Island transmissions and other mechanical hoo

The boys and a girl came up for a weekend of rye and violence and swingsets at midnight and I tell you what, there's little I like more than the aforementioned thangs. But now that the smokes are extinguished, the bottles recycled, the marrow scraped from the hedges, I find myself with limited innernet axxexx and nothing of the new and true in the mail. A drought for this here b-l-o-g, like my folks are suffering in the grape state of Georgia. Don't know when it'll clear up. A lonely PO Box breaks my oil-stained heart, so it'll do me good if you hook my isolated dome up with something fresh out the box. Otherwise, you won't get to read me talk about the post-apocalyptic English coastal town meets abandoned sculpture garden that is Tom Nevers and how it relates to whatever honky residue I'm hearin' and that would be a cryin' you know what.
Also, don't smoke unfiltered Pall Malls. They's a sad substitute for the American Spirit species, unless you're down with tugging on butts laced with burnt cocoa powder and Windex. I'd really rather smoke dirty Kleenex than let those sorry excuses darken my porch again.
Stay frosty.

LET ME SHOW YOU THE COLD LIGHT - Cadaver In Drag, undressed & exhumed

Having received the stamp of Heaviness from Sir Julian Cope, Cadaver In Drag are probably on their way to, well, what all those Album of the Month bands are destined: Southern Lord and some limited to 13 220-gram purple-and-bacon-grease-colored LPs, then a dreamy, fuzzy drift into obscurity. (Okay, BOC are the exception.) So before the shark is suitably jumped following their impressive new LP on Animal Disguise and Stephen O'Malley gets his mitts on them, let's take a look at The Road To Cope.

Cadaver In Drag - Made Impure one-sided cassette, American Grixxly 2005 Seriously? You couldn't swing another 14 minutes of this and just balance the c30? Well, I've got a Shitty Listener single-sider and I can't say it changed my life, but I dug it proper. So I tried to unskew my ears for once. That said, this is okay. Volcanic bass drones and watery cymbal skins. Super slow, super boxy. Your basic Halloween backdrop doom. Basement Wormphlegm demos. How many more incomplete sentences can I toss at you? While this was indeed okay, it's guilty of one of the highest crimes in my court: no fun to talk about, no fun to write about, no fun to read about. I mean, am I joshin? You tell me! That is to say, If you're awake. I had all the details worked out by the second listen, so the third and fourth were really just to refresh.
Onward?

Cadaver In Drag - Full of Hatred cassette, Animal Disguise 2005
Well, even with the legacy of Man Is the Bastard in mind, this was a surprise. Crossed Out? Siege? No Comment? Where'd all the San Diego crustcore come from? They do it well, frankly. This is the sore thumb so far, but everyone needs a Brighter Than A Thousand Suns or Trans on their resume, y'know? Woke me out of warbly slumber for a minute.

Cadaver In Drag - Ruined Organs cassette, Blood Red 2006
Barely cracking 15 minutes, this is the choicest so far, which I suppose makes sense. The Ey-side wanders into Masonna/RRRecords territory which had me itching for the FF, but Side-Be walks a way more interesting and rewarding line to me. Drony noise with a strange, thuddy undercurrent--before, again, mistakenly Merzing it up. That stuff is fine, but do we really need more of it? I'm leary of the idea that someone is going to pump new life into the rrrrrbzzzzzzzzzzzzzbrrrrbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrhisssssssssssssssssssssssss genre.

So when exactly did they make the change to stripped and dipped spacey simplicity? A beautifully reduced sound? Who the shit knows. My journey left me holding the same pile of sand, seeing not the sand but a mystery, a marvel there in my hand. Every time you do this, you are part of the circus of Dr. Lau.

Get the new one because it's fun and check out the tracks on their guyspace. Surely you can outwit me. I don't know. The Mammal stuff is probably better...hmm.

GET BACK ON THE HORSE OR YOU MAY AS WELL SHOOT IT - More round, druggy media comes my way

Oh the days are rolling into weeks. Who knew? How could that happen? I guess when you start counting cigarettes & bottles & tapes you end up with a piece of time, as Atheist would say. But in the meantime, I've been letting nuevo cherse tunes slip out the door unnoticed. NO MORE. So here we go. A little new, a little older, and I'll call it adieu.

Los Llamarada - The Very Next Moment 7"
Back in the day when I had guests, I played the The Exploding Now, then take a walk around the block. Let them get acquainted. More often than not, I'd return to patches of blood, the needle riding the label like a worn out mechanical bull. Jesus, what a record. Licks the gel out of your hair and spits a rat poison tapenade in your pasty visage. How does Scott Soriano still have 25 copies left? What are y'all up to? Nice sleeve, good slice of ivory wax...you can't feel empeethrees, even with your fancy Audio Research studio-cooled speakers. You can't invite the heathens over on IM! Let'em in the front door! Write the check! You smart-marks can cash it, trust.
Or, in the meantime, you can pick up this, their latest missive. The title cut sticks their rumbly Ut and Mars thang between thick gooey slices of A-Frames stomploaf. Lovely synth peppering, too. Someone tell the dudes at Mutant Sounds! Cheveu fans oughta open their hearts for this one. Although, I should add, they've either moved up to a studio or someone hooked them up with the dopest boombox this side of a JVC in 85 because this don't sound like their usual Pixelvision fidelity. Don't mind it a bit, though. That lil number's keeps me warm just thinking of the Monterrey sun warming their leaky basement. Nothing like Robocoppin' in a droptop on a humid night. But that's another yarn.
And the B-side is...wow. Brenda Lee's "I'm Sorry" always seemed like the kind of shit someone shouts up to a 4th-story window in the wee-smalls with one hand on their sweaty heart and one on some E-dub--but never was before. Evil truckstop karaoke at it's finest. So annoying you'll never forgive again.
Live-r than most.


