Don’t know if you’ve also been a fan of Chronophage for the past seven years or so, but, if not, they’re well worth checking out. (I’ve written about them some HERE). In that span, Chronophage has shifted from SST-ish outsider punk to something else I’ve seen described as peace punk. I’ve never been enamored with punk sub-sub-sub-genre hairsplitting and, contrarily, subscribe to the notion of “punk” being an extensive, infinitely inclusive descriptor of attitude and approach to making music—dating from the present to at least as far back as The Sonics (if not farther). This is a discursive effort to explain that I have no idea what “peace punk” is and have no idea whether Chronophage is or is not it. What I do surmise, having heard 2nd Song Diary: Atom-ic Citizen of the Dying Empire, the second solo release by Chronophage’s Donna Allen, is that Allen was probably a proponent of the band’s shift toward the gentle and more approachable. I mean, there is mandolin on this record, which is only punk in the sense that it’s the least punk instrument you could put on a punk record.
The hectic cover artwork belies the altogether pleasant sonic footprint of the record. Emblazoned with “Free Palestine!!”, Atom-ic Citizen is not so much ardently political but ardently human, without a snarl in earshot. I’m not the guy you want dissecting and deconstructing lyrics, but Allen’s songs are rife with longing, wonder and curiosity, richly rendered through religious language on nearly every track (and with the admirable bravery to include allusions to fast food chains right alongside it)—illustrating that the personal and the celestial are one and the same.
The aural palette often consists of acoustic guitar, new agey polysynth, occasional pedal steel (always welcome on my stereo!) and in lieu of d-beat you’re more likely to hear one of those wooden frogs you scrape with a stick, peaceful sure... (Though I must note that the lovely synth instrumental “Embrace of the Embassy” features martial snare drum rolls.) Atom-ic Citizen was cleanly recorded by Sasha Stroud; it sounds very “nice”. “Nice” sounding production is admittedly a stumbling block for me at times (give me ragged and tattered any day) but the record’s sincerity is its greatest strength and the virtuous production is the right choice for Allen’s songs.
The album reaches its highest point early on in “Candle-Watching”. The melodic hook (guitar sublimely doubled by a female voice) is properly gorgeous and its brevity leaves you yearning to—please, please, please—just bask in its presence for a few seconds longer. Brevity is a tool Allen uses to great effect throughout. Of the 12 tracks on Atom-ic Citizen, only two reach the three-minute mark (and one hits three minutes exactly on the dot); many songs hover around or below two minutes.
Among other highlights are the grounded buoyancy of “Telescope Heart”, the country-tinged opener “Tip of an Angel’s Wing” replete with glistening pedal steel courtesy of Ed Allen, and the restless, stirring “Spirits in Flight”. The casual fingerpicked folkiness “Of Our Very Own” reminds me of Allen’s first song diary, which I very much enjoyed. (Still in print, nab one!) Though, Allen can jaunt with the best of them, whether the ambling sort (“Naked, Biological, Free”) or with propulsive rigor (“Nightmare of Dawning”). The album ends on a comparatively blah note with the hazy, cluttered instrumental “Flowers Blossom in the Heat of the Moment” but it's no great splotch on the pristine fabric of Atom-ic Citizen of the Dying Empire.
All in all, Eyes & Flys head insect Pat Shanahan self-released eight(!) 7”s and one LP between 2019 and 2023. (Yeah, you are correctly remembering there was a global pandemic for a little while there too.) And, well, with a resume like that Shanahan was bound to get hired by some enterprising label out there. He was hired, sure enough. By himself! And he's the best man for the job, at that. That’s right, now Shanahan’s efforts making calls to pressing plants, waiting in line at the Post Office and paying invoices on-time will now be rewarded with the prestige of saying “I run a record label.” The name of that label is Record Beach. I guess moving from the frozen tundra of Buffalo, NY for the sunny docks of Long Beach a few years ago has given ol’ Pat a new lease on life letting him daydream of a paradise where beaches come fully stocked with records. Certainly the kind of beach that I’d want to hang at.
