcher, but between the bass, the cool, mantra-like, gang-sung repetition of the track's title juxtaposed with max's more emotional reciting over the top of everything, it has grown on me with repeated listens. still.. odd.

the deep and dark bass chords that open up the (joyless) humor will see the band getting back to form, and what a mighty fine form it is. this one's near dirge-like in its slowness, but rather than predictably play it up by pairing it with crushing chords, they'll opt for something a little more highbrow. florian's drumming, which always sounds remarkably crisp and pushed up in the mix, has fucking brilliantly thought out timing with the bass, which gives the song a heavier sound than it really has when that bass is joined by the kick drum on the chorus. müller's vocals come off a lot more fragile here, and it's almost like he's straining to be, well, restrained. in a song that's already remarkable, the best things about this, to me, are those periodic instances when the instruments will (mostly) drop off (save for a droning bass and light cymbal taps), allowing for an ethereal "ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh" to rise up from the track's depths to compliment max's subdued vocals, which are more plainly spoken than they are sung. humor is just a gorgeous piece of music, while not actually being pretty, though, wait, the ambient music and warm vinyl fuzz that accounts for the outro is actually pretty, so, whatever.

michael begins with a repetitive, bouncing, bassline and ambient background drones. about forty or so seconds later a drum roll enters which will usher in a completely different song. the bass, while similar, is more memorable, less simplistic, and the ambiance is removed entirely. the bass / drums combo will account for the instrumentation's only semblance of cohesion as the other guitars will each occupy their own stereo channel and, mostly, proffer what seems like improvised chord-based noise and drones, while the bass repeats itself infinitely. there's not much of a discernible chorus until the second half of this four minute track pretty much turns into one, with solemn background chants of "mee-cull" being issued underneath max's own, and decidedly more animated, spin on how "michael" should be pronounced.

the droning and distorted bass chords which open up ich weiß ich weiß ich weiß (~~i white i white i white~~ i know i know i know) may be nice attention grabbers, especially the way they swing to and fro like a pendulum, but once that drumming starts, it's clear where the focus lies. it's not always what florian's doing, necessarily, but just how prominently featured the percussion is; it's hard to ignore loud, rapid succession thumping. for not featuring that many different aspects, this is a little on the long side at five and a half minutes. when müller isn't speaking his lyrics, he's basically just shouting out "ich weiß" endlessly. there is a hypnotic nature to the simplicity of the guitars and the steady rhythm being pounded out. feedback and swirling ambiance pop up in the track's midsection, but aside from that they'll carry on in the same manner as before, the key difference, early on in the second half, being an even more relaxed vocal delivery which causes all of the other instruments to drop off in amplitude to match.

as if to atone for the relative stagnancy of ich weiß ich weiß ich weiß, mutter present us with the impressive alles (everything). i don't speak deutsch so fuck if i know what max is going on about, but i assume the alles here has to do with what they included in this song. goddamn. after an unassuming few seconds of repetitive chords, distorted noise and droning feedback, there's florian bludgeoning the kit with killer, hollow drum hits which are matched by noisy, semi-mechanical sounding riffs and squealing feedback. it all comes in these ten second bursts which are connected to each other via feedback in the left channel and bass droning in the right. once they've established this terrific pattern things will change up halfway through with rapidly undulating electronic pulsations and a wonderful synth melody. they'll abandon that after only a minute or so, but that change of pace was a great kick in the ass for a song that already sounded rad.

mutter's rhythm section will slow the pace down considerably for ich bin er (i am he), and while they'll do a good job of that, the greatest aspect of this song comes from absolutely sick guitar drones; the other bass is textural, distorted and pushed to the background. i love the fact that they'll build this song around winding drones that sound like a single engine plane. beautiful. occasionally, florian will bust up the calm with solitary drum hits that sound like.. i guess like throwing fluorescent light tubes against a brick wall, but, hmm, i'm not sure how universal that description is. oh well, use your imagination. i'm torn between how i feel about this jarring facet, but even when i'm leaning towards disliking it, that doesn't come close to offseting how great those guitar drones are.
(shitty album art doesn't always mean shitty music)
the only time on du bist that i'm iffy about the drumming is on ihr größter wunsch (their biggest desire), it's just a little too basic: kick drum every second, a snare / snare combination every five and a little light cymbal play thrown in for good measure. it's a shame because the slow seesawing (and tremoloed) guitar is, conversely, terrific in its simplicity. between the drums and a muddled, ascending bassline, mutter squanders what could've been a more solid effort. the final couple of minutes which features a sample of a child speaking, set solely to drums and bass (which occasionally stop dead in their tracks), could've been chopped out since six and a half minutes is a little on the unnecessary side for something like this. it's a decent affair, for sure, but by this point the bar's been raised to high for middling work.

the three and a half minutes of sorgen (ensure) are kind of like a sonic assault and the main culprit is the guitar which emits elongated descending chords that are akin to the cry of bombs being dropped.. over and over and over. when that's coupled with the repetition of the chorus, it can make you feel a little tense and anxious. this track definitely has the feel of being in opposition of wunsch since, this time, the bass and drums are both tremendous, providing a terrific soundscape for behnke's manic noise.

the faster paced songs on du bist work well to showcase mutter's range, but the times when they've slowed it down, as they will for wie füreinander gemacht (you're on your own with this one, sorry), the results have been great. helping out a very subdued percussive effort, which relies more on steadily tapped cymbals than the actual drums, are two droning guitars (of varying length) amidst a memorable guitar loop which serves as an anchor. when the sober chants (which won't relent) of wie füreinander gemacht start up in the track's midsection, the percussion will pick up in momentum as well, eventually being joined by a squall of panning guitar distortion and feedback.

in a style similar to alles, was du schon immer hören wolltest, mutter will bring the album to a close with its titular track. it will begin with a grounding layer of quasi-dark droning ambiance and then bring in some toe-tap worthy acoustic strumming (sounds like an unplugged electric guitar), sing-along vocals, knocking percussion, a tambourine and eventually an electric piano, which will be followed closely by drumming that would seem like it had been pre-programmed on a keyboard, if it weren't for the deep, full sound of the kick drum... had they kept the piano and drums out of this one it would've worked a bit better, but i won't fault them for ending a (predominately) earnest album with a few minutes of levity.

despite the fact that du bist straddles a line between a few different genres, i feel like it's an album that could, even eighteen years after the fact, make a huge impact on a plethora of people nowadays, should they ever become aware of it. incredibly, mutter are still together, though lacking two original members, max's picked up ~~four~~ three others in michael fröhlich, ~~achim treu~~, harry coltello and tom scheutzlich, and they released an album last year. i'm usually leery of old bands who keep making music (i'm alluding to you, sonic youth), but i miiiiiiight make an exception since i've seen it get high marks on both rym and discogs and am easily impressed by number ratings, apparently. we'll see. in the interim, do yourself a favor and snag this album. there's also a dvd documentary of the band that i wouldn't mind picking up at some point.

download

die kinder gehen alle tot (from 1997's konzerte 1986 - 1991)

the trashies

2011-02-10T22:53:00.011-05:00

space jam cd-r
[2011, self-released]

yaay! or more appropriately, fuck yeah! the trashies are back. shortly after reviewing their excellent blue tarp 7" back in 2008 i was informed that the seattle-based band was breaking up (and breaking my heart) so imagine my surprise when i passed by the funhouse not too long and saw that they were playing a show with nobunny. to make good news even better, the recentlyish reformed four-piece of (drummer) ricky, (singer/bassist) andrew sullivan (also of unnatural helpers), (guitarist) ron "wolfman" (also of tacocat) and (singer/keyboardist) maxwell, have a new album out. well, kind of. the disc that i got at the show is a cd-r, which i assume is only available from the band at this point, but they're working on getting it released on vinyl and cassette in the near future.

despite their lengthy hiatus, the trashies show no signs of rust on the rad sci-fi b-movie pandering opener, white mold. beginning with a nice little bassline, andrew and wolfman have a terrific call and response with the latter shouting out "white mold" while the reverbed sullivan lists all of the places that it's taken over. there's a real (and subsequently humorous) sense of urgency with the music, as the guitars propel forward, but it's the constant stop/start dynamic throughout this woefully short track that really sticks with me. the lyrics, in addition to the shared vocals, are goddamn catchy, too, especially when the chorus of "white mold comes from outer space through a black hole" syncs up perfectly with those driving chords.

maxwell will handle the vocals on schultz mask replica and, wow, it's a staggering departure not only after following white mold, but really, for these guys in general... it's... twangy. man, for a band with this name who have quite a few songs about boners and getting wasted, they have a way with words that you wouldn't expect; as evidenced early on in this one: "back in old milwaukee there's a face without a mask, there's a white knuckled freak gripping an empty flask... we laid in wide-eyed worship at a schultz mask replica!" the trashies are one of those seemingly rare garage rock bands where, most of the time, they actually seem to give a shit about making songs that are as lyrically interesting as they are musically good. schultz plays out like a humorous story (about god knows what) set to a sauntering cowpunk (that's a thing, right?) backdrop with maxwell's nasally excitability really tying all of the pieces together well.

at first, negative zero would seem to officially start to imply a space / science theme, after beginning with "negative zero, less than none, smashin' atoms just for fun" but maxwell takes a detour and instead draws parallels between a negative zero and his own life, chiefly by chronicling his issues with fiscal responsibility, "bank account means less than done", as well as troubles with math, best summed up by "numbers are a stupid thing". the repetitive driving looped feel of the bass and guitar, punctuated by continual keyboard stabs, as well as the cold mechanical issuance of the title during the chorus, lends the cut a spatial feel even if the lyrics cleverly malign it. clearly the trashies are never ones to shy away from self-deprecation and maxwell's (ironically) proudly parading his disdain for himself on the wonderfully named penultimate betrayalblazer. the upbeat tone and sound of this is more in line with what this group has churned out in the past and the whiny vocal delivery makes lines like "...i eat all the resin and i smell like tripe" even better.

space jam hits a bit of a mid-album road-bump starting with paved reality, which isn't a bad song at all, just not that memorable, either musically or lyrically, and when compared to the tracks which precede it, it comes across as being a little flat. bugsmoker is the album's weakest offering and the title pretty much gives this one away. the dual staccato panned chorus "smoke, bugs, new, drugs" seems to channel a naked lunch kind of vibe and, actually, i mostly just feel indifferent to the actual music, but when bugsmoker devolves into a cheesy faux-reggae stream of consciousness jam (can three minute songs be considered jams? in this case, yes) that's when i remember why i choose to skip past this song on casual listens.
the trashies will gracefully transition out of that with sippin on acoolie; a seventy-six second gang sung tribal chant which merely recites and repeats the title. ricky's jungle percussion in combination with the affected mannerisms taken by the vocalists establishes a terrific atmosphere. by itself it's somewhat odd, and endearing, but it really works better as an intro for the next track, destroy. as soon as you hear wolfman's solo lead-in you just know that this isn't your average trashies song, and you'd be correct. the tribal-esque percussion is fucking rad (and includes hand claps!), the guitar riffs are anthemic and grandiose, andrew's bassline is fun and bouncy and the band nicely compliments that with a harmoniously group sung effort. i think the last time they did a sing-along thing like this, the results weren't quite as sunny sounding, with the gg allin tribute, i h8 u motherfuckers. the best part is they'll use a song that sounds so fucking positive to say "i wanna destroy.... i wanna destroy.. i wanna destroy... there's nothing to destroy anymore". i love how destroy stands out so starkly in the group's oeuvre but still makes perfect sense. these guys have done rousing anthems in the past, but never quite like this. it's definitely impressive.

they'll stay on a roll with eat where u shit, though i'm not so much a fan of the scatological lyrics, the musical content sustains repeated listens, specifically the chemistry between the bass and guitar. freeform war falls into paved reality territory for me, again, not shitty, but it doesn't grab my attention.

the scant twenty-three and a half minutes of this album will come to a close with... uh, not quite what this is named because they ran out of room on the back of the cover for it.. mongo jumanji chill.. er, something that starts with a w and ends in ger... mongo jumanji chill wigger? holy shit it is chill wigger i just heard them say it. despite the ridiculousness (awesomeness?) of this song's title, good god, it has quickly become one of my favorite trashies songs. yet again the music is pulling itself out of the gutter and aspiring to do better things, even if the lyrics aren't quite ready to make that commitment. the balance of the musicianship, which is far removed from the garage punk of even this album's first track, in corroboration with the band's own lyrical identity, is a wonderful thing and, i feel, offers some great insight into (yet) another direction in which the band might be headed, and i'm excited about the possibilities. mongo starts out a little unassumingly; on the slower side (in the context of this album) but rides some good, bouncy distorted guitar chords. what initially make the greatest impression are the multi-tracked vocals, which are isolated, panned and vary not only in their depth in the mix but in tone as well; one is a little more frenzied and pushed down, the other's in the foreground and plaintive. having two separate tracks of maxwell's vocals really pays off in the killer chorus.. i hope they print lyric sheets for the proper versions of this album because there's a lot of good shit that i can't quite make out, such as what follows "mongo jumanji fantasy payday"... i think it's "mj only does hj's on wednesdays". if that's right, that fucking rules, ha. as does the sick change in guitar tone and having the keyboard mirror that melody in the chorus. everything they did on this song is absolutely perfect and totally makes up for the couple of tracks here that i thought were lesser efforts.

