Lo and behold the starwanderers as they continue their ramblings inside a box of black space lined with gold thread, chronological boundary for the holy year that was 2010. Here we report the risky explorations that over this period tore asunder the walls of reality to fetch from the amorphous manifold beyond nutritious morsels of quantum pop which which we watered our garden and fed the livestock. Such were the strange flowers that grew thereafter, and the ancient tongues with which our beasts proclaimed.
Ariel Pink and his Haunted Graffiti: Before Today. News at 11. Pop prophet transforms utopian fish into crumbling DIY bread, masses flock to worship at his bedroom temple.
Arp – The Soft Wave. Cluster and Eno and Rilley and Georgopoulos. Ringside seats in an amphitheatre at the edge of time.
Arp and Anthony Moore: FRKWYS Vol. 3. Lullabies for wide-eyed children destined for polymathematic stardom.
CFCF: The River. Mies Van der Rohe built an exquisite Canal de Amazonia to make Fitzcarraldo’s job easier.
Delia Gonzales & Gavin Russom – Track 5. In everyone’s life there’s one album that has a disproportionate pull on you. Something that, ‘objectively’ is very good, but which has an almost supernatural hold on you above and beyond that. An album which can evoke pure moments of transcendent bliss. Imagine if, after five years a missing piece was released.
Hounds of Hate: Head Anthem. Organic ghost machine music that circles the sleeping victim like a shadow pygmy tribe armed with ancient spells of compelling abstraction.
Hunx and his Punx: Gay Singles. Nuggetbagging, rather than teabagging. John Waters would be proud.
Perchance the last addition to these terminal celebrations, and a timely one. Hype Williams have animated 20jazzfunkgreats séances with feeric liquors over which glide pixies imported from Chicago and Kingston, shouting their wares in a cloud of voodoo tags. Their gift is a graphic novel of panels that blur in Steranko fever. Sade drowns in an ocean of pavement syrup, while the chaotic transmissions of a thousand pirate radios converge in the neon sky above, like a Batman sign for much darker heroes
International Feel: The Coptic Sun.That apocryphal chapter of Invisible Cities that Italo Calvino wrote under the influence of a particularly strong strain of Peyote, or the destination point of Conan’s pilgrimage if Thulsa Doom was only a conduit into the psychedelic stargate, rather than a dirty reptilian worshipper.
Male Bonding: Nothing Hurts. Mixtape fodder for teenage punk heroes.
Mi Ami: Steal your Face. A growing crescendo calling out across decades of electric guitars, rusting in the salt heavy sea air.
Paul Rosales: Wonder Wheel I. ‘Crimes’ is exactly the sort of thing we wanna hear when we’re selling out, its unselfconsciously wrought unplanned energy is our 20 inch rims, its atonality is our leather dashboard which we caress whilst cruising illicit streets to do deals with shadowy figures who hand us parcels full of the highest grade low fidelity shit which we now sell to you at the vastly inflated price of £0
Plug: S/T. This is our minimal wave. DIY electro-pop to take over your life.
Pocahaunted: Make it Real. Block rocking beats that Big Daddy Kane could have freestyled over as delivered by the Shaggs’ feral skull faced reverse.
Skeletal System – s/t & Small Talk. This is our dream-pop: full of watery ill defined shapes and haunted guitar lines. Will surely be placing highly on Peel’s Festive Netherworld 50.
VA: Deutsche Elektronische Musik. The sounds that rebuilt Germany, and built us.
As a bonus, we leave you with Harrison Owen’s video for Excepter’s Anastasia, included in The Late EP in Woodsist, riding the razor edge between sex and violence in the best tradition of the Psychoterrorist squad that taught us all, and the most fucked up of all transcendental meditators (circa Nadja, and pumped on colour).
We wish you a twisted transition across the no-man’s land between Christmas and the end of the Year, we shall be waiting for you on the other side.
In a recondite corner of the Galaxy through which Mario bounces in his latest adventures hides a diminutive planet the colour of infinite tonalities of sand, small and forlorn trees populate its surface surrounding a lonely looking cabin which, as you descend, you realise encircle it in the shape of a childishly scribbled heart.
U.S. Girls’ title track on her forthcoming 7” you can pre-order from Atelier Ciseaux is the lovely slow motion ballad of a thousand aeons of solitude sequestered in this minuscule sphere where it is neither night or day, but both, the darkness enveloping it broken by the rays that close stars project, bouncing in other worlds, some of which are dreams, other, memories.
Which the inhabitant of the cabin gropes for in occasions, like other pixelated inhabitants of this Galaxy she’s endowed with the power to, with but a leap, escape from the arms of a gravity which is more the weight of the past than physics, and stroll the universe like it was a collection of platform, what she lacks for in agility she makes up for with obstinacy.