But how hard is it to transition from DIY maven to Los Angeles (County) record executive? I may never know but Shanahan makes it look easy. When you ascend to upper management they say: delegate, delegate, delegate and Shanahan was paying attention in those seminars, having delegated vocal duties in Eyes & Flys to Dominic Armao (Sweet Harm, Anxiety Spree). It’s a surprisingly seamless transition. Shanahan’s tough, burly shout (he could probably unwittingly cuddle a kitten to death with his muscles) gave the Eyes an identity, but with Armao in front of the mic, the band retains a lot of that same appeal with a little more swagger. Jumping from the speakers like a sly “Ballroom Blitz” re-write, “All the Tigers in Texas” finds Armao letting loose with his swift sneer preventing things from getting too power-pop in the basement, except the dude tinkling on the glockenspiel at the end who missed the memo. “Seabird” fills out the B-side and it slips into my favorite Eyes & Flys mode, that is homespun fuzz-folk. Vocals retain their brawny heft which makes for a lovely juxtaposition with their soft surroundings. Semi-jangling acoustic guitar tries to stay afloat in a sea of trickling static. Rather than using a drum kit to lead the dynamic shifts, blistering overdubbed electric guitar leads the charge to great effect. Reminds me a bit of Chris Heazlewood or when Grifters went full four-track mode (see: “Dead Already”). One of the best E+F tunes yet!
The first two Rider/Horse LPs were sick slabs of 2020s noise rock and the duo-now-quartet shows no sign of slowing down on their latest LP Matted. Despite the lineup additions (full time bass player and a previously featured-turned-full time pedal steel player, sweet!) there is no radical shift to the Rider/Horse sound. Thick, thumping, Big Black-but-with-a-real-drummer grooves, alienated, needling vocals, and even the opening song is about horses (“Combing the Horse”) just like the first record! If anything maybe they’ve mellowed? I noted that their second record, Feed ‘Em Salt, moved away from treble frequencies and general spikiness (the guitars didn’t feel like sandpaper rubbing against my cheeks anymore!) and doubled down on human-mechanical grooves. The trend continues.
While not particularly cordial in any way, the band doesn’t sound like it might open up your chest with a switchblade anymore. See “Run the Rabbit”, 100% content to just cruise on a killer melody. Maybe it’s the fact that I just typed c-r-u-i-s-e but Girls Against Boys comes to mind (Cruise Yourself naturally). By no means a one-to-one match, but the vaguely threatening aura, the theoretical funk with all blood drained and replaced with motor oil, the background in head-busting noise and hardcore. Maybe all this time Rider/Horse has been the 21st century Girls Against Boys (that doesn’t actually sound like Girls Against Boys), no wonder why I dig ‘em!
Sometimes another instrument takes the lead (guitar provides a potent melodic counterpoint on “Bored by the Infinite” and “Headache Powder” throbs like an overtaxed heart thanks to a relentless distort-o-bass riff) but Matted is about drums first and foremost. The drums often seem to thud and thwack louder than anything else in the mix (see: “Empty Boxes” or any number of other examples). “Overdressed” is ruthless in its groove, so ruthless that it’s immediately followed by one of a scant few stretches without a groove battering down upon you. That might seem like relief initially but it’s not like “Toen (Restored to Glory by the Light)” is a respite; the track ultimately results with the biggest steamrolling you’re apt to receive over the whole album. “Comb the Horse” is sensational. The bass drops this kind of de-choogled choogle, staccato and robotic, the groove’s ghost lurking somewhere within. The new bassist Jared Ashdown is the secret MVP of the album, whether driving a track or gluing it together, he always seems to be doing exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. Matted’s biggest departure is finale “Small Animals” which makes fine use of that pedal steel to cast an unnerving pall across the drumless space. Don’t put it past Rider/Horse to find a new way to make you feel uneasy just as you’re finding your footing.
The extent of my Saint Black knowledge is the last couple releases (as reviewed in these pages), are there more than these two releases? Has Saint Black been releasing music for two-plus decades? A simple web search would (probably) answer this question, but I prefer to live in mystery, and I have a feeling the Saint does as well. Some artists are out there “trying to be understood” but Saint Black just seems to be going about his business whether anyone’s paying attention or not. For my money, that’s how artists ought to be living their lives. Communication is overrated!
A couple tracks really lean into Black’s Calvin Johnson doppelganger presence on the mic: “Two Play” is one of my favorite Saint Black tracks to date and the Calvin thing sticks out even more on “Peculiar Dream Logic”. It sounds like Saint Black was listening to the first Halo Benders LP (an AuxOut favorite) on repeat before laying that one down. Plus, Saint Black manages to give even less of a fuck than Calvin. Bravo!