under normal circumstances, following up an album as terrific as 2007's what makes a man get trashed? would be difficult, but when you add to that the (roughly) three years that divide that album from this one, well, i was a bit anxious about firing this disc up; thankfully, space jam does not disappoint. while it's not a perfect effort, it definitely met, and probably exceeded my expectations, honestly. its strongest tracks, white mold, destroy and mongo jumanji not only stand up to their best, but also drop of hints of great things (hopefully) to come. i say hopefully because in the time that the group was on break, maxwell relocated to oakland (i've been to oakland and ... really, man?), so the band's future remains to be seen, but here's hoping they continue to make it work. long live the trashies!

white mold

ricky don't feel (from the blue tarp 7")

esther venrooy

2010-08-13T20:31:00.000-04:00

shift coordinate points 12"
[2006, entr'acte]

when it comes to experimental musicians i must confess that i am biased in favor of women. that's not to say that i favor them more, but rather that i'm more prone to randomly ~~download~~ buy something i know is experimental from a woman. it's less about it viewing them as some sort of curious novelty and more about it just being novel, in general. this is a field that's not only dominated by white males (and asians), but also mostly listened to by them, so i'm more likely to be interested in what non-whites and non-males are doing in it. makes sense to me. really, though, i just love women. one of the great things about experimental / electro-acoustic improvisation / avant-garde music is that they're all musical fields where sex is rendered impotent. it's all about sound. getting back to my original point, venrooy was an artist i knew nothing about other than her name. i decided to check out her work and, as usual, my reverse-sexism paid off splendidly in the result of this outstanding lp.

with shift coordinate points, the rosmalen, netherlands-based sound artist (esther also does a good deal of work with audiovisual art and installations) tows a terrific line between sparse experimentation and accessible electronic composition. put more plainly, it's not totally void of melodic elements, though they're not the record's focus; that would actually be using shortwave radio samples integrated from the conet project's (aka akin o. fernandez) compiling of them on his 1997 release recordings of shortwave numbers stations, and crafting a remarkable soundscape for them. interested parties can freely (and guilt-free, if that's your thing) download that album here.

appropriately enough for a record whose sleeve merely says bleeeeeep, those are what we get at the onset of side a's lone track arthur. it quickly settles down though, favoring just a solitary beep every five seconds and only the faintest of background accompaniment. shortly after introducing tiers of sustained tones into the mix the aforementioned shortwave samples come into focus. in this instance they're short segments of a calm, soothing voiced british woman, alternating between reading off a series of numbers and saying "station eighteen please advance forth". her singling out that particular line is especially brilliant because when i hear it, i can already detect a slight rhythmic elegance to its mere enunciation. through her use of repetition and digital manipulation it gets even better. as they play out they'll slowly weave back and forth between clarity and a muddied sound that's akin to what cyborg ash sounded like just before he died in alien. by skewing with the modulation of the vocals, the words will start to blend together creating these somewhat bassy waves which accentuate the rhythm of their original cadence. supporting that are wonderfully airy drones and spacey ambiance which tie the passage together with their own unique brand of melody. around the five and a half-minute mark arthur takes a turn towards the sparse with a pair of raindrop-like sounds proving a slow, stretched-out rhythm, with not much else, save for another pair of electronic tones. once those drop out after a minute and a half... not a whole lot happening for a little while, until esther brings back those tones and expands on them a bit. it's incredibly simple with the tone merely being repeated in pairs, spread out a little bit, then reused in a different pitch, but it works well. added to that will soon be more shortwave number samples. those provide a nice addition, fleshing out the sound, but the tonal play is the biggest draw. the final few minutes center around the sustained droning of high-pitched frequencies. they're held relatively at bay, rolling in gentle waves and not loud enough to give you tinnitus.

it strikes me as a little surprising that this was released on vinyl because you'd really the lose the effect of the transition from arthur into brussel. the idea of losing the seamless way that it moves from shriller sounds into a gorgeous tonal melody, which opens up the second side, would be the only time i would validly endorse a cd. the chimey sound of it is like a music-box and just seems like it could go on endlessly, and i don't think i'd mind at all if that were the case. she'll let it carry on for three and a half minutes before reincorporating the conet project's transmissions. venrooy goes back to manipulating the samples, but here i find that it lacks the subtlety that worked so remarkably well earlier. the samples are heavily processed and the robotic staccato of them are turned into beats, pretty much. that doesn't last for too long and from there brussel briefly heads into a noisier direction with fax machine static, clipped vocals and tones, before coming out of that with heavy ambient droning. the slight shifting of the drone is a nice touch, but that won't even stick around for very long either. after giving us a little bit of everything, the bottom drops out and we're left with nothing. even when new samples are introduced, by this point, all the record has become is the slightly distorted issuing of numbers for the remaining minutes; both anti-climactic and rather dramatic. it's an interesting note to end on.

shift coordinate points would be a hard record to recommend for casual listeners because, for the most part, it isn't filled with sounds that are going to be constantly engaging. when you compound that with the record's oft occurring nothingness, i could see it being alienating. however, if you're in to actually absorbing music of this nature, it has a ton to offer. it's equally as gorgeous as it is haunting.

download

esther venrooy and heleen van haegenborgh @ cafe wilhelmina, eindhoven, netherlands 12/1/08

cheveu

2010-08-12T14:28:00.000-04:00

like a deer in the headlights 7"
[2009, born bad]

not to take anything away from canada or the united kingdom (or to be a nationalist), but in my opinion, france has the most interesting garage rock scene outside of these united states. i make that claim not solely based on the quality of the bands, but more because of the stylistic variety found there. naturally, all of your standard fare is present; bluesy garage (king custer, thundercrack, the weakends, king automatic, the feeling of love), noisy lo-fi (les hulks, subtle turnhips, tunnel of love, fatals, creteens, kung-fu escalator), 60s pandering (the splash four, cécilia et ses ennuis, the yolks, crusaders of love), (more) straight-forward garage rock (jack of heart, steve & the jerks, shake shake bolino, the normals, anteenagers m.c., the magnetix, sonic chicken 4) as well as new wave and punk-inspired (operation s, the no-talents, t.v. killers). oh yeah, surf rock's covered too, well... you get the idea. now, where the schism comes in is with the increasing use of inorganic instrumentation (drum machines, synthesizers) which distances bands like crash normal, volt, crack und ultra eczema, frustration, lili z., the feeling of love, cheveu as well as newer bands like the liminanas and pierre & bastien from their peers. even within this particular idiom there are deviations as the music ranges from dark, abstract, experimental to catchy and fun.

the parisian trio of cheveu (david lemoîne, etienne nicolas (who also puts in extra work in shake shake bolino and bosom divine) and olivier demeaux) seemed to take their cues from the earlier paradigm created by crash normal (rather appropriately, olivier is in an experimental electronic duo, accident du travail, with julie pierrejean of that group). while they certainly didn't start the electro-garage trend they have wound up taking it to a more logical extreme than their predecessors did, mostly by de-emphasizing the rock (or rawk) and crafting something more lulling and spatial. mind you, their first album was really uptempo, but i don't know what happened in the one year since then, as the group has taken quite a great leap forward in terms of trying out new things. the results have been marvelous, so far. this seven inch was issued several months prior to their second album and actually manages to split the difference between their two albums fairly nicely. it also has one of 2009's best songs on it.

side a's titular track gets off to an immediately wonderful start with a superb guitar melody, which ends with a twinkling cascade of chords, before picking back up again. lemoîne follows that by echoing that melody with his gruff chorus, "like a deer in the headlights, i like to watch the sun rise". it turns out to be a deceptive bit of lyricism. immediately following the chorus things take a turn towards the darker. the guitar is low, distorted and dirty (eschewing the melody), sawing away in the background. the cymbal heavy percussion kicks up the speed, considerably, as david goes into spoken word raving about.. god knows what. something about fighting and bloodbaths. once that's over cheveu will revert to the melodious chorus before getting back in it.. led by david's repeated issuing of "status quo is forever burning flesh". i have no fucking clue as to what lyrical insight is to be gained from this song, but who cares. it sounds amazing. following that second verse the song will change once more, to a slowed down groove with a little bit of keyboards before finally transforming into an ominous dirge, driven by staccato snare hits and eerie ambiance. for being all of three minutes long, it's damn ambitious, while also being the band's most immediate effort.
the record's other track, (the french sung) c'est ça l'amour, takes things in a decidedly opposite direction. it's quite darker, and lacks the killer melody that its counterpart had, but doesn't disappoint at all. it may just take repeated listens to ultimately appreciate how good it is. it starts off with simplistic guitar chords which quickly see-saw back and forth (set to droning synth waves in the background). shortly after the plainly spoken vocals enter, we're treated to a brilliant second layer of guitar, which i could listen to forever, but the most dominant aspect of the song belongs to olivier and his drum machine. the beats are akin to pistons pumping and go from a slow cadence to a machine-gun-like vigor, slowing up and speeding up seemingly at random. obvious rhythmic properties aside, the continual shifting of it (as well as stops and starts), in combination with the spoken word vocals, threatens to throw the track off-kilter, but never does. the guitars do a remarkable job of keeping everything grounded, even as another layer of droning organ is added later on. there's a ton to absorb with this and it's even shorter than like a deer in the headlights, at two minutes. it's impressive that despite everything that went into c'est ça l'amour, it never seemed hurried, given such a short time frame.

if, somehow, this 7" eluded you last year, do yourself a huge favor and get it. if this band has eluded you so far, i'd recommend fixing that, too. starting with their first album would be the best way to go.

download

clara venus (from cheveu (2008))

