DJ Ordeal, Maureen (Johnny Kane) 7"
How Scott Walker would've made Mathilda if he'd lost his voice, had
access to a vast film library to scour for samples and was in the mood
for gloom-laden breakbeats. Beautiful.
23 Park Rd, Windermere, Cumbria, LA23 2BE
DJ Rupture/ Doily/ Criterion, (sic) series (Broklyn Beats) all 7"
(sic) not because they're sick (although they would definitely have
been ill a decade and a half ago and illbient halfway between then and
now) but (sic) because Broklyn is not a spelling error. Last year's
Brutal Police Menace compilation showed how rife corruption is in
NYC. Not least in the police force, which didn't get a sympathetic
hearing on the record, but also amongst the beat fraternity. It
spliced Gotham grime into fractured hip hop, metropolitan dub and
cosmopolitan techno. These 7" form the first instalment of another
compilation and follow roughly the same scattershot blueprint, without
the law enforcement theme, of stalking the streets in search of a vibe
and a sound. Doily drops a dub depth charge down a manhole and then
crouches, ear to the sidewalk, waiting for the muffled explosions to
rumble back up to her and merge with the city hustle. DJ Rupture takes
a more kinetic approach, scavenging frantically through dumpsters
covered in extractor fan silt and back-alley disrepair for sounds
which he flings out in a torrent of broken beats and then tramples
underfoot. Criterion sits somewhere between the two. Still in a part
of town you'd rather know less about, still ready to fuck shit up but
not with his head down the sewer or stuck inside a dustbin. Race
Traitor hammers home an obvious message on the back of a heavily
veiled break while Honky Tonk Hits takes the same beat down to a
community centre just after the medication has been administered. A
piano grinds to a halt as half-a-dozen grizzled old fellas remember
how jazz used to sound, slurring "yeah" into their chests and
dribbling down their Jets shirts.
440 Broadway #3R, Brooklyn, NY 11211, USA
Freddy Fresh, Boogie Down Bronx (Howlin) 7"
Man Parrish's electro classic is given a hefty trowelling by Mr Fresh
here, but he nobly resists the temptation to drop an entirely
unnecessary "funky break" into the mix, leaving remnants of the
near-perfect original to propel what remains. (Please take note, you
bastards who periodically desecrate Planet Rock and others.) Until I
just looked it up, I never realised that Man Parrish took Boogie Down
Bronx to the dizzy heights of number 56 in the charts back in
September 1985. 18 months later, he was at number 4 with Male
Stripper. I remember watching Top Of The Pops, eating fish and chips
with my Mum and Dad while an overtly gay man in a black leather cap
and trousers let slip that he was a male stripper in a Go-Go
bar. Heady days for a young Possession, relived for 5 minutes just
Space Rocket, Hot Gadulka Suicide (Boing Being) 7"
How many records do you suppose credit someone for playing "hand
farts"? I'd guess there aren't a lot. But how many credit two people
for hand farts? And how many also note a virtuoso performance on the
dildo? And while we're at it, how many records do you own that were
recorded by Man As Lamb? Space Rocket are fucking brilliant (and I
hope they use this bit of the quote) before I've even put the record
on. Listen to this from the sleeve notes: "This is a high fidelity
recording. Any lack of enjoyment is caused by your inadequate home
stereo your dad bought you for Christmas. In a case like this, please
hand it to the nearest official premises for disposal." Or this:
"George is a stunning multi-instrumentalist who is one of the few
persons who can master the traditional Bulgarian folk instrument
Gadulka.. it is like piece of vaginal juice for George." These words
were supposedly written by one Antonio Mitocondrio in a place
rejoicing in the name of Arsesterberg. Hilarious. But you're wondering
what the record sounds like? Antonio comes to the rescue once more:
"veryfreejazzband.. what more can I say? Zeddar?"
Hyytialantie 9, 35500 Korkeakoski, Finland
Braer Rabbit, Circuit Trainer (Foolproof Projects) 7"
Do androids dream of electric sheep? I'm sure I couldn't say. None of
the robots I've ever asked had any opinion on the matter - or were too
embarrassed to talk about it. Oily dreams. Euurgh. But does Braer
Rabbit dream of electric sleep? Still no actual evidence but my
inclination after hearing the debut 7" would be the
affirmative. Circuit Trainer is hardly more than the electric aural
synthesis of the moment immediately after the Horlicks kicks in and
some magic or other carries you hazily up the stairs to bed. On the
other side, Direct Communication With Otis is the electronic aural
synthesis of a dream during rapid eye movement about being chased
around Hampton Court Maze, dressed as a tennis ball, by Tim Henman in
stockings. Benevolently cracked electro.
Maquiladora, Ritual of Hearts (Jonson Family) 7"
Abducted by space-rock aliens and stripped of all effects save their
reverb pedal, Spaceman 3 are dumped in the middle of a dusty
mid-Western prairie. 17 miles to the south is a Small Minded, a town
consisting of 4 people, 8 cattle and a well. 16 miles to the north is
a railroad. It doesn't stop in this state, just rolls right on
through. West, nothing. East is a road, a black asphalt escape route
if only a car would show up. The band lie in the shade of their
amplifiers for a couple of hours, pondering their situation and
smoking the extremely strong skunk the aliens gave them as a parting
gift. Initially they think that the small red speck kicking up a dust
cloud at the point where the road meets the horizon is a mirage, but
as an hour passes, they realise that it actually exists. Methodically,
and at skunk speed, they begin to tote their equipment to the side of
the road. Once assembled, the speck is close enough to be seen as a
red pick-up truck. Sonic Boom sticks out his thumb. An hour later the
truck stops and a gangly youth of the kind found in all small American
towns leans out of the window. He is wearing a Garth Brooks souvenir
Stetson and a check shirt. He doesn't say anything, just gestures to
the empty rear and watches as the band load their stuff on. When Jason
passes him a lead to plug into the cigarette lighter he asks no
questions and as he pulls away, the band strike up Ritual Of Hearts
and the desert reverberates with quiet beauty.
O.H. Krill, Chasing The One (DC) 10"
Can assemble for a reunion gig on board Captain Nemo's Nautilus
submarine. At a depth of 20,000 leagues the band decide they want to
swim with the fishes so they wrap their instruments in polythene, step
through the airlock and improvise a Jacques Cousteau soundtrack for
the passing sealife.
DJ Komikon, World Beaters EP (Catchpenny) CDS
If you're the kind of person who thinks minimal techno - and
presumably any kind of minimalist art - can be banged out in a few
minutes because there's "like, literally, nothing to it," then the
chances are you won't appreciate DJ Komikon's debut. His Variation On
A Theme By Steve Reich apart, the tracks here are largely experiments
in grainy percussion where the grim fidelity of the samples and the
fact that Komikon's computer can't seem to keep time, provide the
interest. The title track is the best, a primitive electro that could
be a shaving from Mike Paradinas' workbench.
PO Box 88, Mold, CH7 4ZQ
The Fall, Rude (Flitwick) 7"
"When I wake up in the city/ I look around to see who's with me." You
believe it when Mark E Smith says it. You'd believe that he's
nine-tenths cut when you hear him sing on these two tracks but you'd
still rate it above most of the soulless bullshit you listen to these
days. You'd believe that it was recorded in a garage, through a
gramophone horn direct to acetate but you probably wouldn't believe me
if I told you it was, while stocks last, free.
PO Box 26, Flitwick, Beds, MK45 1ZU