Elsewhere, you get grunge-metal recorded in a shoebox (“Brown Laughter”), unplugged monotone ditties (“Swim Eagle Swim”), a lullaby so drunk it can barely stand (“Father Goose”), not to mention “Cam Jazz” which is actually melodically plucked acoustic guitar. Unquestionably, the most pleasant moment of any Saint Black recording. “O Word” is another great tune. Acoustic guitar, drum samples, an electric guitar lazily feeding back, and Saint Black putting more effort into actually singing since I can remember.
Don’t catch yourself thinking that Saint Black has gone soft though. While “Bi Tiyjr” may not actually be the Scandinavian black metal muck the title might conjure, it is a recording of Saint Black watching childbirth on Youtube while semi-absentmindedly singing a tune. He actually pauses for a bit to watch the video before resuming playing his song. It’s almost like he's in the process of writing the song… hey, wait a second! Is this some Graham Lambkin-y concept recording, ya know, “the birth of a song” or whatever? “Peculiar Dream Logic”, which is naturally a different song from the other song on the album called “Peculiar Dream Logic”, ends on repeated refrain of “It’s a waste of time”. Music is the greatest waste of time we’ve been given, and the mysterious Saint Black knows that better than most…
At the end of 2023, I wrote about some of my favorite bargain bin finds of the year. One record I wrote about was Love It to Death and I mentioned that Phoenix, AZ wasn’t ready for the sounds of Alice Cooper which lead to their white flight into the open, blue-collar arms and ears of Detroit. Well, I hope things have changed in the desert over the past 50 years because if The Coops couldn’t make it in Phoenix, these poor Sheaves don’t stand a chance.
The Sheaves do their part, continuing the DIY lineage that we must never allow to die, following in the footsteps of contemporary era practitioners like The Pheromoans and The Shifters (without The Shifters’ cunning pop sense) and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re buddy-buddy with Famous Mammals either. Sung (in the theoretical sense of the word) with a raspy, requisite “British-ish” accent, The Sheaves Sound is about as authentic as can be made by 21st century historical interpreters. (You’re only truly authentic if you recorded your single in 1980 Scunthorpe or Stoke-on-Trent anyway. I don’t make the rules.)
“Program Fantasy” sounds like The Sheaves decided to write a song and changed their mind mid-way through, and that should tell you all you need to know. At the end of “Lariat Slung”, singer Eric Mudd’s voice is played backward and you realize it doesn’t actually sound any different than his normally sloshed cadence. As evidence of their canny commercial-mindedness, they save their catchiest number ‘til the last moment with the appropriately titled “Hit Silly”. I get the sense that the bass player showed up to band practice raving about a great new band called Bauhaus, and all The Sheaves collectively cried “let’s try sounding like that!” It worked.
In a win for consumers everywhere, Excess Death Cult Time was later released on vinyl by the intrepid Minimal Table Stacks in addition to the cassette by Phoenix’s own Moone Records in 2022. Choose your own analog adventure!
Continuing AuxOut’s occasional mission (okay, digression) to highlight great 90s Slumberland singles that are still in print (see: Beatnik Filmstars), Till Another Time is a three-songer from hometaper Linda Smith. Smith has been in operation since the 80s releasing her music on the likes of Shrimper, Slumberland (obviously) and her own Preference Recordings imprint. In the past several years, Captured Tracks has taken up the mantle reissuing some of her music. I’m no Linda Smith scholar (although that would be a pretty cool thing to be) but I do enjoy this little record.
Recorded in 1993, listening some 22 years later, Smith still easily laps the many modern-day bedroom pop practitioners that have come in her stead. The A-side titled “Till Another Time” is lonely, soothing, and draws blood all at the same time. Some kind of mechanical buzzsaw dream pop overdose, a glimpse of heaven via alternating current. A stunner!
The second side offers two more tracks. “I Just Had To” draws on NZ-esque charm pop with ghostly vocals that would have convinced the 4AD school admissions board to grant Smith entrance with full scholarship. Such loveliness rattling away upon the cheapest drum machine money can buy (if any money was exchanged at all for the junker). "I Just Had To" is my least favorite track and it's still undeniably great! The finale “In This” is an absolute delight. Some kind of Marine Girls joining forces with Dolly Mixture fantasy taking place in the mind of a genius. The earworm guitar lick hooks me every time and then Smith tortures me with a long detour in the middle of the song making me wait ‘til the end to hear it again. Yet I keep coming back for more. There is no earthly reason not to own this. CLASSIC.
