With Only 39 Years Left to Live, It's Time I Finally Got Around to Digitizing My Cassette & Vinyl Collection [Part 8]

Bis - Everybody Thinks That They're Going to Get Theirs 7" (4-song 7" on Wiiija Records, 1997)

One could easily argue that this post-pubescent squeal-pop, excessively jacked up on youth and Kill Rock Stars-esque verve, doesn't hold up very well in today's aural landscape. However, one could just as well surmise that when the 18-year-olds of today want to revive the musical fads of the 1990's (as is their won't), Bis will be at the front of the parage. Prediction: the downtown traffic for this electro-ska/punk EP I'm offering will spike in about, oh, five years. [Click on images above to see enlarged cover art.]

Play This at My Funeral (It Should Come On After Khia's "My Neck, My Back" But Not Before "Wind Beneath My Wings".

The strange little web doo-hickie Codeorgan allows your favorite website to be played as a nifty little ditty, using (as the website puts it) "a complex algorithm to define the key, synth style and drum pattern most appropriate to the page content." Is it any surprise that my Blogspot domain (http://discovery2005.blogspot.com/) translates into a dull monotonous dirge of minor keys played to a lackluster, unimaginative shuffle, devoid of passion and grace?

I wish I was dead.

[Update: the Codeorgan website seems to have vanished. Also, I am still very much alive.]

Q: Are You Ready for the Insects? A: This is a Trick Question, Apparently

If you're obsessed enough to buy the Are You Ready for Insects CD EP [bottom, left] by Brooklyn brat-punk duo Mazing Vids due to the assumption the awesome title track would be contained within, you should probably think twice and instead put your money towards the vinyl-only EP Drastic Mirth [top, left], which is actually where this jaw-droppingly-great track resides. Oh, sure, the Are You Ready for Insects CD EP has some spazzed-out wonders of its own, but it's just not the same, even if I can download "Insects", oddly enough, for free directly from the band's website. Welcome to Chumpville. Population: me.

Allez à l'enfer, Décou:verte.

As a public service to all my readers, I'm going to translate select song titles off the new album Synthetique by the French 80's glam outfit Prototypes:

L'amour L'amour L'amour means "Love, love, love."

Machine Arriere means "Machine of the butt."

Un Coup de Langue means "My language blows."

Est Ce Que Tu M'aimes? means "Do you like the letter M?"

I've Got No Shame means "Disco:Very has officially run out of jokes. What can I say? It's been a busy news cycle."

His Divine Hammer

Plugged-in Gaul rocker Electronicat scores your most masochistic toothache to a throbbing pulse as layers of guitar noise undulate on your brain waves in a shimmering display of aural menace. On his 2007 missive Chez Toi, tracks such as Pancake Lady and Seveneves become red-beamed sniper lasers zeroing in on your temple, while the thank-god-it's-finally-available-on-CD shoulda-been-a-hit She's a Queen plods its way to the dance floor through a back beat fuzzier than that Quaalude slipped into your mojito. The album's unending machine-driven drummer is only slightly more metered than Electronicat's unwavering duty to the eternal buzz he's been advancing for the last 10 years. It's a language he invented himself, and you'll only learn to understand it the more you're immersed in it.

You Can Make It If You Try (But Ask Yourself Whether It's Worth The Bother)

It's a pleasure, finally, to have the long-ignored recorded output of Sly & The Family Stone back in print, each restored with original cover art, unreleased tracks and half-finished demos. The reissues end around the time of the band's demise, right before Sly went hoo-hoo with drugs and began missing live engagements, alienating fellow bandmates from sticking around. Sly himself carried on solo but failed to reestablish a following, even after attempting to win back his audience with several redemption-themed albums such as High On You, Heard You Missed Me, Well I'm Back and Back On The Right Track. One can only wonder if he would have eventually scaled the charts again had he recorded his other proposed titles Won't Be A No-Show No Mo'; Putting The 'Unity" Back In Comm-Unity Service; I Swear, Officer, I Didn't Know That Was A Bong 'Cuz I've Been Using It All This Time As A Vase; and Here I Am Again, Cleaned Up and Ready To Play It Straight (The Record Company Inserted a No Play/No Pay Clause).

Manifest Destiny

Chico Mann's lo-fi drum machine screams Shuggie Otis, but his saucy slinky rhythms spell F to the E to the L to the A (or, at the very least, harken back to his day job with Antibalas). Groove workout Soul Freedom is like a late-night transmission from some mysterious African shortwave station, while Piensalo fronts a primitive bedroom-recording innocence not seen since Daniel Johnston tried to purge the devil from his own heart. The new album is titled Manifest Tone, Volume 1, and I'll be a broken man if there's not more volumes where that came from.

