Dust Volume 5, Number 9
Tropical Fuck Storm
Just like that, summer’s over and we face a growing pile of late 2019 records. But before that, before we drag ourselves like kids to school into the second half, a moment to appreciate what’s accumulated. This month’s Dust touches on groovy jazz tuba, punishing hardcore, a bracing industrial reissue, altered percussion and an OG Tuareg guitarist. Contributors this time around include Isaac Olson, Ian Mathers, Jennifer Kelly, Jonathan Shaw, Bill Meyer and Andrew Forell.
Joseph Allred — O Meadowlark (Feeding Tube)
O, Meadowlark by Joseph Allred
Plenty of people get the tag American Primitive Guitarist stuck on their rump these days. It’s not always appropriate and it’s not always welcome, but it adheres to Joseph Allred with the fastness of the truth. Allred, a Tennessean who currently pursues higher learning at Boston College, understands that whether you use mountain music or raga-derived form as your framework (and he uses a bit of both, alternating between skeletal banjo figures and rushing guitar fantasias), the music has to project something beyond the notes. O Meadowlark not only evokes a cascade of emotions, some explicit and others allowed and bent until they’re beyond name, but he exerts an opposite pull. Like Robbie Basho or Steffen Basho Junghans, he draws the listener through the sound hole and into the tones and overtones that carom about the insides of his guitar. Climb inside; like a Tardis, it has room for all.
Bill Meyer
Caterina Barbieri — Ecstatic Computation (Editions Mego)
Ecstatic Computation by Caterina Barbieri
The title of Caterina Barbieri’s third LP suggests a congress of emotional states and cognitive processes; total neural action, you might say. The sound of the thing suggests another, maybe more personal integration. She favors massive, echo-haloed electronic sounds, the sort that would set off all manner of madness in the disco if only she’d subordinate them to a sufficiently clubby beat. But instead she juxtaposes them with wordless female vocals (not her own) and switched-on harpsichord sounds which lock together with a structural logic that probably comes natural to a person who grew up studying classical guitar. And while the sounds promise abandon, the way they lock together requires submission to a Bach-like allegiance to order. Promise delivered.
Bill Meyer
Theon Cross — Fyah (Gearbox Records)
Fyah by Theon Cross
Tuba player Theon Cross was the secret weapon of last year’s excellent Your Queen is a Reptile, by The Sons of Kemet. Fyah is Cross’s debut as a band leader, and if the melodies occasionally sag, Cross and company generate more than enough energy to keep you, if not intently listening, grooving. Like many in the London jazz scene, Cross has no qualms about pulling in sounds from everywhere, and while not every experiment works (the synths and trap beats on “Panda Village” don’t add much), it keeps Fyah feeling fleet and admirably populist. Cross’s commitment to bring the tuba back to our attention and good graces is admirable, and he’s certainly the right guy for the job, but for better or for worse, he suffers the fate of all lower register players: disappearing when played back at anything less than high volume. As such, the real MVP on Fyah is tenor saxophonist and fellow London hotshot, Nubya Garcia. Fyah is a good record. It gets better the louder you play it.
Isaac Olson
Drugs of Faith — Decay (Selfmadegod Records)
Drugs of Faith have been making records like Decay, their new EP, for quite a while now. The record is full of crossover hardcore that pushes on the pressure points of crust and sludge. It’s grimy, gritty, sweaty stuff and it’s really good. The focused truculence of a song like “Anonymity” sharpens rather than overwhelms the tune’s tendencies toward melody, and what a frigging breakdown. The whole 7” — all ten minutes of it — is terrifically punishing. Or maybe it’s punishingly terrific. Whatever it is, it goes by quick. But that’s cool, you’ll just flip it and play it again. And like a live hardcore set, music this intense is best enjoyed in small, gut-thumping doses. Toward the end of the excellent track “Nihilists,” singer Richard Johnson (who also plays guitar) growls, “If I go down, I’m taking you all with me.” Sure sounds like he means it.
Jonathan Shaw
Help — Help (Self Released)
Help by Help
One advantage to keeping songs short and lyrics anthemic is that you can throw a whole lot of sludge into the works and still end up with tunes that folks will remember the next day. Portland noise-punk band does this six times on their quite good debut EP, Help. No surprises here, just grimy, coruscating punk that sounds amazing when you’re reading the latest update on our slide into oligarchy/kleptocracy/kakistocracy/planet death/what have you. Best of all is their theme song, which softens up a traditionally macho genre with some very welcome, very 2019 vulnerability (Complete lyrics: “Help!/I fucking need it!/You know I’ve battled but it’s all I can take!”) and the closer, “Class War Now” which is about… well, you know.