go, go second time virgin

2010-08-02T23:40:00.000-04:00

[yuke, yuke, nidome no shojo]
(1969, koji wakamatsu) b&w

japan's koji wakamatsu is arguably the king of the most stylized (and ultra perverse) exploitation films of the 1960's, but don't take my word for it: that's what wikipedia's for. in my adolescent search for (really any) porn or sleaze with at least some minor semblance of a plot, i quickly stumbled onto the genre of pink film. it promised me harcore sex, brutal violence, and pseudo-political undertones; and although most of the films produced during this time by the few major pink studios around embodied all of those characteristics, wakamatsu's films are the most transgressive and distinctly memorable. i mean with over-the-top titles like "violated angels" and "the embryo hunts in secret," how can a girl resist? go, go second time virgin was my first introduction to the genre and i couldn't help but find it appealing. i was a female westerner whose only background during this time happened to be a few serious but well-known erotic films, late night showtime softcore, and, admittedly, some scrambled porn. i was pretty far from jaded, and since the reviews i'd been reading seemed to dare me not to be shocked, i felt like i could stand to be challenged, and possibly even broaden my horizons a bit. i'd always considered the subject of rape to be an old taboo, anyway. i mean the lifetime network's been around since 1984 and between that, all of those shitty farrah fawcett movies (r.i.p.), and the evening news, i was pretty sure the shock value of rape had worn off for everyone and that it shouldn't be any surprise that a feminine girl could get all gung-ho about getting to see some hardcore raping. right? well.
unlike most exploitation films with misleading titles and sufficiently campy but otherwise disappointing plots, this one really does deliver. within the first minute, a young girl (poppo) is screaming in agony. she's carried against her will up to the rooftop of an apartment building by four teenagers and to her inevitably sad fate: a brutal gang rape. once on the roof the four begin to take turns on top of her while another boy (tsukio) looks on from a short distance, seemingly empathetic but is either unable or unwilling to help. she lays there lifelessly and aside from a necessary choked sob or two, seems to have lost the ability to feel anything. poppo quietly recalls an earlier instance in her life in which she was raped: in a striking color scene set to patty waters' haunting "black is the color of my true love's hair", she runs down a beach from two men who eventually wrestle her into the wet sand as the ocean waves crash and mute her cries. during both scenes we mostly see close-ups of her tortured face rather than lingering for too long on any of the obscene carnality taking place just above her. these severely de-eroticized rapes set the film apart from other pink films by presenting things from her perspective, and despite its unapologetic style,(everything i've described so far has happened within the first ten minutes of the film), it hardly glorifies rape. obviously more concerned with style over substance, even wakamatsu's choice of music - sobering, avant-garde american jazz - is sometimes fitting but more often than not just distracts from the unsettling mood it's meant to lend to, and is far removed from providing anything but a claustrophobic sense of surrealism. which is more than likely the aim, anyway.
poppo announces it's morning, august 8th and she's still alive, lying on the rooftop as a woman obliviously hangs her white linens out to dry. poppo approaches tsukio, who had stayed with her on the roof during the night and bids him a rather cheery good morning. the drastic shift in tone here between bleak drama and dark comedy makes it hard to take anything seriously anymore. it's an oppressively sunny day and as they lean together on the railings and sullenly look down at the cityscape it's actually hard to keep in mind that poppo has just been raped. the setting itself though, if inferred correctly, does lend a great deal to the feeling of isolation that constantly dominates the film. the wide pans and high angle shots make them seem small and insignificant and even sounds of heavy rain later in the afternoon quite literally drown them out. they aren't trapped on the roof, but aside from a rare excursion later on, the only way either of them truly plan to leave the roof is to jump off of it. after exchanging some words about the unromantic realities of suicide, poppo is soon discovered by the same men that raped her, who had been sleeping elsewhere on the roof all night. when they begin to approach she asks them to kill her, and she's willingly led off to what she thinks is her hasty execution. her pleas are ultimately ignored though and she just ends up getting raped again.
later, poppo meets tsukio outside, and it becomes obvious this isn't a typical rape story. she's fatalistic as she talks to him about her mother's gang rape and the "tears women shed," as the spiritual "sometimes i feel like a motherless child" plays (and really resonates here) - but she isn't sad, and she no longer cares since she is resigned to her fate and her ultimate will is to die or be killed. in fact, she spends much of the film begging tsukio to take mercy on her and kill her. i feel like most of the movies i've seen with similar subject matter favor horror or revenge scenarios. women either stand up for themselves, or they hope someone else will. poppo is probably the first character i know of that doesn't register as either; she doesn't even care if her rapists ever see any justice, not that wakamatsu allows us to mistake this for strength. poppo is still a hopelessly pathetic character, preyed upon by anyone with an urge to prey upon her. it could be said that wakamatsu isn't terribly sympathetic to his characters' conditions and while i'm aware that his personal objective lies more with breaking down barriers of censorship he doesn't create a work of shockingly hardcore pornography or even coherent political/social commentary, and he certainly isn't concerned with any realism, either. the pace of the film coupled with the sometimes comical...mostly confusing outbursts of poetry/lyrics from the characters leaves little room but to consider the film as a whole just an irreverent and thoroughly entertaining abandon of rationality and familiar narrative.
initially reluctant to leave the spot where she was assaulted (marked by her blood, what else) poppo leaves to clean herself up and drinks from a small liquor bottle with tsukio. they discuss suicide at great length until she asks him about her rapists; how many other girls were raped before her, and if they always rape together...and then mentions that she would like to try it too. she reveals more about herself: she confesses she's an orphan, and that both of her parents killed themselves when she was very young, which is why she can't bear the responsibility of offing herself. tsukio seems to humor poppo at this point, and after coming to understand why she's been so insistent that he kill her, finally agrees to do her the favor. he leads her down to the basement of the building and in what's either a moment of temporary insanity or raw emotional vulnerability, poppo undresses, and offers herself up to tsukio to be "raped". it's hard to say why he turns down a beautiful naked girl for an easy lay, but i assume it had something to do with her casually throwing around the term rape. he's lying on a bed of at least 200 copies of his unsold poetry (of which he was very close to putting to better use), and it finally gives us an opportunity to begin recognizing tsukio as a three dimensional character. aside from the companionship he shows poppo and his affected demeanor, we know very little about him until he rejects her advances and opts to take her on a trip to the fifth floor.
tsukio begins to reveal just how much he really can sympathize with poppo's plight, and as he opens the door to his fifth floor apartment, awe-struck poppo is in on his secret: he's already murdered four people (but is quick to explain that he isn't crazy and didn't enjoy it). four men and women lie nude on the ground, arranged in a sort of elegant way that another reviewer better than myself described as an art installation and i'm inclined to agree. the gorgeous color scene that punctuates this bit of memorable exploitation takes tsukio to a flashback of the night where he was assaulted in the very same room. while alive, this pair of greasy, orgy loving couples certainly deserved everything that was coming to them. they rented the room next door and engaged in countless bizarre sex acts daily. during one of these orgies they overwhelm tsukio and pull him down on the floor. they writhe around on top of him for a long time; tickling, poking, and torturing him while attempting to pull off his clothes. one crazy bitch even takes aim and pisses in his mouth while a man holds his mouth open.
it's unclear how much more abuse he withstood from the two couples, but he's eventually let go and left to plot his revenge. he grabs a kitchen knife and approaches them head on, but they're too busy fucking to actually notice him standing over them. they're all easily overtaken and killed one by one without much suspense in a matter of seconds. afterward, tsukio arranges their bodies to overlap each other, even tying a long rope around some of their necks...in some attempt at framing the murder scene as an immoral sex game turned ritualistic group suicide. poppo is too stunned to speak and tsukio asks her if she wants to leave but she makes no move to do so. he confides in her about his suicide attempt after the murders and shows her his bandaged wrists. he offers to kill her, if she wants, but it seems as though poppo has already changed her mind. he grabs a knife nearby one of the bodies and hands it to her, asking if she's able to kill her assailants. but she's not comfortable with that either so in a fairly tender moment, he clasps her hand, and together they stab his already dead neighbor. now that she's "killed someone" (and really, that shouldn't even count) they rush out to the roof.

her attackers already happen to be there, this time with some sleazy dates in tow. as soon as tsukio's father (the super) locks the doors they're all trapped up there together. the ladies and rapists run around the roof (accompanied by a pretty effective, chaotic instrumental that's sort of their siren song), looking for a place to fuck and huff some drugs in peace. the girls aren't really putting out and i guess they aren't even worth raping so it isn't long before the gang sets their sights on poppo again. poooorrr poppo. she doesn't even put up a fight, and some of the girls are even getting into it, groping her and delighting in her perceived masochism. they all gather around her like an audience as she spouts off more of the same ridiculous beatnik-y poetry that probably got her in this mess in the first place, which provides us with the titular line,

"go, go, second-time virgin,
your prick, it gets protracted
an empty flat without extension.
like thin soup rising, the incest kitchenette."
in trying to make sense of that i guess they're all pretty distracted and so tsukio saves the day, stabbing one of the guys on top of poppo and scaring off the others, hunting them all down slowly, since he knows there's no escape. covered in blood, he takes a break to sing a strange song to himself while poppo listens. she asks tsukio to make love to her if he's not impotent, or to kill her, but he says he's never made love before although he does entertain the thought of killing her again. he mentions that he needs a reason to kill, or he won't do it, so poppo professes her love to him and feels that should be reason enough. this subject makes him pretty temperamental so they argue about that for a bit, with things seeming to go alternately hot and cold between them (hey, just like a normal relationship) and as he ignores her to go chase down the others she actually nags at him about not making her death a priority! (and hey, isn't that just like a woman)

once the killing spree is over and everyone's dead, they joke about killing each other and happily chase each other around the roof until they're too exhausted to go on. they stop at the edge of the building and (sort of like birthday punching) poppo slaps tsukio for every person he killed. after she tells him she loves him again, they senselessly slap each other some more and fight until he admits he really couldn't ever kill her. they lie on top of each other, and although it seems like they might finally hook up, they decide to read a fucking comic book instead. it really doesn't get more surreal than seeing a bunch of violent comic book pages juxtaposed with photos of roman polanski and sharon tate, and drawings inspired by the manson family killings.
it's morning now, bodies are littering the roof and poppo says some final words before stripping down (including asking tsukio if he loves her, to which he never bothers to reply) and jumping from the roof. tsukio jumps too and we see them both lying dead in the street. memorable? yes! transgressive? you bet! japanese? well...obviously. i can't think of a single thing that made any sense in this whole fucking movie. i can't say i didn't take away something from this film though because as the camera cuts away to a little poster tacked up on a building, we're reminded about the dangers of paint thinner. "let's stop playing with thinner!"

and maybe we should.

badi/e.t. de vagina double review

2010-08-02T23:39:00.003-04:00

badi
(1984, zafer par)

of the six movies directly based on e.t., the approachable alien, steven spielberg's film "e.t. the extra terrestrial" is by far the least interesting. the film's huge success (earning 793 million worldwide, to date) may have secured its place in film history and the top 10 lists of every boring person i've ever known, but its mass appeal can be easily explained; it's just a sympathetic story about a lonely boy (elliot) with a broken family, desperate for companionship from...almost anything, really. the alien could've easily been replaced by a dog, or a cat, or even a dragon, since the story is mostly about the boy's relationship to the alien, and not the alien itself. aside from two or three standout scenes (e.t. gets drunk, gets decked out in little girls' clothes) it doesn't really attempt to explore any original or unusual territory. instead it keeps the all-too-familiar and well-established plot element introduced by tv shows like mork & mindy to a minimum (where a wacky alien has trouble adjusting to human social customs), to appeal to a wider audience. and as difficult as it is to think of anything duller than mork & mindy, spielberg does a fantastic job of ruining any chance of making a decent sci-fi film. he also has a lot of money and a legion of fans from divorced families to help him feel better about it, though. obviously dissatisfied with spielberg's vision, several movies sprung up to capitalize on e.t.'s success: "badi", "homoti", "e.t. de vagina", "keep up the lust, e.t." and "el e.t.e. y el oto" that didn't have to worry about pesky things like box office numbers or credibility, and were truly free to conceptualize e.t. any way they wished (strangely enough, some of their wishes involved e.t. fucking a lot of humans.)
manuel estaba's "el e.t.e y el oto", written by spanish comedians los hermanos calatrava, is a pretty innocent offering: a silly, inept spoof of e.t. that features francisco "feo" calatrava (ugly, indeed), unmasked, jumping around in what looks like a diving suit, playing the alien. the turkish entries that followed, 1983's "badi" and 1987's "homoti" (or "homodi"), aren't exactly spoofs, but very loose interpretations of the american film: "badi" attempts to recreate a few specific scenes with a low budget, and essentially follows the original film's structure as closely as it can for turkish audiences, while "homoti" uses e.t.'s crash landing as a starting point to go off on its own unintelligible tangent. realizing e.t.'s likeness alone was enough of a draw, 1986's "keep up the lust, e.t.", senselessly places the alien in the middle of a jungle porn film. e.t. only makes a few brief appearances amidst all the frolicking and constant orgies but it's still worth mentioning for its portrayal of e.t. alone, who's now overgrown into more of a giant jungle creature, equipped with a pretty disgusting red-tipped dog cock. ugh. i won't go there. improving on this formula, 1995's "e.t. de vagina" truly lives up to its name in the worst fucking way imaginable, by featuring a woman covered in some kind of brownish/green rubber latex (save for her most sensitive area) in a very "hands on" role as the curious alien who lands on earth to learn all about sex. while all of these movies could be considered inept compared to spielberg's version, they manage to be validly entertaining in their own right, without any real budget to speak of or even a proper grasp of linear film-making. even if e.t. had never been made, these films could stand on their own (of course, i'm running under the assumption that there's an audience for everything).

my personal favorite, "badi", is frequently mentioned in the same breath as other blatant foreign rip-offs like "turkish star wars", "turkish batman" and "turkish exorcist" that have overshadowed more validly artistic efforts in contemporary turkish cinema, and achieved cult status with serious collectors and casual b-film fans alike. "badi" is pretty well-known so it's easy to find if you know where to look. unfortunately, the sole appeal of turkish remakes, for most people, is less about the way the films are re-imagined than the fact that they're re-imagined at all. the characters themselves remain the draw; but since the plots likely veer towards the bizarre, people either tune it out or turn it off, and while they're not actually completely disregarded, they aren't particularly well-respected either. turkish remakes are more of a joke, more likely to be something to show your friends for laughs over a pizza and some beers. it might be hard to understand why anyone would want to watch a confusing, untranslated, second-rate version of an already popular film at all, or at least without a beer in hand (although it certainly enhances most viewing experiences), or why anyone would even think to create such a film and expect to profit from it, but in defense of classic foreign schlock i have to say, money couldn't have been a motivating factor. the simple reason they exist is that, while american films may have undeniable reach, they just don't translate well in foreign markets for obvious reasons. an alien that ends up in a so-cal suburb is hardly easy for a turkish audience to relate to, and while they could stand to watch the film with subtitles, who's to say it could ever be as impactful?
badi begins with the hasty introduction of several characters in the span of ten minutes: a pretty angry fair-haired boy (bülent) busy setting off explosives in the name of science up in his parent's attic, much to the dismay of his many siblings (and later, his crazy, abusive, ron jeremy-esque father.) then, after an establishing shot in a slum nearby, we meet another boy (ali) who's woken up for school by his very traditionally turkish-looking mother. after conversing with and feeding his birds for a bit, little mowgli ends up in front of his school just in time to make the acquaintance of a cute dog who's not allowed beyond the school gates once the bell rings. just dumping characters on us at this point, a beautiful woman appears and seeks out the assistance of an electronics expert, busy soldering away in his shop, who seems immediately smitten with her. she gives him some paper to examine for the creation of a device that's certainly going to be used for the purpose of contacting alien life forms. he agrees to help (because attractive women can obviously get men to do all kinds of weird things) and leaves the store with her, stopping in front of the school where he feels the need to point out most of the aforementioned characters (bülent, his two sisters and kid brother, ali and his stray dog). the woman seems to take an immediate liking to ali (score!) because it seems as if he's a poor kid who could use some attention. while bülent's whole family is enjoying cotton candy outside, ali's left out, playing with his new dog. i can't help but notice the cultural differences immediately with the not-so-subtle focus on class that definitely would have been out of place in spielberg's original; not to mention the focus on the two friends, their siblings, and the presence of the adults rather than just one boy and his somewhat distant family. everyone talks for a bit until the attractive woman drives home to meet up with another man (her husband, maybe?) waiting for her on the front porch.

