LINCOLNSHIRE POACHERS - 3 Confounding Multinational Transmissions

INQUIET - Inq Beyong, Brother Sister Recordings 2008
"World music" affectations trampled by any sorta collective of animals just don't spell "attention glue" round here. But being that we are speaking of artist-run, micro-labels out of Melbourne, Australia, I remain drunkenly optimistic, as I can think of no similar circumstances with a totally poor outcome. I'm particularly amped for the Hirasakana Oyogu disc recorded on a mountain. I mean, why not?
Check & wreck as you will.

WOLD - Stratification CD, Profound Lore 2008
If Whitehouse fall in the woods and no one hears them, will there still be a limited to 50 box set? No, hang on; that's not how that one goes. Is it, "...will they ever find their way back to irrelevance?" No, that's not it either. Look, here's what I'm drivin at: this disc by solemn Saskatchewanans Wold (or is it WOLD?) is sort of a noise record made by sort of noise dudes who'd rather think of themselves as black metal dudes because a noise record with raspy growling by any other name would automatically sell more...oh, there I go again. Wold's first album, LOTMP, sounded like Ulver (circa Nattens Madrigal) and [a particularly pissy] Michio Kadotani reenacting the "last transmission" scene from Event Horizon. This one and Screech Owl? Eh. Go ahead and dig out tags like "endurance" if you must; if all I'm actually enduring is 9-minutes of dopey power electronics, you can tag me "unkvlt" while you're at it. I can live with that.
Frosty groves await you here.

U.S. GIRLS - Introducting... LP, Siltbreeze 2008
The sixth (by my count) missive from the Siltbreeze camp in the 08 is a doozy. Yeah sure, that Sic Alps LP is the new shit. But as a critic, it's like running into somebody I already know and like on a particularly good night. I like it. I feel no need to toss one laurel further; scores of dudes will do that for me. This, on the other hand? This is a new friend. Somebody y'all should meet.
Megan Remy, the solitary lass behind Chicago's U.S. Girls, conjures nothing less than the Shangri-Las, marooned on an off-shore oil rig, transmitting forlorn songs of love and loss through a demolished loudspeaker. Her siren broadcasts carry like the din of fireworks in distant, pulsating clouds. Those looking to latch onto familiar land can head right to the Bruce Springsteen and Kinks covers ("Prove It All Night" and "Days" respectively) to see Ms Remy leak voodoo like a haunted Exxon Valdez. Grab the buckets.
Send a flare or hunt for an SOS. Either way, you'll be glad you did.

SOOTHING SEEPAGE! As eloquent as I get, and I'm talking about the Anals

Sometimes when you walk into a house, restaurant or bar, an atmospheric consort quickly settles on you like a comforting snowfall. Maybe it's the lighting, the smells from the kitchen, or the looks on a few new faces. Whatever it is, you feel immediately a part of whatever's happening and you want to keep it that way. Records, in my experience, are no different. The right sequence of elements, whether expected or not, can change the listening experience into something beyond sensory.
So I feel it necessary to mention that less than 15 seconds into the debut and solitary-outing of French duo the Anals, I was instantly at home. It happened with those bands creeping out of Monterrey, Mexico, too, and in much the same way. A few simple notes on the keyboard and the trust of hands and feet and I was sold. I've already played it three times this afternoon and I won't be sleepy for hours. Granted, after giving the Anals a listen you may decide that my "home sweet home" is a damp and unpleasantly eerie parking lot regularly frequented by undesirables. Hey, everyone needs somewhere to lay their head. There's something gleefully disaffected about the Anals' rhythmic synth punk, like they're lovingly relishing the aftermath of their destructive early-twenties. I'm still there, so I've been treating this as a biting satire of 20/20 hindsight; a way of looking back that I can look...forward...to. And if you're making punk records in the 21st century, isn't that what it oughta be about?
Send jer drool & confetti to Sweet Rot.