HTRK is not a band I've known for very long. I found them
towards the latter part of 2014 via a YouTube recommendation of all
things. The recommended song was 'Body Lotion', which immediately
captivated me with it's sensual groove of snappy 808 beats, riding a
wave of undulating guitar and synth drones, all complemented by Jonnie
Standish's breathy vocals. The music invoked images of darkness and
seduction, of bodies slowly moving together in half light, of hazy,
dreamlike sunshine and extended lens flares across clear blue. It was
both primal and ethereal, and I was immediately annoyed at myself for
not having heard of them before now, because I really, really liked what
I'd heard. I then sought to pick up as much of their music as I could
find, be it albums and EPs (including the EP from which the
aforementioned song came), and in doing so, I found myself in a
bewildering and compelling sound world.
I started with
'Marry Me Tonight' which I took to immediately. I then picked up
'Nostalgia' whose scrappy, dissonant no-wave sound took me by surprise: a
good album, but quite different from what I'd heard from the band thus
far. However it was this, the third HTRK album I'd heard that really
made me fall in love with the band.
To me, HTRK excel in
their ability to paint soundscapes from a palette of pulsing beats and
drones. Owing to the minimalism of their music and distinct lack of
traditional verse/chorus/verse arrangements, HTRK deftly communicate so
much with so little, and 'Work Work Work' for me epitomises this
principle more fully that any of their other releases. The follow up
album 'Psychic 9-5 Club' distilled their sound further, focusing more
fully on the electronics and is again, a cracking album, but it still
doesn't come close to this.
So there you have it, another fine record that's made a lasting impression on me, and in such a short space of time no less.
I discovered Death Cab around 2003-ish via a site called epitonic.com which I used regularly at the time for finding new music. I indirectly stumbled across the band as I'd learned that its singer Ben Gibbard had provided guest vocals on a track for an artist I was already familiar with, namely Dntel. If memory serves, I think I also discovered Dntel on epitonic but I honestly can't remember. Anyway, by falling through this particular rabbit hole, I learned of Ben Gibbard's band and found some of their tracks on the same site. I enjoyed what I heard and made a mental note of the band.
Early into 2004, I picked up 'Transatlanticism' from one of my regular high street music chains even though it didn't have any of the songs I'd previously heard on it. I played that album a lot, and, bruised and jaded as I was then, Gibbard's tales of love gone wrong found a special place in my heart.
As previous entries would suggest, once I get into a band I really like, I obsessively work my way through their back catalogue, and this was also the case with DCFC. In doing so, I discovered this album and was also pleased to learn it featured two of the tracks I'd previously downloaded from epitonic, namely 'Photobooth' and 'The Employment Pages'. The rest of DCFC's back catalogue followed in due course, and even as it did, 'We Have the Facts...' remained my favourite.
And so, as spring rolled into summer, I played that album as much as I could; its tales of love and loss, and its general mood, once again, resonating with where I was back then. Owing partly to when I first started playing this and the general sound of the music, I consider WHTF to be a summer record. By no means is this feelgood summer party music, but something about the mood and melodies does invoke sunshine for me, albeit a very bittersweet kind (something I touch on with another Gibbard-affiliated record mentioned in an entry beneath this one).
I also really like the production on this album. It has a very "band playing live in a studio" sort of feel to it, which really works well on this record. The song I've chosen below is one of my favourites. It recalls for me the ends of so many summer nights out on the town that year, winding down and heading home, or to the home of my best friend and smoking into the early hours, of lovesick introspection and listless, anaemic nostalgia. Both the song and the album that year served as a crucial reminder that life is twofold: there is no good without the bad and vice versa. In this, and in so many of WHTF's songs, I hear the happy and the sad perfectly intertwined, and in that lies the beauty of this record.
Wilful contrarian that I am, I avoided anything connected to this band for ages. Owing to all the hype that surrounded them at the time, I just assumed they wouldn't be as good as people were making out (they were getting praised by NME for fuck's sake), so I steered clear.