the next day it seems like ali's luck takes an unfortunate turn for the worse when his stray dog is shot by a mustachioed policeman for no good reason (men with mustaches truly are inherently evil). everyone crowds around to see the dead dog and ali's mother is there to comfort him as he cries and watches the dog get thrown onto the back of a truck to be taken away. later on, bülent, the electrician, and the woman are packing up the device to deliver to an elderly scientist who tinkers with it in the hopes of getting in contact with something. soon after, badi's ship finally lands out in a dark clearing, and he waddles out clumsily. letting his creepy costumed bell-bottoms drag on the floor as he walks (and at four feet, bell-bottoms make for a pretty strange silhouette). of all the attempts to physically recreate the likeness of e.t., badi's is definitely the worst...but most imaginative! not sure how much of that is to blame on the low budget, but badi is basically a plump midget in a clay-colored costume. rather than imitating the large, expressive eyes of e.t., he sports some pretty small, low-slung peepers that i'm sure would creep the shit out of anyone. its freakishly long arms, providing a lot of the incidental physical comedy, look a lot like the arms of those wacky waving inflatable tube men...yeah. you get the point. he's ugly.
at bülent's house, the entire family narrowly avoids a severe beating as they try to protect bülent from his furious father (i can only guess as to why he's angry), busy chasing him around the house with a pair of tongs or something. luckily for them, the villagers have already noticed the landing of the spaceship, and everyone is inclined to go out to see what all the commotion is. armed with pitchforks and flashlights, they run into the woods with the intent to kill the creature, but never find it. ali, undoubtedly still feeling a little bitter about his dog, pities the creature and splits off to go find him on his own to some success. in an awkward reprise of a scene in e.t., he and the creature scare each other and ali runs back home.
the next six or seven minutes are all basically a montage of more scenes ripped off from e.t.: ali stays home from school, and badi shows up at his house where they unsurprisingly become fast friends. badi practically combusts with excitement, (blowing smoke out of his dick) and after some heart-warming bonding scenes (ali feeds badi candy and shows him a family photo album, badi levitates some apples, heals ali's foot) badi inconveniently begins raiding the refrigerator just as ali's mom gets home and is more or less forced to hide in plain sight, but of course, badi can't stay hidden forever. he's eventually introduced to bülent and his family, and they grow to love badi too. unable to stay cooped up all day, he takes a trip to the children's school where he practically starts a riot, tactlessly revealing himself to anyone in his path! after being discovered by both bülent's mean old dad and ali's mom (that pretty much gives her a heart attack), they all decide to pitch in to help badi get home.
bülent builds some kind of ridiculous aluminum foil device and sneaks off with badi, ali, and his siblings, unchaperoned and accompanied by seemingly hundreds of school children, to test out his gadget at the local amusement park. badi tries to impress them by using his special abilities to power the entire park (a scene far more touching than anything in e.t., in my personal opinion). badi and ali ride on a ferris wheel and give speeches to their army of friends until the cops show and break things up. their worried parents intervene and seek the help of the electrician, the scientist and the woman to help them search for their children. they find ali the next morning, weary and sick, but quickly realize badi's now gone missing. when badi is discovered in the hood of a car with a tip from ali's bird (oh who fucking knows at this point), he's near death. the spectacular conclusion to the film involves police dressed in riot gear surrounding ali's home; determined to snuff out badi for good, while the children armed with toy guns, marbles and halloween masks stage a stand-off and distract the cops while badi, ali, bülent and co. make their escape in a wooden cart and float off into the sunset with whatever security the few balloons attached to the cart affords them.
badi finally gets back to his ship later that night and they all cry and give badi some parting gifts (ali offers up his bird, bülent's little brother gives him a toy). it's all very genuine, and sweet, and achieves something that dead-eyed steven spielberg couldn't pay his child actors to improvise; impressive as it is awful, i doubt anyone in badi ever got paid for their performances.

e.t. de vagina

[extra terrestrian: die dusserirdische]
(1995, lidko & siggi entinger)

i came across "e.t. de vagina" several years ago but was only recently able to find a subtitled copy of it from cinemageddon, not that there's much that needed clarifying, but you have to appreciate all of the hours someone would put into translating major trash. ah, i love the internet. "e.t. de vagina" isn't as well known as "badi", but has achieved a cult status all its own for being one of the worst porns of all time. mostly because they actually do a great job of creating an alien that looks like e.t. a little too much like e.t., for my taste, really. it's hard to remember there's actually a woman underneath all of that latex...and you know, it could be a personal thing, but watching a woman get fucked by an alien/monster with a big prosthetic dick isn't quite as disturbing, (or as intimate) as watching a woman eating out an alien with a real woman's vag, but i digress. i'll just say this isn't a movie you can scrub off in the shower. it's definitely a memorable curiosity, but about as far from erotic as you can get. it does, however, manage to assert the very romantic idea that there's someone out there for everyone. and if anyone out there has gotten off to this: don't give up hope on finding that special someone, or creature, someday. it'll happen.

the "vagina" opens with e.t.'s fittingly derivative crash-landing to earth, which is about where the similarities between this and the original e.t. end, plot-wise (unless the whole touching bit counts). e.t. stumbles from its ship towards a secluded mansion, muttering to itself and trying to exercise some caution so as not to scare the subjects of its research. seeming to have landed at some point in the early 1900's, e.t. is there to gain some knowledge of human interaction, and in the first scene it quietly observes an intimate encounter between a lonely man and a pretty easy woman he invited over for tea. "to be solitary is very sad. i would very like to have somebody with whom i could divide my moments of solitude. a person with whom i could always settle. somebody as pretty as you...sexy...someone who could carry through all my fancies and fantasies. i find that you can do this for me." very smooth, i think, and with that, don juan scores himself a blow job. e.t., trying to be covert, seems to be standing right in the doorway, actually, fingering "herself" and wishing she could gain a little more experience. the couple fucks and the scene ends innocently enough (with a cumshot).
meanwhile, or sometime later that night, in another room in the same mansion, a girl begins to undress and feel herself up conveniently for our view until e.t. startles her. she seems genuinely frightened as e.t. approaches her, but as it pokes at her nipple she calms down. e.t. confesses its wish to be human and have sex with her, and happy to have a new friend to play with (these people must be very isolated) she takes the alien to bed with her where, i hesitate to say, they french kiss and engage in some "lesbian" acts while e.t. mewls with pleasure, most disgusting scene ever, hands down, i don't care what people fucking think of pink flamingos. two men (including the guy from the previous scene) will then wander in and interrupt everything, thought they hardly seem phased by e.t.'s presence, but do question the woman and e.t. as to what it's doing there (e.t. also speaks for herself, in this). after learning its purpose, they offer themselves up and whatever knowledge they have of sex for the sake of helping earthlings appear "amiable". hilarious!
truly redefining jungle fever, e.t. gets down in every way imaginable with several people in the house, and we get to see all kinds of sex ruined forever (except sex between men, i guess that'll still be taboo to her friends back home). lots of threesomes and group sex involved, and although there are a few scenes just involving consenting adults in old-fashioned getups, it's mostly just any excuse to see all the different ways e.t. can sully her costume.
unfortunately, e.t. does need to return home, and after some tearful goodbyes (losing a good fuck buddy is a sad thing, indeed) she shuffles off with the promise to take back all of the wonderful things she learned on our great planet. you might be tempted to abstain from sex forever after watching this, but there are other things in life to enjoy, like...pizza and beer.

e.t. de vagina brought to you by PornHub

mondo weirdo

2010-08-02T23:39:00.001-04:00

[jungfrau am abgrund]
(1990, carl andersen) b&w

while sexual repression isn't exactly a subject i can identify with, it still fascinates me. until a few decades ago, sexual dysfunction was considered the root cause of almost every social ill and psychological disorder known to man. psychologists and jewish mothers alike probably owed much of their personal rhetoric to sigmund freud. frigidity and nymphomania were deliberate crimes of passion in much the same way as... actual crimes of passion... (okay, okay). the point is, sex was and has always been at the forefront of everyone's mind, and the mediums of film and television couldn't escape the burden of social responsibility placed on them to uphold conservative moral standards. suddenly, perfectly normal, married couples were cluttering up their love nests with sets of twin beds, and the sexiest thing you could have seen on t.v. was a passionate kiss on the mouth or maybe the sensual removal of a long glove. a strictly american film could get away with more direct suggestion of sexual encounters, but mostly flirted with the taboo in light-hearted comedies (the seven year itch), and without posturing truly lent itself to scandal (splendor in the grass). and so it was in this environment that the mondo film flourished. according to wikipedia, (in case you're unfamiliar) a mondo film is "an exploitation documentary film, sometimes resembling a pseudo-documentary, usually depicting sensational topics, scenes, and situations. common traits of mondo films include emphasis on taboo subjects such as death and sex, portrayals of foreign cultures that have received accusations of racism, and staged sequences presented as genuine documentary footage." the presentation of these subjects behind the facade of a respected form like documentary film-making was an important part of the evolution of film as we know it today. an average moviegoer could watch reputedly authentic scenes of rare african rituals or witness raw, unadulterated nudity without any shame and still keep an air of moral indignance. after all, the films depicted far-off foreigners and one one-off weirdos, no one they'd ever realistically encounter and so they were safe to enjoy it all from a great distance.

although, stylistically, carl andersen's mondo weirdo is clearly situated within the cinema of transgression movement of the 1980's, that background on mondo is necessary because of all andersen's filmic efforts (i was a teenage zabbadoing and killing mom, among others) mondo weirdo is the only one that attempts to bill itself the way mondo films did, as a "real account" of an obviously fictionalized case. mondo weirdo: a trip to paranoia paradise is exactly what it sounds like it would be. it's a bizarre, transgressive fairytale about erotophobia and vampirism, an homage to german expressionism, a twin sister to the works of richard kern and nick zedd, and is practically a kissing cousin to contemporary mondo, although only its title merits its inclusion in the genre: while it seems at first glance to be documenting the inner workings of a young psychotic girl, and maybe giving us some insight into what could happen if we were too vulnerable to our own secret desires, it's hardly rooted in actual psychology. fortunately for me, it's really just a strange, but entertaining artsploitation film that mostly relies on messy symbolism or hardcore pornography to relate its subject matter...that would definitely appeal to fans of the mondo genre or zedd/kern's transgressive shorts. it's a gritty exploitation film that exploits...exploitation documentaries and sets itself apart by playing on those long held and deep set fears that breed sexual taboos. whether they're presented as ideas or situations, we're afraid that even acknowledging our desires means that we could lose our sense of identity. anderson's moral in this story? not submitting to our desires could literally drive us insane.

the film opens with a bizarre but essential bit of narration from a "dr. rosenberg", a psychoanalyst with an obnoxiously thick german accent. in broken english he provides us with some significant case details concerning his patient odile, who has suffered from what he believes to be one of the most extreme cases of distorted sexuality he's ever encountered. odile, only fifteen years old (and honestly, old enough), encounters some lesbians at a rock concert who have sex in front of her, and begins to experience a bit of cognitive dissonance. uncertain of her own sexuality, she quickly sinks into a deep psychosis. also unable to eat or sleep, her vivid daydreams lead her to believe that the girls aren't lesbians, but are actually "bloodthirsty wampires" (god, i love germans) intending to rob her of her innocence. the doctor explains how she comes to resolve her fears without any outside help by...well, succumbing to them, really. her daydreams finally stop, and once again, cunnilingus solves a problem a girl can't always solve by herself. rosenberg warns us that this film isn't for the squeamish, and, "should you seem to have problems sharing this world of nightmares and bloodily cruel events, please leave the auditory. leave the auditory... now." since the accent fails to lend him any credibility whatsoever, i feel that warning should be easy enough for most people to ignore.