Isaac Olson
HTRK – Nostalgia (Fire Records)
Nostalgia is the self-released 2004 debut EP by Australian experimental trio HTRK (Hate Rock Trio). Nigel Yang (guitar, programming, electronics), Jonnine Standish (voice, percussion, samples) and Sean Stewart (bass, programming, samples) produce seven tracks of heavy, noise intensive electronica with echoes of Throbbing Gristle, Pan Sonic and Suicide. Physically and psychically crushing, the tracks move at a funereal pace with waves of static and feedback crashing against bottom end bass, percussion and drum machines as Standish’s voice intones from a cave, a cross between Lydia Lunch and Alan Vega. Instrumental opener “Hate Rock Trio” begins quietly with the ticking of a clock, a time bomb with crashes of distorted percussion. Thereafter the song titles tell the story of the EP. Run together they form both a record of, and a demand to acknowledge, damage inflicted: “Look What’s Been Done/Look Down the Line/Look At That Girl/Look At Her/You Injured Me/I’m All Broke Up.” The intensity builds with each track as feedback and samples scratch atop thickening layers of black sludge. Re-released by Fire Records, Nostalgia is a bracing experience with a palpable sense of menace.
Andrew Forell
Max Jaffe — Giant Beat (Ramp Local)
Giant Beat by Max Jaffe
If a curious listener was told Max Jaffe only used one instrument to make Giant Beat, they’d be forgiven for guessing something like a modular synth. Instead, it’s drums, but in a way that makes the question maybe a little bit of a cheat; Jaffe, drummer for JOBS, Elder Ones and others, was also a beta tester for something called Sensory Percussion that allows percussionists to use their instruments to trigger sounds and samples in a way that feels analogous to the chromatic, sometimes abrasive playing Ian Crause and Disco Inferno did with sampling. Of course, with a drum kit and that kind of setup, Jaffe can generate a whole album just by himself in a different way than you might get with, say, a singer and an acoustic guitar. Giant Beat dips its toes into various experimental waters, jazz here, electronics there, noise and musique concrete there, but always with the steady pulse of Jaffe’s one-take percussive playing behind it. The result feels like anything but a product demo; if anything, it feels like a new type of voice articulating itself.
Ian Mathers
Ocean Fanfare — First Nature (Barefoot)
First Nature by Ocean Fanfare
Whether you take the words First Nature as a prescription of priorities or a stern reminder of who is best equipped to play the long game in the battle between humankind and its environment, this is a record with a message. But since that message is being relayed via horns, bass, and drums, which play melodies that wind and ascend, one must exercise one’s emotional antennae to decode the vibe. Both trumpeter Tomsz Dabrowski and alto saxophonist Sven Dam Meinild are equally facile with post-bop tunes and extended technique explorations, and the shuttles between these poles gives the music a questing quality. They’re methodically seeking, not giving up hope, and the inventive ways they maintain balance on the fly suggests that they’re conscious of what tools will come in handy if people are going to survive.
Bill Meyer
Abdallah Ag Oumbadougou — Anou Malane (Sahel Sounds)
Anou Malane by Abdallah Ag Oumbadougou
One of the original Tuareg guitar heroes, Abdallah Oumbadougou recorded these dreaming, droning, melancholic-with-a-swagger tunes in Benin in 1995 with the West African producer Nel Oliver. It was a step up for Oumbadougou, who had previously recorded mostly on boom boxes in encampments during breaks in the Tuareg rebellion, but the songs, even embellished with electronics and studio effects, have a raw, lonely power to them. “Thingalene” drifts towards funky pop in its syncopated drum machines and squealing synths, but Oumbadougou’s voice carries over time and distance with a bracing authenticity. Other tracks, like “Tenere” splice the echoing snap of gate-reverbed drums to a beat that sways like camel caravans; the guitar work here is particularly fine. On its original release, Anou Malane introduced the world to the Tuareg’s keening, ambling desert blues; now it reminds us that artists like Tinariwen and Terekaft and Mdou Moctar are interpreting and extending — not inventing — a vibrant art form.
Jennifer Kelly
Savage Republic —Gods & Guns (Mobilization)
Savage Republic doesn’t pack the band schedule very tightly nowadays. The band, currently a quartet (Thom Fuhrmann, Ethan Port, Alan Waddington, Kerry Dowling), took the whole of the 1990s off and has made just two albums in this century. But when they do make a record, it hits hard. In days gone by they sounded like Rhys Chatham fronting the Ventures on an album of Aegean surfer themes, but now they sound just a bit like Michael Gira fronting Echo & the Bunnymen in some Bladerunner-like hell of a dark hole. “God & Guns,” sung in dire and reverb-swaddled tones by Fuhrmann, articulates understandable dismay at the twin lumps of stinky meat that are being held in front of the vast heard of fascism-embracing Americans. The instrumental on the flip is named “Tranquilo,” but you won’t rest while they’re charging you, driven by chain-gang shouts, oil drum lashes, and epically massive bass. Heavy shit for heavy times.