Then, sometime in 2002, as I was downloading some music from Bearshare (remember that?), my curiosity finally got the better of me and I decided to add a random 'Drive In' track to my feed. The track in question was 'Proxima Centauri' from an EP called 'Vaya'. As you can probably guess by this very entry, I fucking loved it. I was immediately struck by the kinetic energy and drive of the song (no pun intended), it wasn't what I was expecting at all, to be honest. I was also very impressed by the production, which to my ears was reminiscent of some of Steve Albini's works thanks to its spacious "live" sound. On the strength of what I heard, I went out and bought the EP. Yes, you read that right: whilst I could've easily downloaded the whole thing for free, I actually went out and bought it.
'Vaya' got a lot of play that summer (a summer I've spoken of in earlier entries), its propulsive flow was cathartic and cleansing, helping me as I worked through my troubles, and its seven songs have remained with me ever since.
Having enjoyed this EP so much, I dived into the rest of ATDI's catalogue and discovered an abundance of albums and EPs that varied in quality, but nothing came close to 'Vaya'. In fact, I was rather disappointed with 'Relationship of Command' (their latest and most hyped album at the time) which to me, sounded horribly flat and over produced. Whilst its songs were decent, they seemed to be struggling to be heard underneath the over zealous compression and stifled by the complete lack of dynamic range. As such, 'Relationship' is the 'Drive In' record I play the least, and I dream of a day when somebody remasters the album and gives the songs room to breathe.
Digression aside, 'Vaya' is definitely worthy addition to this list and an EP that I never tire of hearing. Lesson learnt? By all means, don't always believe the hype, but don't be afraid to sometimes give it a chance.
As mentioned elsewhere in this blog, 2004 was a bittersweet year for me; full of great moments and not so great ones. Its summer was soundtracked mostly by the one and only album by The Postal Service (equally bittersweet), a great album, but one I, unfortunately, played to death. You won't find it here mostly for that reason.
As the summer drew to a close, I found myself in the possession of 'Last Exit' which I'd heard about via Sister Ray's mail-order catalogue. Still buzzing from my Postal Service electropop fix, I relished the thought of more music that was -ostensibly at least- in a similar ballpark. Of course, the two albums don't really have anything in common other than perhaps genre, and for that reason, I didn't warm to 'Last Exit' too much at first. At first listen, whilst I enjoyed the clearly Timbaland-inspired beatwork (in all its stuttered, palpitating glory), the songs seemed too measured, the vocals too restrained and uncertain, and the lyrics too oblique. I listened to it a few times but remained largely indifferent and unmoved by it all.
A few years on, and after many occasional plays, the album started to grow on me; REALLY grow on me, and my original criticisms became things I started to enjoy most about the record. The seemingly oblique lyrics were now poetically charming (even at their most obtuse), and the measured pace of the album gave the songs a languid, slow-burning feel. And so, with beautiful irony, I realised I liked 'Last Exit' way more than the album I'd originally dismissed it in favour of. The Postal Service's poppy sugar rush had worn off long ago, replaced by the slow creep of Junior Boys' modestly stylish debut. Again, it's not my intent to compare these albums, I only mention this to underscore just how 'Last Exit' grew on me, overtaking an album I seemed to love way more back when I first heard them both. It really is funny how things go sometimes.
So, far from being bittersweet, 'Last Exit' has stayed with me as an album that recalls the beginnings of good things, and serves as a reminder that sometimes, slow and steady really does win the race.
For the life of me, I cannot actually remember how I discovered this album, but I'm so glad I did. I enjoy ethereal, ambient sounds, and this album (which is actually two albums, 'Dream Loss' and 'Alien Observer') provides some of the best I've heard.
I can't quite put my finger on why I love it so much, but I do. To me, it's the sound of swimming to the surface of black waters, guided by shimmering moonlight and Liz Harris' siren call. It's the sounds of ghosts, or perhaps the music you hear in the tunnel of white light spoken of in near death experiences. Either way, it's not of this earth. With minimal, reverb-drenched guitars, keyboards and those gorgeous, gorgeous vocal harmonies, Harris paints soundscapes that entrance me every time listen.