the first real scene involves a shower, although there's no chance of anyone getting clean. odile, supposedly played by jess franco's own daughter, jessica "franco" manera, offers up a disturbing spectacle that either stands to make her father very proud or completely ashamed when she starts tasting her own free-flowing menstrual blood. although the suggestion turns out to be more disgusting than the act, it's still a pretty hard act to follow and gives us our first glimpse into her mind state (i guess she's fucking crazy before she even meets these lesbians). modell d'oo provides the industrial/new-wave style score that starts off strong and provides great energy and an atmosphere that would have suited a modern day grand guignol show just as well, as it chugs along, literally driving the action of the film and inspiring the characters to be as aggressive as it is. unfortunately modell d'oo never put out an album, but at least their music can be enjoyed in this film.
odile makes her way to a rock show where modell d'oo are playing to an audience made up of two women that consider their set just mood music for foreplay, i guess. decked out in leather and lace they tease each other, the band, and anyone else within view by posting up together on a small table in the middle of the club and fingering each other and engaging in other various (although very brief) hardcore acts. after catching the action for a moment or two, odile's hallucinations pretty much immediately overwhelm her. while at the bar she blankly stares at the barkeep (later credited as 'the incredible barkeeper') pouring himself a shot and swatting a gigantic fly, which seems particularly symbolic - since odile, like a fly trapped in spider's web, watches transfixed as the barkeeper gets blown by a woman behind the bar. haha okay, so maybe it's not a perfect metaphor, but it works.

in a sort of minor nod to old german expressionism's geometric sets, the camera splits to a suggestive triangular screen where we watch the band playing, the girls getting it on, and odile either dancing or just plain spazzing out. during this time she predictably manages to catch the attention of the lesbians (elizabeth and ilona), considering she's just been acting like a creep and staring at them the whole time, and they approach her, flirting with her and touching her. this is very much a silent film for the most part but there are a few speaking bits and they aren't subtitled (unfortunately) and in this particular scene, odile is hardly participating. she twirls her hair as the girls speak to her and is visibly uncomfortable. she lets their voices float over her and the camera takes a few sickening nose dives to reflect her disinterest or just plain disgust and she finally backs away after a book drops to the floor next to her. an intertitle appears after this scene, harkening back to silent era films, that reads "the girls tell odile freaky fairy tales about the blood-thirsty hungarian countess elizabeth bathory".
the next day she walks by a store window and seems to see sex everywhere. a television set on display with no working picture plays a straight sex scene starring the barkeeper, especially for her. a nearby mannequin transforms into a real girl who gets eaten out by another girl. it's kind of like a pornographic twilight zone episode (and too bad there aren't any of those). as she walks away from the store a van pulls up and a middle-age man coaxes her inside (don't german girls know anything?) and she's led back to his apartment where he begins to molest her, until ilona appears suddenly, and kills him. later on, passing the same store window, the display mannequin (which becomes a reoccurring figure) cries blood. the hour long film plays out like one long, scary music video, as the soundtrack pounds away and we basically spend the entirety of the film watching crudely shot sex scenes or murders set to music. odile is propelled forward by her visions from one sex scene to the next that become increasingly claustrophobic as they play out, with elizabeth, ilona and the barkeeper featured prominently in most of the hallucinations. the hallucinations themselves are sometimes slow-moving, but during violent sequences where she's attacked or chased, actually manage to dredge up real suspense.
she's a passive figure in her own nightmares; haunted by fragmented images of other people having sex, witnessing murders, and in one instance even watches ilona slitting her own throat in front of her, but she starts to play an active role and becomes a passionately involved participant herself, and sometimes even the aggressor, sucking off a guy in a club and even walking up to ilona and kissing her (all fantasy, of course).
an intertitle midway through introduces two new characters and suggests a confusing switch to an almost straightforward vampire story - "after a carcrash (off-screen) arthur & franz are looking for a helping hand. but..." and of course, they stumble upon the lair of the lesbians (just an average home, actually), and they offer to let the poor guys spend the night. once in their temporary room alone, arthur and franz fuck to the sound of several clocks ticking away, for whatever reason. sound is featured heavily between every song, obscuring any natural sounds and helping to create an unsettling atmosphere (like, having a telephone ring full blast while odile isn't able to pick it up). franz later sneaks off alone and discovers a book about elizabeth bathory in the girls' library. at the same time, odile, seemingly in a different library, sees elizabeth and ilona overtake a man and drink his blood.
there's no refuge for her anywhere, even hiding out in the bathroom she manages to walk in on a man masturbating in the stall who grabs at her (strangely enough, she also sees the girls masturbating but they make no move to attack her.) it seems as though the women are as fascinated by odile as she is of them, and though the film seems to suggest one of the girls is really elizabeth bathory, the men are still more dangerous than the vampiric women, either constantly assaulting odile or trying to rape her. elizabeth invites odile to an awkward dinner but they soon make their way upstairs where countless orgies occur between elizabeth, ilona, arthur, franz and odile exploring all of the possible pairings at some length.
eventually it all ends in murder as the men are killed (and in one outrageous scene a man's penis is cut off with a razorblade and odile picks it up and examines it for a while before gingerly placing it back on the body)
elizabeth and ilona get theirs too (before one of the men dies he stabs ilona and accidentally impales elizabeth).
odile, buried underneath all of her partners, slips out and washes all of that blood off, looks at herself in the mirror and finally decides to face her fear and return to the club. the original club scene plays again, except this time odile happily takes her shirt off and joins the girls and the end reads "the end...or a new beginning". which is really pretty satisfying if you don't think about s.t.d's. highly recommended if you're a fan of the subject matter.

the tights

2010-07-24T21:54:00.000-04:00

bad hearts 7"
[1978, cherry red]

to me the tights, from worcester, always seemed like one of punk rock's greatest tragedies. how does a band craft one of the best 7"'s ever and then fade away just like that? surely there must've been some scandal involved. drugs? infighting? arrests? sadly, no. they just moved to london and then stopped making music. what the fuck? unacceptable. granted, the group (malcolm orgee (vocals), robert banks (guitar), barry island (bass, keyboards) and rick mayhew (drums)) would put out another 7" (howard hughes) in 1980, but it was disappointing, compared to this one, well not even when compared to it, though it did reach the fourth spot on the uk punk chart. inexplicably, this single only found its way to number six, and that was only after tastemaker john peel gave it a spin on his show. seeing as how they did manage to turn a few heads in the late 70's, it comes as a surprise that they're so unheard of currently. as far as punk goes, bad hearts stands as a bit of an oddity, rather than sociopolitical commentary the three songs on here are rather sweet and (mostly) upbeat, yet they managed to stave off the pop-punk classification, and rightfully so. at least in the annals of punk history the tights legend is secured, via the cherry red label giving them top billing on their exhaustive (and exhausting) eight disc box-set, i'll give you my heart, i'll give you my heart, by not only beginning the compilation with them, but using their lyrics to give it its name. now if only everyone else would treat this 7" with the reverence that cherry red, deservedly, gave it.

bad hearts gets off to a fantastic start thanks to the first thirty-five seconds of the track being nothing but a distorted guitar and malcolm's chanted vocals "i'll give you my heart you know it by heart" after that we get a good bouncy bassline thrown in with the drumming. the guitar is good enough to keep you at least mildly interested in it, but the subtle chord changes that marry the chorus "little lost and dreamin', little lost and it's on my own" make a far greater impression, as far as the music goes. ultimately, malcolm's melody, and the lyrics, are what make this such a fantastic song.

sweetness abounds in it. even if the lyrics were about drowning fluffy bunnies, it would still sound optimistic. what this song is actually about, hmmm, open to interpretation: "it's so good, it's so good it's bad, it's so bad, it's so bad it's good, that's unsafe...." i think i've got it narrowed down to fucking or drugs, but that's just me. regardless, it sums up adolescent thought pretty fucking perfectly. one thing that's not up for debate is the awesomeness of the music; the fuzzy guitar mimics the vocals while barry's bass takes on a prominent role, especially with its elastic bounce in between the verses and on the chorus (which consists only of plainly repeated shouts of "it!").
in a (rather amateur) 2005 q&a session with punk77, guitarist robert banks mentioned that one of the reasons for forming the band, apart from boredom, was that they were hoping to get laid, which i thought went without saying, but that they never did. if the closing song, cracked, didn't at least get orgee some pussy (a handjob at minimum), even by way of pity sex, well, i just don't know what to say about those british dames. that's without highlighting the fact that the man's last name is fucking orgy, for christ's sake! at least that's how i'm choosing to pronounce it... but i digress. when it comes to punk rock's tales of heartbreak, cracked is right up there with the buzzcock's ever fallen in love? both beautiful and sad, it's the pace of the music that keeps it from being too melancholic and sappy, and when the lyrics contain such stomach-punchers as "this place is cracked and so am i, i can't remember how die... i can't remember how to live, in these days, it must be a gift", that's quite an accomplishment. while the lyrics are definitely the focus, capped off by the amazing gang-sung melody of the chorus, the music is also terrific. it all really centers around barry's great bass lead, which the guitars will then build an awesome repertoire with. the most striking moments are when both bass and electric guitar match ascending chords, they way they compliment each other is brilliant.

after a good twenty years of inactivity the tights actually reformed in the early 00's and are still playing shows. i think they've also put out an album since then, though i'm not brave enough to touch that. it's just a shame that they either didn't know what a good thing they had or didn't have the drive to pursue it at the time. at least we all have this wonderful 7" to enjoy, i know it's good enough for me.

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bad hearts

come

2010-07-07T03:46:00.000-04:00

don't ask don't tell
[1994, matador]

considering the collective indie rock clout of boston's come, it's somewhat curious to me how this band never really seemed to catch on. those who know seem to love, but also seem to be few and far between. come featured indie stalwart chris brokaw, who, in the course of his musical career, played drums for gg allin, founded the slow-core (or snore-core, if you're a pun-loving cynic) band codeine. he was also in the post-bedhead project the new year, as well as consonant, pullman, red cities and, additionally (and unfortunately), had a hand in helping liz phair have a career. despite being around for longer than codeine, come has not enjoyed nearly as much success (that being a relative term). aside from their dark, grungy at times, tone and somber subject matter, the real character of the group comes from their vocalist / guitarist, thalia zedek. she brought a great deal of (post) punk credibility to the band from her stints in previous groups uzi, dangerous birds, live skull and white women (whom i've yet to find recordings of), but it's her voice, gruff and world weary, that helped make the band such a distinct figure in the 90's independent scene. come was rounded out by a pair of athens, georgia expats; drummer arthur johnson (bar-b-q killers) and bassist sean o'brien (kilkenny cats).

it would be damn near impossible to craft an album as moody as this one without having it be personal, but thalia must be lauded for her ability to somewhat obscure her tales of woe. they never come across as implicitly to the listener, steering clear of unnecessary melodrama and preachiness which can bog down and diminish returns. as an ex-heroin addict, i'm pretty sure that some of the things she would have to say would be pretty soul-crushing, if the music is to serve as any indicator. instead she offers us hints and little glimpses, but it's the tone of both her voice and the music which ultimately tell her stories. that being said, i'm about 90% sure that the album opener, finish line, is about heroin. if that is the case, it's pretty damn subtle, but lines like "the starting shot was all botched, she complained, so why did you make me stop running" and "everyone's got that evil thing, that's why they can't understand, everyone's got that rubber band..." seem to have more to do with heroin than a marathon race. lest one think that come is just the thalia zedek experience, the music in this six and a half minute piece is top notch, as well. it begins slowly, but changes up after barely twenty seconds into a great fragmented passage with noisy guitar squalls that end abruptly (and in unison with the drums) before picking back up again. a dynamic that they'll later employ on the song's chorus, but it works brilliantly here as it fractures the song when it had barely even started. as finish line plays out they'll continue to throw in subtle changes; meandering guitar passages and then later into a hurried instrumental which deteriorates, pleasantly, during the final minute.

the first two minutes of mercury falls are downtempo but full of great lyrics from thalia, as is the entire song, "mercury falls, like skin off a bone" and my personal favorite, "the summertime is here, when people disappear, with everybody gone, don't you get sick alone?" after those two minutes they'll kick it up instrumentally, establishing a great driving tempo over which she barks "look at the sky, go back inside, and turn the corner into the night". jesus. i'm not one to obsess over lyrics, as long as they stay out of the music's way, i'm good, but the imagery of this song is fucking amazing.

the more upbeat yr reign continues that theme, it also continues the theme of not having songs end the way they began, too. the galloping guitar chords that coincide with "i'm your horse, i'm your horse, reign me!" are brilliant. most of the time the guitars merely provide zedek with the perfect canvas for her prose, but don't attract too much attention to themselves, but the swirling melody of this song has them playing equals.

poison is a punchy number that manages to squeeze a lot into its two and a half minutes. i'm at a loss for just what this song is about, though. it starts out with an allusion to sleeping beauty "eat the apple before it eats you", but quickly strays from that. at least it sounds good. especially notable is the drastic shift in tone during the chorus, which features a wonderful supporting vocal turn by brokaw.

lyrically, the slow-burning let's get lost is about as straight forward as it gets on this album. it's quite remarkable that they manage to stretch this out over seven minutes without wearing out its theme "let's get lost, not like last time, when we got found". the credit for that is two-fold, her raspy melodies don't fail to captivate, nor do the tempo changes. apart from johnson's always impressive drumming, there's not much to grasp onto with the music, at least not for the first four minutes. the change in direction that accompanies thalia's "someone told me, someone told me, i'm a stranger..." makes the song more memorable, with one of the guitars mimicking her phrasing. chris's brief backing vocals also make for a nice change of pace.