Like a glacier, but burning inside.
I am sure every other cat with an Internet connection out there has already written about Pocahaunted’s very excellent new album, ‘Make it Real’, in Not Not Fun, but I don’t care, we don’t trade on novelty but on power.
And this has power- after years drawing us into spectral landscapes where grimacing skeletons step to the oscillation of an all-encompassing dub drone & beknived siren chanting, they have decided to raid the same cathedral where Can paid homage to the humongous gods of Funk- this was perhaps to be expected after the wah wah shrieks lashing the dusty grooves of their Vibes spin off, and not any less rewarding because of that. Say, the title track we are wacking you with today sounds like block rocking beats that Big Daddy Kane could have freestyled over as delivered by the Shaggs’ feral skull faced reverse. Which is some way to roll.
Aside from the fact that they have a name which is all kinds of awesome and which never fails to put a smile on my face (note: a t-shirt needs to be invested in), Pocahaunted are a pretty rad proposition. To be completely honest before I’d even heard a single note of their music I was already relatively sold on them anyway. There was just something about the idea of two girls coming together to create scuzzed out, shamanistic drones inside a Thunder Fortress they made out of burnt clay, adorned with coloured beads and feathers and buffalo bones, and built on the exact sight of a native Indian burial ground that oddly enough happened to strike a cord with me.
Soon to be re-issued, ‘Island Diamonds’ is Pocahaunted’s dub record which could possibly be described as the sound of a sweat soaked séance taking place deep in the belly of a remote tropical forest; an hypnotic conjuring of spirits who emerge from beneath the ground carrying and cradling their own bones to dance and sway in a circle around their callers whose hands are bloodied from incessantly scraping them back and forth on the dirt they sit on, as if had been persistently knocking on the door of a friend reluctant to reveal themselves. Dangerous stuff when you come to realise that once it starts the scraping never ends. Just watch as the spirit dancer’s grins widen with sadistic glee.
If anything could have snapped those unfortunate souls out of their doomed trance right before their bodies were about to be covered and consumed in ants and reduced in to a pile of bones, I’d hazard a guess that New Flowers might have done the trick quite nicely. After the invocation comes the good time, congo synth party which gives us all a nice and nifty insight in to an Africa immersed in the sounds of high-life if cheap Casio keyboards had come to be known as the principal instrument as opposed to guitars.
Tanlines are half of production duo Brothers, who you may remember were responsible for the ring tone generation friendly, gonzo shanty town re-jig of Telepathe’s “shoulda been” international pop smash, ‘Chromes On It’, the one that made the already brazen sex jam that the Spice Girls never got around to making, sound like it had been recreated by a bunch of rambunctious kids high on sugar rocks, let loose in the electronic toy section of the Early Learning Centre. Some day soon this should be used to soundtrack the kaleidoscopic, acid fried Sunny Delight advert of our ADD riddled dreams.
The old men say their fathers told them that soon after the fields were left to themselves a change began to be visible.
The mysteries of technology were lost in the time when those elders could read the written word and manipulate machines. The world grew wild and those families who inherited the machines began to try and use them again. Many of them took to the road to perform forgotten rights to the masses, and within here we document just four of the many.
Some took the technology and let it rule, forming shapes and patterns around the rouge machines coiled resonance. Though harmonising with the machine these shaman brought back the ghost of the old gods whose memories, both joyous and solemn, still lived within the resistors.
The tribe of Pocahaunted, indigenous to the land once known as
Others found consolation in the re-enacting of the ancient’s ceremonies, repeating time honoured rituals found on ancient tombs.
Although the exact meaning was now lost (had their even been one ?) the family of Big Blood form solace in their people’s heart with their pastoral revalidation of the ceremony on the loss of Vitamin C, first performed by the ancients Can. Unlike the others here Big Blood choose to manipulate simpler objects to create their textures, machines enhance and play a part, but do not rule the ceremony.
Those tribes situated in the older areas of populace soon began to scavenge together whole systems of the old technology plugging together ecologies of apparatus and leaning to let the machines communicate with each other again.
Katsen found the plethora of voices provided by such microcosms brought a joy to their hearts, singing twee psychedelic odes to the stars from where ledged had told the elders had once visited. When times were hard the people found such uplifting music important.
Another centre for machines, The South Manchester Museum of Keyboard Technology, became home of the collective The Sisters of Transistors who held regular coven meetings on how to manipulate the technology and join their voices to it. Through arcane devices The Sisters of Transistors viewed moving scrolls of the ancients by a scribe called Dario Argento, re-imagining the sounds from these haunting tales into their own dance filled rituals.
And so it was that the inhabitants of this land, using whatever the could lay their hands on, filled the forests with music.