Chloe Lattanzi

Olivia Newton John's daughter striking out on her own and doing a leather Sandi... kind of annoying, actually... and nowhere near as dark or disturbing as Xanadu...

Select Magazine Scans

A big thankyou to Richard at Select Magazine Scans for finding, scanning and sending me this (negative) review of Love's Secret Domain... I don't agree, of course, with Ted Kessler's review but, in the same way I occasionally read The Mail (or even the NOTW - what? It's gone? Why? What happened?) just to get a perspective on what the enemy are thinking, I like reading negative reviews of albums I love, just to prevent my Groupthink at bay in the hope I'll avoid the blog/critical equivalent of The Bay Of Pigs...

Ha, just found that my old Love's Secret Domain review is now coming up second (under Wikipedia) on Google... Jesus, I must've spent a lot of my life talking about this album!

Raica

Try to listen to lots of this kind of stuff but not very much gets my attention beyond a cursory quarter-listen, mostly because I'm normally struggling with some elliptical Philosophical half-theory but... this has a distinct whiff of Twin Peaks about it, which can only be a good thing.



More here.

Brain Drive / Soft Ballet

Ever so slightly unsettling , geisha-faced EBMish poptartings from 1993:



Found via the anonymous comments at this post.

A little more EBM (they call it EBB) is this one, by Soft Ballet, also discovered via Deep Throat:

Keith Fullerton Whitman (again) & Sam Prekop

...playing a lot of Keith's stuff at the moment; the blechs and twinkles and abstractions and machine lisps are soundtracking the last few days at work, bridging to the Summer proper...

... and this, by Sam Prekop (from his album Old Punch Card) is a related vein, slightly more pop and gasping... less inclined to headddddddddown myelin-sheathed God busting (No idea, either) but pretty as hell... more prettiness, I think; I'm done for the moment with the depths...

Keith Fullerton Whitman/Alien Radio (Rhizomatic Review Remixxx)

This is a remix of the review over at Freq.

This is a work in progress about a work of progress. A split album in all senses.

<<<>>>

Split seams... or spilt seems

Side A is Debussy’s La Mer played on sawtoothed (maybe snaggletoothed) electronics.

(((arpeggios that didn't follow the usual waves of the sea, that didn't submit to the ravages of what others thought the sea must sound like, but instead turned a conch into an amplifier and heard the sea anew)))

Keith Fullerton Whitman’s latest Buchla synth missive, “101105,” comes with health warnings embedded; a strobe in sound rather than light, sending the audience (this was recorded live) into dead spasms.

<<<>>>

There’s rumours that a good few of the audience were high on LSD when he played this out. Let’s hope not, eh?

<<<>>>

It’s not as… breezy as some of Keith’s recent works, not as obviously de-tangling (insert here quote about Deleuze and Guattari’s rhizomatic structures, strangling the life out of the roots from tree of knowledge) and instead reminds me in form of Faust’s “Krautrock” opener from Faust IV, if less smooth than that suggests and less solipsistic.

((((Actually listening for a third time this isn't true; apologies to Freq readers but it really doesn't sound like that at all; whatever resemblance it seemed to have this morning, seem gone now... I don't know what I was thinking...I'm a twat)))

It’s (still) a symphonic roar of a track (though) which gets to crescendo early on and doesn’t really give up until the end. Despite being built from edits, it’s propulsive and you’ll never hear the joins; you can just about imagine Keith holding on to this track like it’s an aircraft engine, hoping to hell he doesn’t slip on one loose wire and get thrown off.

One loose sinewave, one loose electron... Keith Fullerton Whitman is getting more scientific in his (not very) old age... this is music that sounds like it was made in a laboratory, or rather a garage that's been turned into a laboratory, like those guys in Primer... it's akin to people trying to make Owsley Acid; only to find that occasionally the air turns sulphuric...

<<<>>>

Alien Radio responds to this long, dense frightener with shorter, smaller tracks. Ping pong bleats, electronic White Noise* gulps (gulps seem everywhere at the moment in electronic music; everyone’s finding things difficult to swallow it seems**) that shift ever so slightly in and out of focus (this could be my ears) and then slope off behind the sheds for a robot smoke. He seems a little intimidated, anthropomorphically spinning into a sort of jester role to Keith Fullerton Whitman’s angry Bear King.

(((Listen closely, you'll hear them skipping around, these multi-jesters. you'll hear them sniping at each other with little electronic twizzles; skipping in the light, where Coil*** jesters skipped around in the half-light, pulling on the light cord...)))

They are pleasant and mildly diverting with all the plusses and minuses that come from that shallow-arsed phrase, sounding not unlike the collaboration between Aphex Twin and Mike Paradinas (as Mike and Rich) on Expert Knob Twiddlers. You’ll like both sides, I think but I reckon you’ll return to Keith’s side more often, if just to check that he’s still clinging on.



*I'm sorry, these guys seem to get a mention every fucking review. Lazy, stuffed turkey/tourniquet joinerism, almost Hari in it's effortless smudge...

** I'm assuming this is the gulps of (De)Cameron et al, future-recorded, watching each other auto-fellate while Rome burns. I'm assuming Chris Watson has plied himself from the soft burrs of The One Show and sent himself hurtling into the near-future, armed only with throat-mics...

***yeah, again; fucking sue me... actually I mention Owsley acid in that post too... this blog is eating itself; every post is a remix of every other post...

And here's the back...

From The Wytch Machine...

Littlest Loki's New T-Shirt (1)

Oh Lazy Sunday mornings...

Me and Littlest Loki spent this one making him a t-shirt with all the bands he listened to and liked in the first few days of his life...





From The Wytch Machine...

Run DMT in the style of Nietzsche

Liking: though none more morose than the 'liker', the stolen wish-fulfiller who ran with Eros and then took out her younger sister!

The inexplicable signs of reason compete and manifest, all for nothing, yes and always yes, but a wondrous nothing of escapes and a tired lack of reason itself is a while away, still.

The worst of these bands - the typologies, as far as can be written down and de-meaned, can hope to compete in a market of what were then called marketing opportunities and are now called marketing opponents.

The impersonal takes stage - but from these small beginnings, come masters of loyalty and merchandising; there are better things here than there, for that you can be certain... and if you worry that the task is still to turn a man into a machine then, remember, that these men go willingly into the soul of the machine and are willing combatants of humanity and occupants of a guiding role for machines.

With Will, comes accident. Let it always be soul-raking but never misunderstood!

Faith is needed - and necessary and incomplete; you can understand most of this by looking at a t-shirt or a loose bit of clothing. But where Faith is necessary, there lies a spark of currency, to still the blood...

And what of Kant, the dog and the doggerel of Psychology? If those tired eyes still seek a categorical imperative, rather than it's zippier cousin, it's smiling Man For All Seasons*, then I would suggest a headshake in your direction, a motif merely and a sense that perhaps these Men, if you are among them, seek beauty in simple forms, in 'mere bagatelles'

For more eat here or here or here, and wisely.


*which is not the same, no matter how much the universalists and the curanderos and the geneticists - Eugene and his terrible brothers - think it is...

Pseudo Nippon

Would you buy a fried breakfast off this man?


From The Wytch Machine...