somehow string always manages to trick me. for almost the first two minutes it's rather bland and i have to fight the urge to skip it. it's uptempo but nothing seems particularly noteworthy, not the music nor the lyrics, it just kind of exists, but once we get to "while i was dreaming... you were screaming... you do it on purpose, i know, so i can't sleep. you sleep like an angel, baby, i sleep like i'm just waiting" things definitely take a turn for the better. the song comes to a slow halt after the superb lyric "don't you ever try to walk away from my love". then starts again by revising the introductory chords, but remaking them into something far more indelible, and they'll wisely integrate them into the mix for the track's remainder.
the achingly beautiful german song is don't ask's finest musical contribution. the gorgeous, haunting central guitar melody is matched by a terrific slow drive from the second and a great bassline, too. it's actually one of the few times that o'brien's instrument firmly establishes itself, though it's a much easier task to achieve when the percussion gives the other instruments breathing room, as it does here. even when the song hits its upbeat peaks the guitars still make an impression. thalia even manages to fight back her trademark rasp, adopting a sweetly optimistic tone that mirrors the melodic guitar "no more sweets for you, there's nothing safe for you, i'm sorry, little girl, we'll find another world..." seeing as how the vocals don't even come in until shortly after three minutes, and play a very small role, it's great that the music was so fantastic.

unfortunately, they'll follow one of the album's best offerings with it's lone misstep, in/out. the weirdest thing about it is that the music is actually pretty good, but the chorus is fucking terrible and the rest of the lyrics just fall flat. it's definitely the most rocking song of the set, so maybe this was the group's attempt to keep the album from being a joyless affair, but in the context of it, it's just dreadfully out of place. the music keeps it from being bad, but it's just... not good.

come will climb back into our good graces with the slower wrong side and the difference between this and in/out is rather stark. just the lyrics of the chorus (it varies slightly in its two instances) "all of the saints, got up from the table, got under the table, and spread out their skirts, and told me.. don't you worry" pretty much render the song that preceded it wholly unnecessary. instrumentally, the gang's back to assuming a purely secondary role, but that's just fine.

the album concludes with its slowest and lengthiest offering, arrive, oh, and i do mean slooow. the juxtaposition of in/out and wrong side had me musing that zedek's vocals make the music sound better, but the music rarely seems to return the favor, which is either a testament to her ability or my admiration for her, but then this song proved me wrong. thalia's subdued singing style here is like the musical equivalent of ambien, lacking the passionate outbursts heard previously, but, unexpectedly, the music comes in to save the day. early in the song there's some ephemeral pretty moments, but the memorable instrumental shift that occurs at the two and a half minute mark is what really wins me over. the occasional re-usage of it, serving as a chorus, during the song's remaining five minutes certainly help, too, making what would be an alright song into one worth revisiting.

all four of come's albums are worth owning, but the clear standout to me is this one. i will submit that secret number, from 1996's also great, but in a different way, near life experience, is my ultimate favorite song of theirs, though. don't ask don't tell is a masterwork of moodiness; slow, intricate, well-crafted, ambitious, dark and depressing, but also supremely rewarding and more evenly balanced than their other efforts. there's only one song on here that i truly don't like, which, admittedly, i can't say for any of their other records, but the other nine tracks don't fail to make a positive lasting impact, which i also can't say for any of their other records.

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car (from 1992's sub pop issued the car ep)

nothing people

2010-07-06T20:51:00.000-04:00

late night 12"
[2009, s-s]

what's in a name? when it comes to this orland, california four-piece, everything, and, obviously, nothing; they mask their personal identities by adopting the appropriate null symbol ø, followed by what i assume are the initials of their first names. their music is just as hard to pin down as they are. i've seen post-punk thrown around in regards to them and, meh, i guess it works (fellow s-s band krysmopompas fit that descriptor more classically), though, with their futurist slant on garage rock and psychedelia (by way of occasional electronic flourishes), maybe post-modern-punk works better... and i apologize for that. further complicating matters is that they strive to make each of their albums to be individual statements, or as they put it "just another room in the same house". while one can attribute a certain moodiness to their music, there's no doubt that they've lived by that statement: anonymous had a rawer garage-rock feel to it, while their latest, soft crash, adopted a fuller sound with distinct experimental leanings that also came off as fairly straight-forward, somehow. even though that last lp has garnered a good amount of (underground) critical praise (expect it to end up on numerous best of lists this year), late night, to me, is easily their finest release. it has the greatest balance of all of the elements that have shown up throughout their albums, while all also containing the most memorable songs, and vocally it was quite a step up from their debut effort.

the album opener, when i drink, is a modernized take on standard garage rock fare with a heavily distorted guitar providing a meandering solo, which compliments rather than seeming out of place, over the top of its breezy percussion and memorable locked-in guitar melody. the singing style, laid back, cool and semi-conversational, easily takes a back seat to the head nodding melody, since there's no chorus to speak of. the fact that it isn't too involved lyrically, ending with "a kiss from you will last until the sunshine's back", it's hard to think of this as anything other than an intro, despite its three minute length. nevertheless, it's light and enjoyable.

as far as intros go, when i drink is a huge fucking red herring if i've ever heard one. the song that follows it, it's not your speakers, begins with thirty seconds of twisting guitar drone and a terrific drum beat. once that main guitar melody comes in.. for which the song takes its name, holy fuck. i'm in love. memorable doesn't even begin to describe it, it's higher-pitched and barely even sounds like a guitar most of the time. only when it breaks from its groove for drawn out drones do i even remember what the instrument even is. while the vocals on nothing people's first album came across as somewhat dorky, i guess, and usually provided either a cumbersome companion to the music or a stark contrast, that couldn't be farther from the case here. the opening line of the song "she's a painting on the wall that all eyes admire" sounds downright sexy, draped in reverb and issued with an effortlessly cool drawl. the first half of the song nicely retains the lumbering drone riffing, switching it up later to an undistorted solo that compliments the main melody, and then eventually plays its shadow in the coda. this is unquestionably one of my favorite songs from last year.

stick in the mud teaches us that it's best not to expect anything as it differs vastly from the previous songs with a jaunty bassline, toe tappin' faux finger snappin' percussion and waves of segmented guitar riffs that sustain for a little bit, before ending with descending chords, a cycle which continues for the duration. the singing eschews the previous cool demeanor, vacillating between nervous mumbling and a more frantic tone, "i can't stay clean with my stick in the mud, and you can't change the timing of the setting su-uh-huuuun!" one of several intriguing aspects of this band is its approach to songwriting. late night is wrought with seeming half-concepts. guided by voices they're not, but it's remarkable how many of their songs don't really go anywhere. one might say it's style over substance, but i find the style to be the substance. the music here is the engaging constant, without it being as good and interesting as it is everything would fall apart, and it also propels the lyrics, as even the most basic ideas here can come across as poignant, given the right backdrop.

okay, if this album is meant to be one room in a house, someone seriously needs to feng shui this motherfucker, it's all over the place. the delicate guitar melody of the sparse, but gorgeous, pushing buttons is aided by a constant understated strumming, no percussion, beautiful falsetto shoe-gazey vocals and layers of buzzing synthesizer, one of which will rise up into lovely peaks which play into the melody perfectly. after that mood establisher, they'll finally follow it up with something that makes sense, not that i have any complaints to lodge about their sequencing. 1-11 features an acoustic guitar, lots of synth ambiance and backwards electronic touches. not much on its own, but works well as pushing buttons come down piece.

crunch time gets late night back on track, but also doesn't belie the previous two songs' mood. after opening with dual guitars, the secondary one soloing, it soon drops off to highlight another outstanding (tinny sounding) guitar melody that's fractured in the best possible way, and when it plays off of the bass it's nothing short of outstanding. the singing is less treated and comes off really well with its talk-singing style. the guitar solo comes back to serve as the chorus. classic rock taught me to hate guitar solos, but damned if i don't love what this band does with them. love the ending lyric, too, "it's spill time and i get a sick feeling i should leave". this is a good example of the words taking on a deeper meaning when they're surrounded by great music. while some lyrical conceits don't seem fully fleshed out, at times, nothing people do know how to end a song, i'll give them credit for that.
the dark, gurgling synth undulations, music-box chimes and drawn out vocal cooing of there's sun in your eyes turn the song's two minutes into a rather creepy lullaby. nothing sunny about this, whatsoever. in a different setting the vocals could be taken as sweet, but they're almost menacing here.

after that weird detour we get the superb another rattle. to me, this sounds like what the album's cover art (created by chicago artist christopher ilth) looks like. following a false start of playful synthesizer, things quickly get darker, centering around a terrific layer of dirty synth organ and light cymbal percussion. the moodiness of the organ gets a complimentary boost by the detached vocals "on my way to question mark, found my keys, forgotten where i parked". the organ goes from sustained drones to memorably fluid fluctuating tonality. given their fondness for the solo, when a second cleaned up synthesizer comes in to act as a guitar it makes total sense. this song is a rarity in that it actually contains a chorus, and a rather good one at that, "goin' down with the sun today, goin' down... again".

as the album pushes closer toward its conclusion, it gets continually darker and moodier, janet being the apex of all that moodiness. the foundation of it is a great surreal electronic warble, fleshed out by slow, toy drum-like percussion (that takes on a march-like cadence) and what sounds like steam being released from a pipe. an additional synthesizer lurks about in the distance, providing haunting accompaniment. the lyrics are sparse and spaced out throughout the song and go from barely auditory mumbling to unnerving manic fits. despite having, probably less than eight lines of lyrics, it's wholly effective "suede go go boots laced up tight... broke the speed limit.. parked in her drive... cigarette, with lipstick smear.. platinum blonde hair... out to here!" given the darkness of the music and vocals, it's hard to tell if this was an awesome date, or a chilling stalker tale. whatever it is, it's fucking creepy and i love it.

late night ends with its titular track, and of course, it's another curveball. the singing sounds positive enough "...and the way you kiss will always be a very special thing", but it's undermined by a sense of tension crafted by a slowed down siren-like wailing guitar competing with the other guitar's murky melody, with steady cymbal tapping providing the only percussion. the line "inside me i feel, alone and unreal" feels much more appropriate.

this album does nothing in terms of bringing the listener closer to understanding this band, in fact it only furthers their mystery. it does sound incredible, though, and that's all anyone should really care about.

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since you've been gone (from soft crash)

mr. airplane man

2010-06-27T20:48:00.000-04:00

self-titled
[1998, altitude]

one of the more frustrating aspects of being obsessed with music is constantly wondering why some bands never achieve the recognition that they deserve. okay, so it's really not that much of a mystery, it's all about exposure, but what prevents one band from becoming more widely known than another within the same genre when both are good? i'll never know. luckily for us, we live in a time where damn near everything is accessible to us* if we're savvy enough (*not available in china). mr. airplane is a good example of what i'm talking about. for two white girls from boston, they played an earnest, and educated, brand of bluesy garage rock, but while, say, the white stripes blew the fuck up, this band toiled in the independent scene. i wouldn't call this band obscure, but underappreciated would certainly apply. to me, this ep, their first release, marks the band's finest contribution to music, but seems to be lesser known than their full lengths, which garnered a bit more exposure by being on long gone john's garage haven, known better as sympathy for the record industry.

mr. airplane man was formed in boston by vocalist / guitarist margaret garrett (also of the tearjearkers, solo as ms. margaret and currently in sister spaceman) and drummer tara mcmanus (who was also in the turpentine brothers).

the (roughly) twenty-eight minute long disc opens with the rousing baby. garrett's in full on scorned chick-mode, chastising an ex-lover with lines like "you don't deserve to even be callin' my name, i curse the day i ever let you in". lyrically it's all about female empowerment and standing up for yourself and taking control of things, but that comes across as fire and brimstone thanks to her incredible bluesy slide guitar riffs, spaced out by drone and tara's minimalist cymbal-driven percussion. they'll top off the two hooks, consist solely of margaret intoning the song's title, with some great, albeit brief jamming.

for a band whose name was lifted from a howlin' wolf song, it makes sense that they'd pay further respect to the blues musician by covering another one. i guess doing mr. airplane man would be too obvious, so instead they opt for moanin' for my baby. this marks a weird sequencing choice as they'll wedge this pro-relationship song in between two negative ones. that aside, nothing wrong with this track at all; terrific hummable guitar chords mixed with margaret's haunting cooing and vocal distress over a departed lover. after opening up the first half of the song with a clean guitar sound she'll stomp on the distortion pedal turning everything into warm fuzz, before cleaning it up again to finish. while that guitar melody can work its way into your subconscious, the most impressive thing about this song is margaret's incredible vocals. the light reverberation with her elongated moans really captures the longing of the lyrics.