Normally when bands opt for a half studio/half live situation, I think it’s a bad idea. I don’t often get hyped about live albums and generally ignore the live half of the record (see: (Untitled) by The Byrds) and petulantly whine about them not putting their energy into another studio effort. Well, Portland quartet Somerset Meadows have gone where no band has gone before: they’ve put out a half studio/half live record where I actually much prefer the live side. Recycle Your Dreams (great title) is pressed on White Powerade-colored vinyl (special Arctic Shatter limited edition?) with Somerset Meadows symmetrically slapping on six songs per side, all but inviting a duel between the recording environments.
The studio side was recorded on “an exploding 8-track tape machine” which implies a much more dangerous or fucked up sounding recording. Without this note, however, the somewhat staid sound of the recording would’ve led me to believe that the tape machine was in perfect working order! It sounds fine and has its moments (the shredding guitar solo of “Just Another Lifetime”, the almost hypnotic rhythm of “Wide Open”, the uptempo pep-in-the-step of “The Waterfall”) but the band instantly gets a shot in the arm when you flip the record over to the live side. “Roll Out!” slashes out of the gate like a classically trained punk, fist-raised, and “All Summers Now” recalls the post-hype live GBV sound, all drum fills, chunk riffs and warbling vocals.
I’m genuinely curious about the spoken introduction to “Spotlight” which is: “This next song is the ninth song on our new album.” (Yes, “Spotlight” is the ninth song on the record.) Causing me to wonder if there was a predetermined concept here to record the first half of the album in the studio and the second half live, all with a pre-sequenced track order? Bold move, if so! The album ends with some of its strongest material. All feature some great guitar work, the rollicking “I’m Going to Break You Down” (my favorite), “I’m So Tall” (cool opening lick) and the closing title track about moving on from one passion to make room for a new passion to enter your life. A worthy message we can all stand to hear once in a while. Now, is there a new opening for Somerset Meadows to dream of making an all-live record? We shall see.
Ah, the rarely employed quadruple consonant acronym band name. Has anyone else been successful with that paradigm aside from C.C.C.C.? Has anyone else even tried? Well, Buffalo’s T.T.T.T. is fearlessly throwing its hat in the ring, and while the title I Saw You on the Bloody Floor would certainly encourage the thought of a C.C.C.C.-style feedback-ridden onslaught, its debut 7” goes down like a spoonful of sugar, comparatively speaking.
The title track volleys between the psych-groove-hypnotism of that initial Wooden Shjips 10” and the Echoplex’d-to-death garage-crush of early Comets on Fire. Favorite moment? The half-hearted, possibly inebriated closing drum fill. A.I. could never pull that off! The first half of “Mountain King Killed My Car” is a little ho-hum but when it shifts to the second act, it gets real badass right quick—I realize it's a carefully plotted bait and switch! A sinister surf bassline kidnaps the song and all the drums and guitar can do is try to keep up.
Despite being slated as the B-side, “On the Sleigh of the Damned” gets its own side to stretch its limbs. The track has a great late 60s strung out deathgroove, maybe a touch like Sex Church but with a far better chance of landing a soundtrack spot in a miniseries about the Manson murders. My favorite of the bunch! The problem here is I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to pronounced “T.T.T.T.”. Am I really supposed to say “Tee-Tee-Tee-Tee” out loud when guests at my next cocktail party ask me where to find new blasts of burnt out psych squall??
I know they’re out there (just like the truth) but I must confess I haven’t been keeping tabs on the cosmophonists lately. I was a big Radiant Husk guy back in the day (still am!) and this cassette by V.Vecker recalls that fellow celestial sax voyager. Hololine is split into two pieces “Holo” and “Line” (imagine that), the former being self-recorded and the latter being recorded north of the border by the illustrious Chris Dadge. “Holo” is heavy, dude. I don’t know what V.Vecker’s process is. A live improvisation? Multi-tracked affair? There’s such depth of sound that there must be (at minimum) loops orbiting (whether prepared or improvised) resulting in enough gravity to shift some planets out of alignment. Whether a honk, screech or a bowel-agitating motif, V.Vecker wrangles a range of sounds from the horn in a drifting vacuum of inevitability. (Please don’t run any of those metaphors by an actual physicist.) “Line” is calmer, more melodic; more of an exploring the cosmos full of wonderment type of affair rather than a gradual planetary implosion like the first side. Vecker surfs along amiably until being swallowed up in self-generated feedback and escaping just quickly enough to see what’s on the other side of the wormhole. The two sides resonate well together, sweet and sour, yin and yang. If you’re up for interstellar sax travel, get your ticket. Thumb up from me.
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