Off The Mark

Mark, we need to talk. It's not that I don't like you anymore. I've been in love with you for 20 years now. I loved you in the scrappy days of your youth, I love you now in your old age. Heck, I was one of the few who stood by you after you had that fling with Brix, during which she softened your sound a bit. But it feels like this relationship isn't going anywhere. Oh sure, I was happy to see you make some money off that Mitsubishi commercial, but why oh why would you release Reformation Post TLC when it's obviously so devoid of interesting songs? I've tried to show an interest in The Bad Stuff and The Usher, but they're both just so safe.

Mark, I'm not getting any younger and I need a little more danger and excitement in my life! That's why I'm leaving you for Xexyz, this new black metal band I've been seeing who employ Nintendo soundtracks as the foundation for their dark scary music. When I listen to What Lies Atop Gran Mountain and Metroid, I feel alive and young and free, which is a feeling I haven't had with you in a long time. I hate to see it end this way, Mark, but I hope we can always be friends in the future.

May You Always Be Troo

I've posted about Detsorgsekalf once before, but because they are, hands down, my current all-time favorite band, I couldn't resist writing about them again. In a 20-minute EP jam-packed with great lines--every single one of them shouted at a delirious pitch--here are my Top 10 favorites from Troo Grim Warriors Of The Necrokkult:

1. I wish I had marshmallows!/Goes well with man-flesh! (The Embers Of Your Church)
2. We are troo/We are grim/We will come to pillage your village, oh yeah! (Troo Grim Warriors Of The Necrokkult)
3. Slaying the poodle! (Troo Grim Warriors Of The Necrokkult)
4. Wait! We've already made that Star Wars reference! (Frostburn Upon The Winter Of Mankind's Discontent)
5. Cold!/Frostbite!/Elephant bread!/Cookies!/Milk!/Hot black tar! (Frostburn Upon The Winter Of Mankind's Discontent)
6. You remind me of my ex-girlfriend/She was a leper! (Necrolust Of The Whore Of Whormalton)
7. What are we doing on the highway? (Necrolust Of The Whore Of Whormalton)
8. I fucking hate Jumanji /Damn you, Robin Williams! (Necrolust Of The Whore Of Whormalton)
9. I shall now waste another, maybe, 40 seconds of your miserable, wretched life/With a keyboard solo! (Keyboard Solo)
10. And for no reason, here's a guitar solo! (Black Xmas)

Frosted Flakey Goodness

I'm getting very nervous. Normally by this time every year, I've already discovered dozens of new (and not so new) acts whose music makes my receding hairline stand on end. But so far, 2006 has left me wanting--there isn't a single band at the moment about whom I'm urinating in glee. Where are all the good new bands for us to obsess over? After such a non-stop ride in 2005, is there something in the water supply keeping worthwhile bands from forming? Please don't tell me to name check The Arctic Monkeys and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! because I have, and...well...yawn. So far, my favorite discovery of 2006 is a result of my newly-formed illicit love affair with speed/death/thrash metal: pop lovers, I give you Detsorgsekalf (which may or may not be "Frosted Flakes" backwards, but with a "G" instead of an "F"), and their new album Tr00 Grim Warriors Ov The Necrokkvlt. If there is a more ridiculous, over-the-top and hilarious metal band to watch in 2006, buy it.

You Are Oriental And We Are Oriental, Too

Don't even begin to tell me Neo-New Wave is on a rapid decline due to the slowly-rising popularity of Neo-Prog. I am so still into The Plastics from way back in the day, that my Neo-Post-Neo-New-Wave revivalism is half a decade ahead of itself. In other words, much like the hick trucker I spotted back in 1988 whose 1969-era muttonchop sideburns predated their full-on faddish return in 1993, my unwavering love affair with Dance In The Metal and Back To Wigtown (both from Origato Plastico) makes me five years ahead of my time. Unless you live in Japan, the closest you can get to the album are those rare occasions when CD Universe has it in stock.

Teutonic Knight

About 15 years ago, while on a train in Hamburg, after an exhausting day spent record shopping at World Of Music (sort of the Tower Records of Germany, but so much better), an elderly woman sitting nearby began yelling things in German--a language I don't speak--and gesticulating violently towards me. This went on for the entire 20 minute ride but it wasn't until departing the train that my friend (a Hamburg native) explained what had happened: in my fatigued state, I had put my feet on the empty seat across from me, to which this woman took great offense. Not knowing the local language, I never responded to her harangue and continued brazenly stretching my legs out in front of her. Apparently, she was screaming to everyone within earshot about my rudeness and lack of manners, and all the while I just sat there, unknowingly taunting her sense of public decency. Of course, I was well aware of her hissy fit as it occurred, but assumed she was a nutjob, ignorant to the fact that she was merely acting as some sort of law-enforcing knight, keeping the social fabric of Deutschland sewn smoothly. Yes, those were good times, and I think of that warm and cuddly event whenever I hear Die Qualität des Staates by Felix Kubin. It's the perfect soundtrack to accompany images of a large-boned matriarch chasing after a lazy Yankee with loose behavioral morals. What I love about Kubin is that, like the self-appointed correctional officer on my train, he seems to scream everything coming out of his mouth, Donald Trump-style: all overpowering volume, lacking subtlety and dynamics, which I find so charming when placed on top of Teutonic angular electroclash. Someday, I'm going to turn my little stretched-leg train encounter into a Broadway musical, and Kubin is just the man who will be able to translate that Hallmark moment into a theatre event for the ages. You can buy The Tetchy Teenage Tapes of Felix Kubin 1981-85 at Forced Exposure.