i bemoaned the odd choice of the down up down mood of the first three songs, but there's no question that the third track was an appropriate follow-up to moanin'. it just fits perfectly, thematically. if you think of the last song as a love letter of want and desire, this one, you left me cold, is the result of that being unrequited, equating that loss with metaphorical death. the lyrics are concise and repetitious for maximum effect, "cryin' wooooahhh, ooooohhh baby... you left me cold, and stinkin'". the music is just as low key and despairing, yet eerily beautiful. the memorable guitar and light metallic rhythm just creeps over you, as do garrett's sorrowful cries. gorgeous and sad, definitely a good choice to turn to the next time someone breaks up with you.

highway is a quirky addition, the experimentation of it really makes it stand out, opening up with backwards loops competing with the loose bluesy chords. on top of the odd sounds that crop up there's the multi-tracked vocals (tara's perhaps? they don't sound the same) and overall lack of cohesion, as the song tends to meander. it's all interesting but doesn't sustain replayability as well as the other tracks on the ep.
we'll go back to more comfortable territory with the downtempo my hand. there's less going on with this track as the duo finds a good tempo and rhythm and choose to simply ride it out without any variation. with margaret's amazing voice and guitar playing it's hard to find fault in songs that are close to their roots, as is this case here; there's always something to enjoy, even if there's not a great deal transpiring.

their cover of mississippi fred mcdowell's sun sinkin' low is the ep's pinnacle for me. it begins with sparse guitar and margaret's "was lookin' at the sun and the sun was sinkin' low", sans percussion, just a fucking killer slide blues riff. while tara's bread and butter has seemed to be the cymbals, when her tambourine comes shaking in after a minute or so, it's fantastic. when she adds the kick drum to it a short while later, even fucking better. this will also seem to light a fire underneath the guitar as it quickly jumps up in tempo. little known the fact, the sound of an electric slide guitar is possibly the best thing ever. this song would be one of my favorite examples of that. terrific tempo shifts, guitar, percussion, everything about this is perfect. interestingly enough, this song would pop up on their 2002 album moanin' as sun sinking low, but truly pales in comparison to this one. listening to the moanin' version actually angers me after having heard this.

it's back to a slower pace for the album's longest offering, rain so hard, at an even five minutes. the main guitar melody is fantastic and assisted by a slow and steady 1-2 drum beat (no cymbals?!) to go along with margaret's ruminations about death. the melancholy tone of the song is balanced out by chord changes and eventually picks up in pace, nicely, during the last half, mostly by way of the guitar, but tara will also help out by incorporating her crashing cymbals into the mix.

the album closes with the traditional standard jesus on the mainline, and it's the best version of it that i've ever heard. it easily wipes away the bad taste in my mouth from the horrid version that popped up on the wire. if, somehow, you haven't heard this before, this song takes the idea of talking to jesus to a literal, and modern, conclusion. the melody of the thing is brilliant and the bluesy guitar really drives the sweet optimism of the lyrics home. i also love tara's wonderful backing vocals. the point where it goes from being a good song to an incredible one is the last twenty-six seconds when the distortion pedal gets broken out and the guitar screams over the top of the great staccato drum hits. ugh. such a perfect ending for a beautiful song.

this self-titled ep sees mr. airplane man's blues influence front and center and it's obvious that their updated take on it is sincere and comes from a place of reverence. they do a good service to their influences by taking that knowledge and turning it into something personal. with a voice and singing style as outstanding as margaret's, and the guitar chops to match, this band (and album in particular) begs to be heard.

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mr. airplane man live at rudyards in houston, tx 11/7/2004

feederz

2010-06-20T01:06:00.000-04:00

jesus 7"
[1980, anxiety]

punk rock certainly doesn't lack in "controversial" bands or figures, and the singer of arizona's feederz, frank discussion, is one such figure; live hijinks include, but are surely not limited to, firing blanks from an ak-47 into the unsuspecting crowd and such performance art as gluing dead animals to himself and also flinging carcasses into the unsuspecting crowd. i think that quantifies as performance art. also, i'd think that they wouldn't be so unsuspecting after awhile. frank also took his punk rock ethos outside of music, passing off anti-education propaganda as being from the department of education, an act which would lead to his departure to san francisco. it's rumored that he currently spends his time in mexico with the zapatista army of national liberation... which should be a requirement for privileged white douchebags wearing che guevara t-shirts.. but i digress.

there's also plenty of controversy when it comes to feederz music.. and album art. the cover of 1986's teachers in space featured a picture of the challenger's explosion (i believe, wherever she is, christa mcauliffe is unamused). back to the matter at hand, this seven inch, which also features the talents of guitarist clear bob (dan clark) and drummer art nouveau (john vivier), is built around, easily, one of the most blasphemous songs of the punk era, or that i've ever heard, for that matter.

while, for a great deal of us, the veneer of shock value has probably worn off over the past, fuck, thirty years, i'm sure that if this 7" was released today the westboro baptist church would send a death squad after frank discussion, seeing as how they think lady gaga is the anti-christ. the lyrics to jesus include such highlights as we nailed you to a cross, but you're still a fucking pain, dead 2000 years, still can't get it through your brain. you're just a worthless corpse, you're just a pile of shit, give me a couple of nails, and i'll ventilate your pit. it goes on to paint our lord and savior as a pretty big fag (the gays are ok with us, though) with the chorus of jesus entering from the rear, fucking you in the ass. just another faggot, in just another mass. unfortunate anti-gay sentiment aside, the song is so good because the music is. hell, the sung chorus is damn catchy, too, with the airy background ahhhhhhhhahhhahhhhhs supporting frank. the instrumental dynamic is also noteworthy. the vitriolic verses are yelped out over (fairly groovy) solitary bass riffs, but then when the hook comes in they switch over to clark's guitar for a great change in tempo. the song closes with arguably its best lyrics: jesus on a plate, jesus a la carte, jesus under glass, just another fucking tart. amen. ugh, now i'm definitely going to hell.

stop you're killing me features a somewhat playful cha-cha-esque start/stop rhythm and has frank detailing the manners in which you're killing him with strained vocals. i like the understated addition of separate vocals which are spoken in a plain manner underneath frank's, as well as the simple repeated refrain of the song's title amidst ascending waves of frenzied guitar chords.
the record's titular track might get top billing and garner all the attention, but the second side opener, avon lady, is, in my opinion, the real reason everyone should have this. matter of fact, the idea that jesus and avon lady are on the same 7" together makes me fucking giddy. it begins with plucked guitar strings that sound like a doorbell, which immediately puts a smile on my face, then dives into a very familiar uptempo bass groove which has frank discussion extolling the virtues of said solicitor, "comin' to my door, a ringin' on my bell, i want your beauty products, i want your beauty gel!" the apex of the song would have to be the gang sung, and elongated, avon lady in the background, assisted by the normal, memorable chorus and wonderful crashing percussion.

the minimal lyrics of the closing song terrorist are in reference to brenda ann spencer, who, in an act of apparent boredom / fame-seeking, took to shooting up a san diego area elementary school in 1979, killing two. someone's in the tower, someone's in the dirt, someone's got a gun, someone's getting hurt is spoken out (more or less) over a slow, lurching rhythm, which puts to great use both guitar and bass. the piercing guitar chords, which shoot out over the steady bassline every few seconds, are a nice creative touch. feederz will opt for a terrific instrumental breakdown rather than a chorus and the change of pace that it provides, as well the catchiness of it, make it a wise decision.

assuming that you're not easily offended by such taboo subject matter as jesus being a sodomite and beauty products, this 7" is a must have. the opening songs on both sides are the obvious standouts, but the other two do more than merely tread water.

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(the seattle-era (post-2000) feederz line-up performing) stop you're killing me @ modified arts 2003

neva

2010-06-10T18:38:00.000-04:00

individu
[(1987) 2009, (self-released) alone prod.]

for fans of cold wave and deathrock (or, sigh, batcave... fuck is wrong with people), this, reissue of a 1987 cassette by the french trio neva, is probably an oddity. if you find yourself on the outside of these genres... ha, i don't even know, man. the most common commodity, in those types of bands, would be dark vocals that matched the doom and gloom of the subject matter as well as the instrumentation, which is soooo not the case here. the vocals, which are (mostly) supplied in french by jacquy, tend to sound more helium-esque, like they were recorded and sped up. upon first hearing the tape, i was kind of left scratching my head, but what ultimately won me over was the synth work by joël bomy (credited here as bob) and eric meunier (who also programmed the drum beats). the more that i listened, the more i found myself fully embracing this amalgamation of weird sounding, and strangely appealing, vocals, gorgeous synth layers and the sparseness provided by jacquy's lone distorted bass.

individu is actually broken down into two smaller albums; the first side of the cassette featured songs from a 1987 concert, while the second side is actually entitled individu, with studio tracks from 1984-1986. i'm usually not too invested in live recordings, but these sound terrific.

cités perdues (lost cities) quickly establishes the tone of the album with a fantastic one-two punch of ethereal synthesizer and a memorable driving bass rhythm. once the vocals enter, that rhythm well get lost to a muddy rumble which is overpowered by the synth and the sped up drum machine beats. cités is built around sudden tempo (from every facet) and tonal shifts. jacquy will veer from a semi-maniacal speaking style, punctuated by somewhat creepy laughter, into slower, regular singing. around the midway point, the song reaches its slowest pace, but soon shakes it by playing at an increasingly faster pace. just when it sounds like it would be impossible for either the beats or synth loops to go any quicker, they immediately change direction and reincorporate that intro melody, and it's incredible. that musical passage is really the glue that holds the track together; by not relying on it for the duration, and changing up the instrumental so much throughout those four minutes, the repeated usage of that introductory passage become increasingly significant.

neva will do one of their finest jobs of stitching all of their great individual elements, which seem to pop up in random intervals throughout the album, together on sacrilège. it has a definite chilly onset with darker synth tones and atmosphere for almost the first half minute until a second, warmer, layer comes into play, while the bass guitar is obfuscated, turning into mostly low-end muck that yields to the domineering melody. jacquy's vocal turn is also highly impressive, thanks mostly to the repetition of it. the change in the instrumental during the second half of the song's chorus (love the chugging bass) is a fantastic change of pace, despite my fondness for the central melody.
even if you didn't know that l'hymne was french for the anthem, just one listen to this song and you most likely could have guessed it. the singing (in a normalized vein) leaves less of an impression, save for the rousing chorus. now, i don't know why the bass has seemed so intent on chewing up the scenery in some songs when every time you can make out actually chords it's memorable, as is the case here. the great thing is that there's more of a symbiotic relationship between synthesizer and guitar; when the bass is hitting its rhythmic highs, the synth assumes a complimentary role and vice versa.

the excessive length (almost six and a half minutes) of image de nuit really just seems like an excuse for neva to exploit a superb instrumental, and hey, i'm not going to fault them for it. this is another example of the trio hitting all of their marks on this slower offering. unlike the previous songs, this doesn't have so many unexpected dynamic shifts. in the most prominent one, there comes an interlude where the bass will drop off to make way for the atmospheric synth sounds and pretty bell tones, which are set against a backdrop of slow, skittering snare hits. another oddity is that the clarity of the bass will stay focal for the duration and jacquy even gets a bit adventurous as he strays into some (good) solos, which include nice touches of guitar noise.

after the final three serviceable, but not particularly overwhelming, tracks on concert 87 (i'll never get why its weakest selections were released as a 7") we finally get to individu and there's a rather stark difference. i'd be tempted to call it "maturity", um, if it weren't for the fact that these songs predate the others by two and three years.. so i'm just fucking confused. jacquy's vocals have none of the helium quality (or character, if you will). the tone of opener valse (waltz) seems to be carrier over, but the energy isn't there: simple synth loop, undistorted guitar, zero dynamics. hrm. ecotchiezko (don't ask me) completely forgoes the synthesized melodies all together, but the upbeat guitar and welcomed shot in the arm of vitality keeps it on the fun side. fun.. deathrock.. still confused. neva will craft the mostly instrumental psykodrame around eric m.'s interesting percussion, with the faux-steel drums at least providing an interesting distraction (and companion) to the repetitious loops of droning guitar.

things will definitely pick up with out-live, which shares a lot more in common with its 87 brethren. synthesizer and guitar are back to working as a glorious tandem but it's the singing that provides the ultimate highlight, the song's wonderful stuttered chorus. also great is the dynamic change in tone which sees jacquy resuming his high-pitched frenzy that juxtaposes with the music in the best way possible.
amnésie is a logical continuation that doesn't have me pining for the old (er, newer) times so much anymore. the synthesizer is the absolute focus on this one and it's fucking gorgeous. thankfully, the vaguely tropical (and vaguely pre-programmed casio) percussion that starts off the song doesn't fuck anything up as it soon transforms into something not quite so cheesy. the vocals prove to be complimentary, never taking too much attention away from that intoxicating melody, which, itself, smartly serves as the chorus.

the penultimate irresponsable spends its first minute and change on experimentation, with distorted noise and high-pitched electronic squeals set to singing that sounds like a child's nursery rhyme, a curious combination to say the least. then they get back to business with a good marriage between a layer of melodic, sustained synth beeps and propelling bass rhythm. individu finishes off the album by exhuming the skeletal remains of psykodrame and fleshing it out (while also adding two minutes to its running time) and i must say that it's far more enjoyable in this zombie state. the vocals still aren't that much of a focal point but the added synth flourishes and melodic changes make it far more appealing.

while individu certainly isn't a flawless album, it's also not a flawed one, so to speak. there's just some songs here that set the bar terrifically high, so when i come across anything less than what they've proven themselves capable of, it's a little disappointing. the good news is that there's more great songs than there are average ones. absolutely worth checking out if you're a fan of the aforementioned genres.