The perfect music to fall asleep to, A I A takes me to another world. If only I could live there.
So, as previously mentioned, around my late teens and early twenties, I fell into metal in a big way. During that time, I existed on a steady diet of mostly thrash, grindcore and death metal bands, but was open to anything as long as it was heavy and dark. Paradise Lost were one of the first bands I got into after hearing them on a metal show that came on TV in the early hours of the morning, a show I would tape religiously. The song in question was 'True Belief'.
There are some musical moments that stay with you forever, and in this case it was the beautiful solemnity of the song's chorus. In particular, the way the lead guitar harmony played against the rest of the music. Somehow it resonated with me in a way I couldn't quite express in words, and is testament to the power of music itself, particularly its unique capacity for reaching into you and drawing out emotional effects. Anyway, I ended up getting the album and it actually took a few plays before it fully grew on me, but once it did, it became a firm favourite.
'Icon' to me is a nocturnal record, so I tend to only play it at nights, and only within the cold, dark winter months. At any other time, it just would not sound right. Also, it is the second in the triptych of what I consider the band's finest works, beginning with 'Shades of God' and ending with 'Draconian Times'.
Aside from the odd band (mostly the slower, sludgy, doomy stuff), these days, I listen to very little of the metal I once consumed so
feverishly. It is occasionally fun to revisit some of my old metal favourites, but a lot of it is lost on me now. Be that as it may, the fact that 'Icon' has still remained with me to this day speaks
volumes.
In 1998, I'd finally returned to my hometown from years of wandering a grey, concrete town in the midlands (where a good few music introductions listed here took place). At first, it was a massive comedown: I no longer knew anybody, I'd left all my friends behind, and I was back living at home in the interim. Basically, it sucked, but if I could go back in time, I'd tell myself then: "Don't worry, mate. It's going to get better. Much better". And it did. But that in itself is another story.
How this album relates to the above is as follows: back in the aforementioned wandering years, I chanced across Ishii's 'Echo Exit' on MTV. A chilled techno track with slick Anime stylings (I still have the beautifully packaged single somewhere), which was my introduction to an electronic artist I wanted to know better. One day, I was browsing the 'Electronic' section in a record shop, and came across two Ken Ishii albums; this and another called 'Jelly Tones'. I actually bought 'Jelly Tones' first, mostly because the stylish cover art reminded me of the aforementioned 'Echo Exit' single. I played this album a lot and really liked it, but it was ''Innerelements' (which I bought sometime later) that really got my attention.
As it was the 90s, I was already more than familiar with dance-based electronica as it was practically everywhere (though back then you mostly heard the pop or club stuff which didn't appeal to me very much). However, as someone who was, at the time, very much in the alt-rock camp (despite a strong affinity for electronic music), I wanted something a bit different. Something that subverted all that banal, clubby landfill, something with an edge; and I found exactly what I was looking for with Ishii's fresh take on techno.
I credit 'Innerelements' as being another key album in shaping the way I thought about my own music as Ishii turned what I thought I knew about electronic music on its head. 'Innerelements' was as far away from generic dance-pop as you could possibly get: skeletal, syncopated (and at times, tribal) 4/4 rhythms skittered and shuffled playfully as smoothly discordant, yet melodic synths fleshed out the tracks. It was all new, but I loved it. As with 'Jelly Tones' and the 'Echo Exit' single, I often envisioned this music as the soundtrack to some futuristic anime. And so, as with Aphex Twin's 'Selected Ambient Works', Spooky's 'Found Sound' and Plaid's 'Not For Threes', a desire to explore the outer limits of the electronic was born in earnest.
As it turns out, 'Innerelements' isn't even an album. It's actually a compilation of Ishii's earlier works, and this is something I only found out recently. Nevertheless, it introduced me to what I consider to be some of his best material and shaped the architectural framework of my own music, earning it a place here amongst other sounds that have made me.
