Cornflower Suite
Adelphi 1969
Barely falling under the FYC flag, here, but that ain't stoppin me. McGrath is a lost Takoma-type weird folk picker, falling somewhere behind Sandy Bull and before Dave Evans in the obscuRolodex. This is the sole Suni I've heard, and it's a fine one. His style leans closer to an earlier bloke like Derroll Adams when he grabs the 12-string, but on the whole this is his thang--and boy do it run the snake-handlin' down. Why ain't this sweated like Basho?! You get a taste of the whole range of raga- and mid-eastern- spinoff players without a hint of wispy singing or ambiguously new-agey titles. Though, I'll throw in that McGrath seems just as nutty as the rest of them but in a less drunk way. And for that reason I restate the question: Why ain't this sweated like Basho?!
Grab this if you see it.
Patrick Lysaght
For the Birds
Frank Records 01
I'd wish ya good hunting on this but, the spoils ain't really worth the burrs ya'd probably pick up cutting through the underbrush. Lysaght is now a Googleable sculptor and, heck, probably was at the time, too, til he got up the notion to record flute improvs in the tropical bird house of a zoo. I will say, in a sympathetic attempt to tag this as a singularity in a good way, this record is a great example of how outlandish collector scum descriptions can often yield dull results. On top of being mixed by somebody who clearly didn't like Patty much, For the Birds is basically a beautiful field recording with a heckler on the sidelines. Thus, it also illustrates how dudes hunger for nature, then have no idea how to behave in the thick of it. Do with such math as you will.
Poor birds.
Lauri Paisley
Fire of Dreams
Methylunna Music 1987
Aw, man. Another rabbit hole. In the sparkly, fluffy, carpeted hallway between new age slush and vernacular creepster lurks Lauri Paisley and her band of Jersey snuffers (in loose-fitting silk shirts, no doubt). Like Matthew Young's Traveler's Advisory, Fire of Dreams veers so wildly from truly cranked & gone to the ravine of breezy queasy it becomes literally harrowing. I can never tell if the next movement or perverse keyboard effect is finna roast my lobes or make me flee the county--and I'm on my fifth listen. On top of it, Side A is practically an apology for Side B, which toys even more vigorously with soap opera interludes, largely leaving the NES menu screen errors behind. In fairness, it may just be a ride that gases early and is inherently unsustainable. But when it's on, it truly mystifies.
I seen-tell of a self-released tape from earlier in the Reagan-era, but ain't no tellin what horseyhockey lay-eth within. Here Be Dragon-shaped Crystals.
Patrick Lysaght
For the Birds
Frank Records 01
I'd wish ya good hunting on this but, the spoils ain't really worth the burrs ya'd probably pick up cutting through the underbrush. Lysaght is now a Googleable sculptor and, heck, probably was at the time, too, til he got up the notion to record flute improvs in the tropical bird house of a zoo. I will say, in a sympathetic attempt to tag this as a singularity in a good way, this record is a great example of how outlandish collector scum descriptions can often yield dull results. On top of being mixed by somebody who clearly didn't like Patty much, For the Birds is basically a beautiful field recording with a heckler on the sidelines. Thus, it also illustrates how dudes hunger for nature, then have no idea how to behave in the thick of it. Do with such math as you will.
Poor birds.
Fire of Dreams
Methylunna Music 1987
Aw, man. Another rabbit hole. In the sparkly, fluffy, carpeted hallway between new age slush and vernacular creepster lurks Lauri Paisley and her band of Jersey snuffers (in loose-fitting silk shirts, no doubt). Like Matthew Young's Traveler's Advisory, Fire of Dreams veers so wildly from truly cranked & gone to the ravine of breezy queasy it becomes literally harrowing. I can never tell if the next movement or perverse keyboard effect is finna roast my lobes or make me flee the county--and I'm on my fifth listen. On top of it, Side A is practically an apology for Side B, which toys even more vigorously with soap opera interludes, largely leaving the NES menu screen errors behind. In fairness, it may just be a ride that gases early and is inherently unsustainable. But when it's on, it truly mystifies.
I seen-tell of a self-released tape from earlier in the Reagan-era, but ain't no tellin what horseyhockey lay-eth within. Here Be Dragon-shaped Crystals.