Bill Meyer
Sleeping Ancient — There Is No Truth But Death (Viridian Flame)
There Is No Truth But Death by Sleeping Ancient
In any number of ways, black metal and the horror fiction of H.P. Lovecraft are a good match. The overweening interest in darkness and unnamably horrific, indecipherably complex forms; the highly abstruse mysticism; the tinge of troubling racism and anti-Semitism — it’s sort of uncanny. Sleeping Ancient aren’t the first black metal band to express a deep appreciation for Lovecraft’s weird fictions. Heck, they probably aren’t even the tenth or the fiftieth. But if they’re not breaking any new ground, thematically or musically, at least they’re making good songs. Check out the grand dirge of “Akeru,” or the slow but assured drift, from frigidly delicate melody to batshit intensity, that forms “Taphephobic Hallucinations” (taphephobia, by the way, is crippling fear of the grave—not death so much as the gravesite itself). The songs are typical of Sleeping Ancient’s mannered but powerful playing, which the band sustains across the whole of There Is No Truth But Death. It’s a good record to play as we wait for Cthulu. Judging by current conditions, we won’t have long to wait.
Jonathan Shaw
Sore Points — Not Alright (Slovenly)
SORE POINTS "Not Alright" EP by Sore Points
If you miss the Marked Men, how ‘bout some hard, fast punk rock from Vancouver? This four-song 7 inch, following a 2018 self-titled on Deranged, snarls and stomps with feverish fury, making the most of its double drummed, guitar stabbed, bass whomped basics. You’d infer a few battered Ramones records in the rec room, but also punks both harder core and more melodic—Black Flag on one end and the Buzzcocks on the other. “Not Alright” rampages at blur speed. The drummer, whoever he is (Sore Points are not big on self-promotion), gets a monster workout here, but really everybody is pushing about as hard as it goes. “Not Coming Back,” is likewise accelerated, but in an anthemic, memorable way. As a non-professional, you’d kill yourself trying to keep up playing these songs, but you can sing along, no problem, after just one or two spins.
Jennifer Kelly
Tropical Fuck Storm — Braindrops (Joyful Noise)
Braindrops by Tropical Fuck Storm
“Braindrops,” the title track from this second Tropical Fuck Storm album, slinks and rattles and backpedals, its rhythm complicated and syncopated, its stream-of-consciousness lyrics about dreams and waking (“But you gotta get up because time is nagging like a dog humping your leg”) as tangled as the polyrhythmic beat. There’s a slant of ska in the bass, a dissolute hint of post-punk in the cracked vocals and a baroque inclination to stuff things to the gills in the overload of just about everything. Tropical Fuck Storm tilts recognizable forms so far over that they always seem to be careening into chaos. A hip friendly bump of bass and drums is just a landing pad for guitar noises that crash, still burning, to the ground. Even the ballads (“Paradise” both “Marias”) teem with noise and dissonance. Braindrops is never an easy listen. It verges, fairly often, on the unpleasant. But in a world where everything spins down to a grey Spotified entropy, it’s a prickly, fascinating, mess of bright colored wires; go ahead cut one and see if it explodes.
Jennifer Kelly
Various Artists — Greys (Anachronisme)
Greys by Field Guides
In this day and age, if one even wanted to put together a new “We Are the World,” where would one start? Leverage Models’ return to music last year with the phenomenal Whites was partly so that previously-shelved record could raise money for the Southern Poverty Law Center, and here the band and Anachronisme Records are at it again. Raising money for the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees this time, instead of trying to rope everyone they know into one big aesthetically-dubious singalong, they’ve put together with any number of friends a smorgasbord of 21 tracks all somehow ‘in conversation’ with the music on Whites. There are plenty of intriguing covers, remixes, and other deconstructions, from Field Guides’ glowing, pastoral version of “If I Let You Stay” to the menacing buzz of DOV’s remix of “Dark Pools,” to Concierge Records and The Working Elite’s “transatlantic meditation” on the feeling of the first song on Whites with “Day Two,” as well as two unreleased tracks from Leverage Models. Then there are the contributions that just engage with the emotions and stories of the original album, like Courtship Ritual’s haunting “Uncle Incision” and William Tyler’s gorgeous “She Swims in Hidden Water.” There’s a lot here to absorb, but even if you’re not familiar with the source material it all stands on its own, even as it’s still one of the most intriguing expansions of an album in recent memory. Not to mention hopefully a more effective way to help a good cause.
Ian Mathers
avery r. young—Tubman (FPE)
tubman. by avery r. young
avery r. young brings the sizzle in this paean to African-American musical traditions from skanky funk to body-moving R&B to soul-on-fire gospel, complete with a full choir. The multi-talented Chicagoan took inspiration from his own book—Neckbone: Visual Verses—from Nina Simone and from the singer Jamila Woods, whose superlative pipes provide the uplift of many of these cuts. “Maasai” slouches so far into a smouldery blacksploitation groove as to be nearly horizontal, all evil wah-wah’d twitch and rumbling bass and slashing lightning bolts of disco strings, while “go'head mary & weep” takes things to the church with a massive harmonized swell. young himself has a fine, fluttery, emotionally nimble tenor, shades of the Reverend Al Green in his supple phrasing, but his songs take flight when they’re sung by a crowd, as on the spiritually stirring “lead in da wattah” and especially, the monster highlight “get to know a nina simone song” which rolls on like a doo-wopping, gospel-quarteting freight train right on to Mississippi. God damn, indeed.