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images de nuit live 6/19/87

trumans water

2010-06-07T21:55:00.000-04:00

the singles 1992-1997
[2003, no sides]

music writing lesson #213: talking about a band by comparing them to (two or five) other bands is fucking unacceptable. especially when you completely miss the boat on all counts. so cut that shit out. here's something that i've seen written about trumans water, "they have combined avant-garde influences from music such as sun city girls, captain beefheart, and free jazz with a sonic youth/boredoms-esque indie/punk/noise rock sensibility". ugh. that makes me want to punch a fucking baby. if i'd read that before listening to them, i would've cursed their mothers and sworn them off. here's all you really need to know: in their heyday, these guys were on the forefront of arty math-rock. they came from the same scene (and time frame) that spawned other innovators such as drive like jehu and (the criminally under-appreciated) creedle. the fact that they could all co-exist in san diego while completely maintaining their own sound and merits is remarkable to me, though they would eventually relocate to portland, oregon in 1994. somehow, in the fervent days of my math-rock obsession, this group alluded me. it's a damn shame, because i'd take this over slint any fucking day. math-rock, by and large, tended to go only go a few ways, either a bit on the emo-ey side (see slint, june of 44, etc.), or went into more aggressive territory (colossamite, dazzling killmen), or managed a combination of both (a minor forest), but trumans water eschewed all of that and instead opted for an abstruseness which made them stand out; i have no clue what any of their songs are about. the fact that they could they throw down just as hard as the noisiest of their peers further helped their cause.

the band was founded in 1991, by brothers kirk and kevin branstetter (eventually recruiting vocalist/guitarist glen calloway (who remained with the band until 1994, when he formed soul-junk, before rejoining them in 1998)). over the length of their career (which i believe is still ongoing, despite a lull since 2008 or so) they've released over a dozen full length albums (while exhausting a few drummers along the way: ely moyal, andres malinao, kevin cascell and john schier (who's still in the band, along with bassist mike coumatos)).

i feel that this singles compilation is a good introduction to the band, especially since it's presented in the (ideal) chronological order, so you can witness how the band progressed in those six years and see which sound appeals to you... there was a good deal of change to this band, not drastic, but they would come to nurture some influences while shifting away from others. for me, 1992-1994 holds their best work, and while that doesn't seem like very long, they managed to churn out eight albums in that time frame, as well as a handful of singles and eps.

to carry on with that train of thought, the first half of singles is fantastic. following the experimental 25 second opener aploitix (a spare, menacing guitar riff, looped and shortened) we're thrust into the uptempo rocker mind yer altar... well, that lasts for about a minute and half, and then things drop way down as they bob along to a memorable guitar melody. the lyrics are mumbled down at the bottom of the mix, with a few noisy shifts here and there, before dropping back into place. after the last outburst the song breaks down, exiting on muted feedback wails set against a solitary riff. sad sailor story keeps it on the slow side, again featuring memorable guitar chords; a great melody that will just drop off, as will everything else, before picking back up. eventually the song will change dynamics, yet again, in time to allow for a spoken word passage, and then they'll pick up where they left off... then, back to slow. this song is definitely trumans water at their mathiest. it's all start/stop and tempo change to glorious effect. after, maybe the third spoken word segment, the band will kick it into another, higher gear with fast-paced riffing punctuated by manic solos and pronounced riffs in tune with the pounding drums. this song must've been a bitch to learn, but well worth it.

sad sailor story and the track which follows it, the six and a half minute long habits are spirits, are what really makes this whole thing even worth it. that's not to take anything away from the rest of the disc's offerings, but, rather, it's a testament to how incredible these songs are. the fact that they're back to back is wonderful (they appear on two separate 7"'s). tempo change will once again rule the day, as they start out on the slow, semi-unnerving side, which they'll really play into with the song's amazing chorus. here, the guitars won't race, but take on a fantastic shrill tone that compliments the haunting gang sung vocals to absolute perfection. what makes it all so good is that the vocals don't match up, the tones are slightly different, one singer will elongate while the other is more concise; just the sound of it, my god. i mentioned before how i have no clue what anyone's ever singing about, still true here... which sucks because i can't help but want to sing along. while a lack of clarity might hurt others, the vocals just work as another musical instrument, so no complaints whatsoever from me. a brief bass interlude will come to lead the group into a faster paced segment, while losing none of the tension, then they'll revert back to original form, and come all the way back again. the vocals on the chorus which follows that will grow and grow in its desperation until finally reaching an apex of conjoined lucidity as the song ends. silver tongue speaks will initially retain that tension, but loses it (in a good way) by way of the bouncy guitar melody during the chorus.
after the moodiness (and length) of the prior songs, it's great to have hey fish come along. they establish a quick pace from the onset and proceed to ride its two minutes for all they're worth. the vocals and riff change during the chorus are great. empty queen ii is wonderful on two levels. first off, it's a rad fucking song, secondly, it comes on the heels of two of the compilation's stranger experimental works (which i'll get into later) so, in the flow of things, it works beautifully. while the music is good on its own, it's definitely made better once those soaring vocals come through on the chorus. after a bit of an absence on the dynamic-centric math-rock front, it makes a triumphant return on this track. the most unique thing about this song is that the choruses are really the verses, as they open up the song (and repeat several times later on), and then, where there should be normal choruses, it's just extended instrumental workouts with a bit of vocals. i guess, that could be considered a chorus. hmm. whatever it is, it's an effective approach.

the songs on the sympathy for the record industry released skyjacker 7" (tracks 14-16, out of 24) are, in essence, the final hurrah for the collection as it begins to fade out on a wave of mostly instrumental and less memorable offerings that veer away from the first word in the phrase controlled chaos. at least we get skyjacker and floorjacker though! skyjacker is pure manic energy with another memorable vocal turn (complete with lots of yelping), while floorjacker eases back, just a bit, and features a nice dual sung/shouted chorus, which i think i actually know the words to. i don't want to spoil it for you (or i don't want to be wrong, either way, you're on your own).

there's quite a few experimental and instrumental numbers that pepper the compilation, the most normal of which being x-ray eyes or, which is a nice little slowed down groove that loses some of its cohesion as it plays out. another movement is a stab at free jazz rock (or whatever), and it's, pretty much what it sounds like, loose guitar fuckery, a steady drumbeat and saxophone warbles, along with what sounds like vocal samples. finest donut theme song has a bit more success with the art jazz angle, relying solely on distorted saxophone squeaks and drones. mr. e is, coincidentally, a bit of a mystery; very sparse, repetitive see-sawing guitar riffs and then distorted vocals, then crazy yelping speaking-in-tongues vocals which take us away from the guitar and into a brief piano interlude, and then it's onward into the kind shrieking which black eyes made a brief career out of. t (which is on my copy, though i don't see it popping up on any tracklists anywhere) follows that with more weird vocals that sound like they came from someone who swallowed the microphone. that will soon calm down and it turns into a slow guitar and saxophone experiment... actually, it's not too bad. new kind of radio is another oddity, it's more formed than the rest of the non-songs, a cool upbeat jam with a (strangely) 60's surf guitar tone, even though it's far too loose and never stumbles upon a clear melody. it's fleshed out with members of the band just shouting random things, though the word radio does seem to be a theme. do the spazz is another nod to the 60's and their insistence that people do a particular dance, here they just want you to spazz out. mostly instrumental outside of the shouting, but nothing too indelible.

singles 1992-1997 is definitely top-heavy. the best songs are all in the first fifteen, which, again, is more about a stylistic shift than anything else, and the experimental tracks serve as little more than curiosity pieces that at least show that the band wasn't above fucking with expectations, and that's commendable. really though, the handful of standout tracks on the compilation are strong enough to shoulder the rest.

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diy video for aroma of gina arnold, from their 1993 album spasm smash xxxoxox ox and ass

bobby soxx

2010-06-05T21:21:00.000-04:00

learn to hate in the 80's 7"
[1981, vvv]

when it comes to infamous punk rockers, bobby soxx (bobby glenn calverly), is right fucking up there, despite being so insular within the texas scene. the stories i've seen, and the innumerable ones i'll remain unaware of, paint him as a pretty big prick (he would eventually come to spend some time in prison and a mental hospital), especially if you were unlucky/lucky enough to be sharing a bill with one of his bands (either teenage queers or stick men with ray guns). obvious street credit aside, this 7" is amazing. while the stick men had some good songs, nothing he ever did, in my mind, touches the snarling brilliance on display here.

no one will ever accuse calverly of being a gifted singer, or lyricist (he had a predilection for almost cartoonish crassness), but what's so appealing about him is his uniqueness and delivery, and on the a side's title track, it shines through remarkably. after a false start, things get right into gear with infectious riffing alongside a simple, upbeat drum tempo, over which bobby barks "time's running out, chaos is near, everyone's angry with fear" setting the scene for a war-torn future. especially effective is the chorus, with the shouted, militant chant of "learn to hate!" while soxx supplies the "in the 80's" in increasingly desperate yelps. his rambling style of fear-mongering here, which has a tendency to veer away from the song's rhythm, juxtaposed with the tightness of the guitar and drums, pays off well. easily one of my favorite punk anthems, right up there with i'm bored, by zero boys.

side b's scavenger of death, while terrific on its own, also serves as a logical continuation of a theme. after everyone's destroyed themselves, what's left? vultures, clearly, and bobby's all too happy to provide the gruesome details. this time out, he and cohort jerry dirkx (also of the telefones) will opt to slow things down, considerably, while cranking up the menace. we get another foot tapping drum beat (aided by.. cowbell? why not.) and gloriously dark guitar chords. soxx will match that by, literally, croaking out his lyrics about gnawed flesh and decay. the highlights here, outside of bobby's overall performance, are the killer changes in guitar tone, while still maintaining the same riffs, which periodically occur. it's also great that there's a tonal shift within the chorus, as well, as it moves into a plaintive repeated phrasing of the title.
while this record was just released as bobby soxx, he was helped out by jerry and steve dirkx (steve was on the a side), all three of whom were in teenage queers, whose sole release live at raul's 1980 was issued in 1998 on brain transplant, and also features these songs.

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teenage queers @ ft. worth, texas 6/21/80

an introduction

2010-06-05T20:01:00.000-04:00

after having been out of the writing (or blogging, if you're an asshole) game for a bit, since i closed the proverbial book on my last blog, smooth assailing, i've decided to venture out and try again. the reasons for that blog's quiet demise are numerous, but foremost is the fact that i lost all of my music, both physical and not, which sucks for those who sent shit in for me to review... ugh... of which there are way too many, and i feel endlessly shitty about that. another reason is because i didn't want to focus so narrowly on experimental and noise music, and, to me, it doesn't make sense to change something that had been grounded in that type of music for so long. my decision to delete the blog, however, is pretty simple, though mostly personal; i didn't want to be haunted by something that i'd once done, but was no longer doing. also, now that it's gone, i don't have to compete (or compare) with myself, which is good.

the purpose of this blog is to continue expressing my thoughtful passion for what i (and what more people, ideally) would consider good music. now i strongly doubt that most individuals would consider everything that i'm interested in to be good, as pertains to their personal taste, but i feel like it should appeal to fans of the genres mentioned. if it piques people's interests enough to broaden their horizons, even better. ultimately, though, i really just want to gush about the lesser known musicians who have impacted my listening and form bonds with those who feel the same or give the unacquainted the tools to be as affected as i was.

since my first blog was devoted exclusively to music, i wanted to extend myself a bit more this time around and delve into films as well. helping me with this undertaking will be my girlfriend, who will also (and hopefully often) contribute articles. all this makes sense because i'm sure that most of the movies i will want to review are from her vast library. expect lots of old school gore, horror, exploitation, and possibly erotica, for as long as we can keep this thing going.

when i can recoup the equipment to do so, i also want to get back to making podcasts, for the scant few of you out there reading this who might've been aware of the old ones. ah, ambition! such a wondrous thing.

film

2010-06-04T23:23:00.003-04:00

go, go second time virgin
mondo weirdo
badi / e.t. de vagina double review

music

2010-06-04T19:16:00.015-04:00

bobby soxx
trumans water
neva
feederz
mr. airplane man
nothing people
come
the tights
cheveu
esther venrooy
the trashies
minimal man

miscellany

an introduction