Circa 2005/6, I
was reading the album reviews in an issue of said magazine and came
across this. The review described this as an instrumental album that
fused metal with chamber music, folk and flamenco, which, on paper
sounds like a disaster. A pompous, overblown and unbearably theatrical
disaster. Nevertheless, I just had to hear what this would sound like.
What compelled me even more was the fact that Sierra Cassidy from
CocoRosie featured on a track and that it was recorded outdoors (the
latter appealing to the music production geek in me).
After
placing the order through Amazon, the album arrived a week later. The
first thing that struck me was the awful cover art, but I wasn't going
to let that put me off. I reasoned this album was either going to be
really good or really, really shit. Fortunately it was the former.
Thankfully,
the metal aspects of the record, rather than being crassly
overpowering, are considerately intertwined with the rest of the music.
And yes, the album is as theatrical as you might expect, but far from being archly pretentious, it's somehow endearing;
more experimental than self indulgent. Rockier moments boil and swell,
giving way to more languid, measured intervals, and back again.
Nothing feels forced, nothing feels out of place. The unlikely blend
of styles all flow together beautifully, making the album feel like one
single, extended piece, and during its quieter moments, you can
actually hear bird tweets and insect thrums; the sounds of
nature providing an organic backdrop that adds to the overall charm of
the record.
Above all, one of the reasons I like this
album so much is that I really don't have anything else like it in my
collection. Yes, I have metal albums, I have instrumental albums and I
have folk-inspired albums, but nothing blended quite as uniquely as
this. What's more, you can't help but admire the sheer gall that must
have birthed such a goofily obtuse concept in the first place.
The music I listen to when I read is very important. It has to fit the mood and must not distract me (making, for instance, hip-hop a big no-no when reading). I generally tend to go for more ambient or abstract music during reading time as it's non-intrusive and helps me concentrate.
'Le Fumeur de Ciel' was a surprise discovery for me. Prior to finding it, I'd never heard of Julien Neto, and to this day, he remains somewhat enigmatic and elusive. Sometime around 2007, I picked up this album from Boomkat after seeing it in one of their regular emails. I didn't know what to expect, but I admired the beautifully minimal cover art and wanted to hear more.
What I finally heard was a collection of downtempo electronica that is absolutely perfect for reading. There are evenings where all I want to do is close the curtains on the world, sit in bed with the ambient glow of the bedside light, a good book and some music, and during such times, this album is a regular fixture. It is perhaps because I have played it so often during such times that it has become an all-time favoruite of mine.
'Le Fumeur' to me sounds like being wrapped in a warm blanket of sound and reminds me of those preciously cosy and intimate moments of alone time that the introvert in me craves, and as the album opens, I gleefully sink into that world, book in hand.
Of course, it's a good album (I wouldn't list it here otherwise), but it's definitely not an enjoyable album. Engaging, affecting, compelling and powerful, yes, but not enjoyable.
As a mopey 16yr old, I was already familiar with the studied polemic that drove the band
by way of their first two albums: the Manics' wore their political
motivations on their sleeve and Richie Edwards lyricism was near
legendary (his more angst ridden musings especially resonating with my
disenfranchised teenage self), but this was something else, something
rawer and darker.
I first heard 'The Holy Bible' on a
listening pod in the now long defunct chain called Our Price back in my home town.
Initially, I wasn't sure what to make of it. I'd already heard the single 'Faster', which I liked, but standing in a busy record store with
those ridiculous pod headphones over my ears, I couldn't really connect
with the rest of the album, which I was trying to absorb in short, 30 -
60 second intervals before hastily skipping to the next track. This of
course is not the best way to gauge a feel of any album, especially not
one like this.
Fast forward a few years later, my metal years were receding, and I decided to give 'The Holy Bible' another go, diving straight into its relentlessly nihilistic, but strangely beautiful world. The first thing I noticed was that the feel of the record was very different to their previous albums. Gone was the affected stadium rock that defined them prior for a sound more akin to post punk, with the naked, bare bones production serving to accentuate this shift.