Blank Dogs - Diana (The Herald) 12"
I'm on the fence and it's not comfortable. I've been up there about Blank Dogs for ages. I can't decide if they're too revival.
Hang on, I'll unpack that. Okay, garage is kinda played out what with it always spooning from the same bowl, right? Every now and again someone dresses it anew, but few of us wait with baited breath for another Royal Trux--at least not realistically. Seems like that's on the verge of happening with some of the (warning: lingo migraine ahead) neo-DIY syphoners. Yeah the sources are still frosty enough for the young & fresh of my generation, but I'm left feeling a little under-fed by acts like Blank Dogs. They're either too indebted to their forefathers or spend too much time running with their brother's friends. Get out of the neighborhood for a minute, will you? I played this six or seven ways in a dozen settings and it never really felt rewarding. Not that it isn't perfectly fine music. It just feels a little like they Xeroxed a whole movement, blotting out some of the important bits. The interpretation is what's got me miffed. Maybe it's too soon to say this style is stale, but I've certainly had fresher bread. I say give the Fort Thunder gear a rest and dig a little deeper. And no, I don't mean into the crates.
Passable, but far from a squawk in the park.

NEXT TIME: I ESTABLISH THE SHIV OUTTA CADAVER IN DRAG! TAKE THAT, COPE!

A CORRECTION BY YOURS FALSELY

The Church Police 7" released on Skulltones is actually unreleased material by the California band from the early 80s, not some pomo rework by the JA crew. Who knew? Well, I didn't. There was basically no info online when I got it and thus I drew connections on my lonesome--all of which were wrong. That said, I still found it boring, whether or it preceded Happy Flowers/Flipper/etc or not.

Again, apologies. I oughta check my facts before I get all my disses in a row.

Coming soon: actual reviews and more aimless commentary about life in self-imposed New England isolation, bunking with Grammy Lambkin, and how I got Pip Proud's address. You're so excited. Watch the floor.

GREETINGS FROM THE HERMITAGE - A Belated Review of Graham Lambkin's "Salmon Run"

Golly, what months. Cripes and chiggers, how long's it been? I've departed the slightly unclean South and am now living alone on an island. Yes, an island. Not one of the mind but one of the earth, the part that broke away from Massachusetts before it bore such a name. The island of the Whaleship Essex where a friend has let me rent and live for next to beans. I suppose it is a bit of an island of the mind as well. Living alone in a 6-room house with two floors, two bathrooms and a porch is for-sure spinning my head. Figuring out where to sit is like a UN meeting gone solo! And everything is musty, as it's a barely-used-but-at-least-winterized summer house, so that knocks out about 1.5 rooms unless I feel like wheazing my way through a Misfits of Science episode. So it's not all bad. Plus I can spit to the beach, which is the closest point in the US to our Euro-neighbors.
Time hasn't eroded my sense of tangents, it would seem. Sheesh. Take it or trash it.
ONWARD CRISPIN GLOVER: About 4 months ago [by my watch], this here disc by the dean of Tart, Transmissions, der Shadow Ring & Elklink Mr. Graham Lambkin, was released by his lonesome. It was got through dubious duping or by tipping your hat to hawkmothsATyahoo and tossing a dozen digital bills. Then, silence. The applause long since faded, one trimmed youth stood up having been preoccupied with books about rats and Meadow Meal tapes to add some awkward claps. Well, here I am.
I never thought I'd have a roommate here, but this CD has taken up a peculiar kind of roost. None of the reviews I've read have yet compared it to or put it in context with a single other recording in human history. Not even a previous Lambkin outing! Well sure there was the Celestiial-meets-Berio of Poem back in the oh two, but not even that rings a bell.
Let's get down to facts and try to work our way out. Sometimes there's collaged classical run through King Tubby's board. Sometimes there's rain and the clatter of chimes. Sometimes the piano's been drinking (not me). Sometimes Lambkin just sits and laughs, living it up with some concertos.

Okay.

Fuck.
We're still at that critical impasse, aren't we? I guess there's nothing doing except let the little genius bastard be. I put it on in the bedroom and sit on the stairs. Let it do it's thing. I feel like I'm eavesdropping anyhoo. More like Lambkin's invited me in.
Most music of the popular sort illustrates the physical world or a world inside. It's rare that music itself becomes a place to occupy. Well, that's what it is, then. Lambkin's made a psycho-physical summer house.
Thanks for inviting me. Sorry I'm late. Best time I've had all year.
Can still be had at your local blog spot.

TEMPORARY LAY-OFFS CHERSE TIIIIIIIIMES