Exquisite Corpse

Incessant as a buzzing headache but a lot more fun, Rancid Hell Spawn (named after a Pussy Galore track) have been darting under the pop/punk radar since 1988, making records (as their website puts it) "packed with catchy, heavily distorted one-minute punk burnouts for the truly twisted, with record sleeves to match". As far as I can tell, the entire "band" is one Charlie Chainsaw (I've never seen them live--the one time they ventured to play in my vicinity, I was unable to attend the show), former editor of the underground fanzine Chainsaw. I've discovered that Mr. Chainsaw is also singer/bassist in another in-your-face band the Sexual Abominations, whose debut single "Rock'n'roll Meat Hook", is also on Wrench Records. My hope is that the Sexual Abominations aren't keeping Charlie from his Hell Spawn day job and he's able to juggle the two superstar stadium outfits simultaneously. I'd hate to live in a world without Rancid Hell Spawn. My Pet Corpse is taken from the Masochist Chainsaw LP (above left), but the entire album was recently compiled on the Scalpel Party CD (above right) along with a myriad of other "best of" tracks. Of course, when your music is about eating human testicles, getting drunk on Listerine and extolls the virtues of cholesterol, "best of" becomes a relative term. Update: It looks like Rancid Hell Spawn's entire output is now available via iTunes. Praise be!

Chicken Del Sol

This new compilation album is getting lots of press, and it's easy to see why. Although Antena were ignored by both critics and record buyers when they began recording in 1982, their breezy tunes hit the current zeitgeist bullseye dead in the middle. With their softly-sung French lyrics, and cocktail party sound draped around a Kraftwerk-inspired tick-tock drum machine, you can't help but compare them to Stereolab (the boring current Stereolab, not the exciting Neu-influenced Stereolab of old), and The Boy From Ipanema, featured on Camino Del Sol, seems to be the track I hear everyone fawning over the most. Personally, I like the rest of the album much better, if only because the vocal effects on this track remind me of this absurdist commercial from Estonia (I've had more comforting images in my nightmares). You can find this album at the record label's website, or you can order a copy from Aquarius Records like I did.

Doorbells-a-Plenty

When I was much younger, my family lived across the street from this crazy alcoholic neighbor woman who used to walk into our house unannouced every morning to visit with my mother (this was back when people didn't lock doors). My siblings and I used to find this action quite rude (I don't remember my mother's feelings on the matter), and one day, as this neighborhood looney entered our house, my brother shouted out to her in a loud sing-song voice: "Ding, dong! We have a doorbell!" All of us kids had a good laugh over my brother's outburst, although I seem to recall he probably received a whipping from my mother for his behavior. I relive this memory whenever I pass the wide selection of doorbells in certain well-known, unnamed home improvement chain stores (they don't need any free advertising from me), usually trying out every one of the doorbells on display just to hear the different sounds. Sometimes I will compose little on-the-spot melodies by alternating the different tones and timbres of each doorbell, making crude attempts at creating an instrumental chorus or verse by repeating certain doorbell figures over and over. My guess is that this track, No One At Home, by Doktor Kosmos could have been composed by this same method. This amusing ditty is available on the Pop Tics compilation, released by the wonderful Bungalow label in Germany. I bought mine (used) at Amazon. If you yourself should ever decide to compose doorbell melodies in certain well-known, unnamed home improvement chain stores, be on the lookout for employees coming to scold you, because they have to hear these doorbells being rung all day long and the last thing they want is a pop obsessive attempting to write a Top 40 hit song in their department.

They're Loud, They're Sloppy, They're Canadian

From the environs of Toronto (the city featured in almost every recent US movie set in NYC, Detroit or Chicago) comes the slap-happy sounds of this multi-gender pop/rock/noise foursome. For my money, Danes In Peril is their best song (taken from the oddly-titled Ackrill/Venning '91, and if you want to disagree with me on that, we can step outside and hash it out. Be warned: it is the loudest song you will ever hear in your life, especially if you play it extra loud like I do. I recommend everything in their discography, which you can find on iTunes here and here.