So yes, this album definitely made an impression on me. My first proper listen in particular is something I won't forget. The song I've chosen below is one of my favourites from the album, and the interplay between Bradfield's vocal and the music around 0:42 and 1:08 still gives me goosebumps to this day. 'The Holy Bible' may not be the most cheerful album I've ever heard, but it's certainly one of the most memorable.
I always considered Dolby an interesting artist, albeit one who'd mostly slipped beneath my radar. I remember hearing a few of his more well known singles on the TV and radio growing up, 'Blinded Me With Science', 'Close But No Cigar' and 'Airhead' being notable examples, but he continued to pass me by for a long time. Some years later, I came across this album and from the plastic electro-funk of opener 'Dissidents', I knew wanted to hear more.
With only 7 songs, 'The Flat Earth' is a very short album, but one that manages to cover a lot of ground. What I love about it is the way it sounds very much a product of the early 80s in which it was produced, whilst also sounding ahead of its time. I credit this in part to the production which is crisp and defined in a manner you would not typically associate with the era.
Of course, it's not just about production, TFE also has some damn fine songs. Dolby combines an idiosyncratic approach to pop with remarkable musicianship throughout, and every time I play this album, I am always amazed at just how well put together it is.
With some albums, you can tell almost straight away that they will stay with you forever.
I first discovered Janelle Monae via last.fm sometime around 2009. The first song was 'Violet Stars Happy Hunting' from her 'Metropolis' EP, and I was immediately hooked. Monae's music was a million miles away from the saccharine pop stylings of the R'n'B she is sometimes lazily cateogrised as. This was fresh, daring, and boldly experimental; an artist, not an entertainer.
So a year later, I was very pleased to hear that she had just released a new album, so without hesitating, I grabbed a copy. As suggested above, it was love at first listen: the album begins with a theatrical classical suite that's followed by a foot tapping psychedelic pop ditty, that's followed by a bouncy new-wave number, that's followed by a Stevie Wonder inspired neo soul tune... well, you get the idea. This freewheeling and seemingly effortless experimentalism and flamboyance never lets up for the entire album, all held together by unifying musical motifs and Monae's powerful voice.
What struck me was the sheer genius of this woman. When listening to this album, you simply cannot escape the fact that is was created by someone who really knows, understands and, above all, loves music. To me, it's a level of genius that approaches the likes of Prince or the aforementioned Stevie Wonder which, in itself tells you just how special this album is.
This musical vivacity has unfortunately not yielded commercial dividends for Monae, who is criticised by some for not conforming to a more obvious pop-friendly formula, but these criticisms miss the point: that "market" is more than catered for. There are legions of entertainers in that ballpark churning out endless streams of tacky, autotuned pop with factory-like precision, and for Monae to toe that line would be an extraordinary waste of talent. (Her unnecessary attempt to appeal to that audience with the cringeworthy standalone single 'Yoga' ably proves that point.)
In 2011, I took my fiance to a Janelle Monae gig which today remains one of my favourite live experiences. The music from the album was married to a wonderful stage performance featuring Monae's sharply attired backing band and dancers (decked in the characteristic black and white suits), mysterious hooded figures, zombies (during 'Sincerely, Jane' from the EP) and a stentorian witch doctor. The gig was also a first for my fiance who'd previously never been to a live show, so this album, and the gig itself also carry some sentimental weight.
I honestly cannot enthuse about this album enough. I'm even listening to it as I type this entry! I make a point of encouraging people to listen to this album, so if you haven't heard it, then get the hell off this blog and listen to it NOW. Maybe then you'll discover exactly why I number it as an all-time favourite.
I first heard about CocoRosie on a forum I frequented back in 2005 or so, thanks to a guy raving about them in a thread. He'd recently purchased 'Noah's Ark' and posted a link to a song he liked from the album. I clicked it and was immediately drawn into a very strange new world.
