Merch: July 3, 2008
Trey Gunn Music for Pictures (Trey Gunn)
An alumnus of King Crimson who learnt Frippertronics at the knee of Robert Fripp himself, Gunn guns to establish himself as second-gen proggy Godfather with this selection of reworked themes and cues. Originally culled from a series of TV documentaries done for Russian wonder-boy director Pavel Runimov, these 29 tracks display Gunn’s mastery of the Warr touch guitar, an exotic species of axe that can be strummed, plucked or tapped with a Chapman Stick. Fans of the Durruti Column or the tricky soundtrack-prog Goblin used to whomp up for Dario Argento’s full-throttle horrorflicks will dote on this hardnosed psychedelia.
–Ron Garmon
2 Robots Sex With 2 Robots–the Remixes (Digital Records)
This is a case of being roofied by robots. Much like vodka and Ritalin, our loves of the Roland 303 and fetish for anthropomorphized machines are two great tastes that … well, you get the idea. This DJ/production team here blends both like so many have done before them, yet undeniably, the chemistry is still there. In this remix album of their own work, “Sex With 2 Robots,” these androids prove that they are quite adept at playing with their own equipment. All your favorite components of sexy robot music are here. Low distortion in the vocoder voice? Check. Thick, penetrating acid synth lines, pulled out like melting rubber? Check. Grooves that straddle the ambiguous labels of “electro,” “breaks” and “house”? Check. Ironic lyrics about drugs, sex, and technology delivered in a come-hither monotone? Ch-ch-check. Let’s just say, if Benny Benassi, Kraftwerk and Nintendo turn you on, this is your bootie call.
–Ramie Becker
Princeton Bloomsbury (Striking Peasant)
Each track on this four-song EP is based lyrically on a member of the hyper-intellectual Bloomsbury set of early 20th century London. For instance, the strikingly profound couplet “Doodley doodley do/Ooh-wa ooh-wa ooh” is clearly a steadfast declaration of the group’s extreme disdain concerning post-impressionists whose tendency to manifest imperialistic aesthetics in their work Princeton finds loathsome. OK, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but despite the faint air of pretense throughout Bloomsbury, and the disparity between instrumental drapes and lyrical carpet, these L.A. power-poppers still manage a surprisingly original and enjoyable pop recording. Their sound consists of shiny vocals, soft backup yelping, bright xylophone vamps, unexpectedly heavy orchestral string crescendos, sweet flute flutters, amiable piano tickling and jaunty banjo strumming. With any dewy plaintiveness evaporating quickly enough to avoid becoming emo, the elements at work establish a milieu of levity and tenability that one can enjoy without, or perhaps despite, the lyrics.
–Daniel Stainkamp
Garland Jeffreys s/t (Collector’s Choice)
This clever, gifted singer-songwriter never cranked his act much past Manhattan cultdom, but that’s only tragic if you buy into star-making bullshit or cling to the daft idea showbiz validates anything. My hopes are this CC reissue of this 1973 Atlantic LP (his second major-label effort after 1970’s Garland Jeffreys & Grinder’s Switch on Vanguard) will get his winsome urban folk-blues before a slightly wider audience and so raise the general level of earhole self-respect a notch or three. Jeffreys junking his old band and recruiting the wizard likes of Dr. John, David Bromberg, Bernard Purdie and David “Fathead” Newman was a smooth move and brings a nice sense of tension between so much turbo-weight support and the star’s once-over-lightly intellectuality. Imagine a Ringo Starr album for sophisticates.
–Ron Garmon
Annihilation Time Annihilation Time III: Tales of the Ancient Age (Tee Pee)
In the wake of the revivalism of the ’80s American indie scene, an oft-overlooked and large part of that movement was its terrific and diverse hardcore punk faction. While many bands today have successfully utilized the noise and hooks of the likes of Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr., few have even dared to be the next Black Flag. Oakland’s own Annihilation Time feature vocalist Jimmy Rose channeling his inner Henry Rollins while running the buzzsaw riffs of Hüsker Dü’s Bob Mould to create our generation’s own version of middle-class suburban rage. The lyrics reeking of the same discontent with idleness (“Get a Job”), WASP alpha males (“Splashback”), and shitty girlfriends (“Bad Luck”) says less about the music’s originality but more about the angst that prevails in our world. Zen Arcade or Damaged it is not, but it don’t look them over.
–Carman Tse
Prenup Hell to Pay (Yep Roc)
The first time I listened to Hell to Pay (last week) by the cynically named Prenup, I thought it sounded like college – 1992 or so, when “Life Is a Highway” and “Girlfriend” were all over my FM dial, and there is nothing not to like about that. But I was moving, and the movers stole my iPod, and most of my CDs are gone from when I loaned them to my dad in the nursing home that jacked them all, and here was this Prenup CD, right there in my suitcase fresh from abroad, and I listened for four days as I unpacked a disgraceful amount of shit for me and my son and the cozy comforts of Prenup soaked into my bones. It helped that I may have made out the week before with singer Fiachna O’Braonain (ex–Hothouse Flowers) in London after I’d met him through mutual friends in Paris, and if I read that sentence I’d want to punch me too. On the seventh listen, Hell to Pay turned into a time machine; all of a sudden, it wasn’t college anymore; it was 1987, and I was a high school freshman, hearing in the sexy whispery bass vocals “Somewhere Down the Crazy River”-era Robbie Robertson. Then I was minus-three, hearing a little bit of Jerry Garcia, circa Workingman’s Dead, and then Levon Helm singing “Cripple Creek” channeled from even further into my pre-nativity. I’ve now listened to Hell to Pay one million times and expect to eventually be transported back to the Big Bang. This is not masterful songwriting – it repeats itself a lot – but it is sad and sexy and heartfelt and soul and blues and rock, and hotshot lyrics are for weenies. All you need is a good yowl, a whisper, some purty guitar, and a fine memory.
–Rebecca Schoenkopf
Published: 07/02/2008
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