The song he linked to was 'Beautiful Boyz', a tragic tale of an ill-fated boy turned ruined prison inmate. It began with understated, melancholy piano chords, the lilting croon of guest vocalist Anthony Hegarty and the ghostly wails of Sierra Cassidy, one half of the sibling duo that is the band itself. I didn't quite know what to expect when I clicked the link, but it wasn't this. The intro made way for some filtered, lo-fi beatboxing accompanying younger sibling Bianca Cassidy's strident vocal. It was a complete and utter headfuck, but incredibly powerful and compelling.
He later posted another link, this time it was 'South 2nd', another tragic tale, this time of a mother's son lost to inner city gang violence, rendered as a gentle, haunting acoustic number with the digital sqwarks of children's toys and miniature pianos providing the unlikely accompaniment. The lo-fi aesthetic immediately made me think of the likes of early Sebadoh and Beck even though musically, it didn't sound anything like them. However, it was enough to pique my interest and I knew I needed to own this album. So I picked it up.
I later found out that CocoRosie had been lumped in with one of those contrived musical fads music journalists occasionally dream up to draw attention to themselves; in this case, "freak folk" or "New Weird America". Predictably, after a bit of research, I discovered that many of the artists thrown into this category had little in common and I went back to not caring. Nevertheless, I could not shake this band or this album.
What did it for me was CocoRosie's boundless, unfettered approach to music. The unlikely blending of unlikely styles in unlikely ways (a technique normally the preserve of Japanese artists approaching "western" music). It was never quite knowing where each new song was going to go, and the way their songs inspired so many feelings; a sense of childlike wonder, haunting melancholy, euphoria and mystery, approaching topics like religion, sexuality, mythology and death with colourful abandon. I also loved the enigma they projected: were they really sisters or lesbian lovers? Is one of them actually a boy? And were the tales of their past and upbringing actually true or just fanciful stories designed to wrong-foot their audience? I wanted to know, but I also loved not really knowing or for that matter caring. So yes, 'Noah's Ark' definitely blew me away. The cover (looking like a piece of art homework that would land a schoolkid a week's detention) is every bit as odd as the music and does a fantastic job of visually summing up the album.
After this, I went backwards and picked up 'La Maison De Mon Reve' which was decent but for me, not quite as fully realised as this album. I also went to see them live in 2007 which today remains one of my favourite ever gigs. The albums that followed this are a mixed bag; as you'd expect, their sound becomes more and more polished and refined, but whilst the same creative spark remains, these follow up records never really recaptured that magic that initially drew me in.
'Noah's Ark', then, very much an acquired taste, but definitely something that appealed to me in a big way.
I will never ever forget the first time I heard this album, and in particular, the effect it had on me.
Around 1999, I had a pen pal whom I'd found on a DIY tape trading website I frequented. For the benefit of any younger readers, it bears pointing out that the web of the mid to late 90s was a very different place to the web today. Back then, there was no social media of any kind, so any online correspondence with people was mostly limited to email or AIM and its many variants. When it came to music, there was no YouTube, Bandcamp or SoundCloud, so if you wanted other people to hear your music, you had to send a physical copy of that music to them in the post. Prior to the exchange, all people had to go on was a written description of what your music sounded like so your descriptions had to be compelling enough to attract attention.
Based on what this guy had written about his music, I wanted to hear it, so I got in touch, requesting a CD and sent him one of my own tapes in exchange. From that, we started writing to each other regularly and would swap music back on forth, be it music we liked or our own. It also helped that we had a shared interest not only in experimental music, but in video games (we also swapped copied PS1 games) and anime.
One late September evening, I returned from work to a package from my online friend which contained along with the usual letter, a CD-R from a band called 'Jack or Jive' whom I'd never heard of before. I put the CD straight into my stereo and hit 'Play', not having any idea what to expect. The album began with a pulsing, electronic darkwave beat and moody synths. Siren-esque vocals weaved like smoke patterns across the soundscape and the affecting chorus immediately struck something within my inner being, right in a place I didn't even know was there. I continued listening, and the way this music made me feel was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before.
Strangely, the music spoke to a part of me I don't recognise as the person I am now. It had a strange sense of familiarity I could not explain, and as whimsical or trite as this might sound, it was as though I was suddenly remembering the existence of a former self, a self that existed in a previous life. Yes, it sounds weird, maybe even laughable to you, but that is how the music made me feel.
The mood of Jack or Jive's music is definitely nocturnal, recalling moonlight, spirit entities and rituals. Vocalist Chako doesn't sing any recognisable language, choosing instead to form utterances from a personal tongue. To be reductive or lazy, one might describe Jack or Jive as a Japanese Cocteau Twins, but that doesn't even tell half the story. Other than the made up language and otherwordly atmosphere, they don't really have that much in common. Cocteau Twins' music feels much more structured compared to Jack or Jive's whose songs are more free-form, typically built up around a singular theme that loosely informs the flow of the music.
Jack or Jive's music for me seems to exist in a world that is both completely alien and entirely familiar. It is a world of darkness, the beautiful darkness of the selenophile. It speaks to a place within my very being where such darkness is sacred and necessary, not to be feared, but embraced. As you might expect, the mood is quite downbeat and sometimes melancholic, but as per an earlier entry, I often find myself drawn to such sounds and find them comforting.
I went on to find as much of their music as I could get my hands on (some of which came from my online friend) and pretty much have everything they've put out including the limited run 'Towards the Event Horizon' CD and the ISSIN box set.
I'm not in touch with my old pen pal anymore (we stopped writing each other around 2001) and he will never know the impact he made when he sent me that unassuming CD-R that September, but I am beyond grateful that he did.
Yet another well loved classic that needs no introduction.
I was aware of J&MC long before I got into them in earnest, be it though songs I heard on the radio as a kid or elsewhere. Some years later, when beginning on my own journeys into creating music, someone recommended this album, owing to the penchant I had for feedback and noise which featured prominently in a lot of my early, lo-fi excursions.
There's not really much to say about this album that hasn't already been said a million times. Throw 50s bubblegum pop, garage rock (by way of Velvet Underground's 'White Light White Heat' of course), and Phil Spector-esque production into a blender, and this is the end result.
Simply put, Psychocandy is a masterpiece of an album and one that has definitely stayed with me ever since I first heard it.
You see, sometime back in the mid noughties (circa 05), I started using Amazon to purchase new music. Back then, it was a godsend; considerably cheaper than the high street shops, with everything and anything I could possibly want obtainable with a few clicks.
Then Amazon became like that stereotypical, villainous "drug pusher" they warn you about when you're a kid. You know, the ones that entice you with a few cheap and easy samples to get you going, then once you're hooked, they keep finding new ways of reeling you in. And so, after buying a few CDs from Amazon, it would start throwing recommendations my way. I'd click on the ones I found interesting, read the blurbs and customer reviews, and if I liked the sound of them, I'd take that blind leap of faith and hit the 'Buy' button; and with such cheap prices, it seemed rude not to.
I discovered many fantastic albums that way: Efterklang's 'Tripper' and '...And the Glass Handed Kites' by Mew (the album that got me into them, in fact), to name two notable examples, and then of course there is this; the unassuming cover and nonsensical band name (what the hell is a 'devic'?) were enough to intrigue me enough to want to find out more, and specifically why Amazon thought this might be something I'd like.
'Push the Heart' dropped through my letterbox on a grey, drizzly weekday. It came just before I left for work that morning, so I grabbed the CD and played it on the way into work. Don't believe what they tell you about first impressions; they don't always last. As such, I can't remember much about the first time I played this album as it drifted in one ear and out the other. It's not that I didn't like it, it just wasn't what I was in the mood for hearing at that point in time, so I didn't play it again for a while.
A year later, sometime in the summer, I decided to revisit the album. I'd play it on balmy summer evenings whilst reading, and its languid melancholia somehow made sense in that context, (more so than that rainy weekday). Hearing it brings me back to those moments, and the things that occupied my mind then, in particular, reading the phenomenal 'House of Leaves' (as I was), and the crush I had on an old friend from school I'd recently started seeing again after many years (nothing came of it which, in hindsight was for the best).
However, all of these nebulous triflings pale when compared to the music. There's nothing groundbreaking about this album at all; with PTH you have a collection of inoffensive, yet well written and accessible songs. However, what compels is the emotional gravity those songs possess, imbuing them with far more vitality than first seems apparent. It's a heady concoction of lilting choruses, beautifully haunting melodies and bittersweet lyrics. Each song seems like the musical embodiment of a person, and it feels like you have somehow possessed their being and can anticipate everything they're feeling, as captured in the mood and tone of the music. I can think of few albums that have ever made me feel this way before, which is why this has stayed with me so much.
If you've read this blog in chronological order, you would've already observed a number of patterns. A lot of my all time favourites have become such through personal circumstances, and many have also come about through certain individuals who've introduced me to certain bands or albums. If you were expecting something different with this entry, then I'm afraid I'm about to disappoint you. If you're reading this backwards (latest to earliest entry), then some of the following may not make sense straight away.
Around 1999-ish, the friend who'd introduced me to me to the music of Suicide (yes, him again) also introduced me to a friend of his, with whom I eventually started making music. He lived with his girlfriend in a small seaside town very close to me, and on a Sunday, I'd take a half hour bus ride to his place where we'd record experimental lo-fi weirdness on a digital 4-track he had. That lasted for the best part of a year before other commitments on his end halted our project. We still kept in touch, however and I would still go to see him from time to time. Not only was this guy an incredibly adept musician in his own right, he listened to a lot of interesting music, and would often play some of it for me whenever I visited him. And this was how I first heard of Grandaddy.
For my birthday that year, and I went out with him and his mates for a few drinks in town before gathering on the beach at night to smoke under the stars. At some point over that weekend, he played me some Grandaddy. He knew I'd like them, owing largely to their fondness for playing around with toy keyboards (a fondness I also shared) and their lo-fi indie pop aesthetic.
'Under the Western Freeway' became an album I liked pretty much straight away. When my friend introduced this, I recall him forewarning me that they could "be a bit maudlin at times"; I didn't mind that at all though, given that I often find myself drawn to sadness in music (paradoxically, I find that indulging such emotions helps keep me centered). In the case of UTWF, the album largely came to me during a fantastic birthday weekend at the height of summer. As such, even its sadder songs strangely worked by virtue of their contextual association, even if they may not have fit the overall mood. Either way, it was hard to deny that it was an incredible album for me.
From this, I started digging into the band's back catalogue and found myself enamoured with their lo-fi, experimental indie-pop that placed them in the same family as many other bands that I enjoyed (Pavement being an obvious example). In fact 'Levitz', a track from one of their earlier EPs is actually one of my all time favoruite songs.
A year later, they released their commercial breakthrough 'The Sophtware Slump' which is largely considered their best album. And yes, it is a great record (albeit tidier and cleaner), but 'Western Freeway' is the one that's stayed with me. Unfortunately, they did lose me after that with the largely forgettable 'Sumday' (shorn of the experimental quirkiness of before, many of its songs are quite MOR to these ears), but I will always remember 'Under the Western Freeway' for introducing me to a band I later came to cherish and laud in equal measure.
Well duh, of course this would be in here. Did you really think I'd leave this off? Really?
'Daydream Nation' is regarded by most Sonic Youth fans as their magnum opus (shudders). Yes, you'll get the odd try-hard who'll tell you that 'Confusion is Sex' (the first album) is better, but they're full of shit. Whilst 'Confusion' is a worthy first effort, it doesn't even begin to come close to the finesse and artistry of 'Daydream Nation'.
If you're a Sonic Youth fan, then you'll know this is the album that really put the band on the map, it is also the album that features many of their strongest songs, and where they refined their sound. The full, well-rounded production brings out the best in DN's 12 songs, and Ranaldo, Moore and Gordon all bring exceptional works to the table.
The very first time I heard this album way back when, Sonic Youth hadn't quite clicked, but somewhere between my third and fourth listen, it all fell into place. The abstracted, alternately tuned guitar sounds and unusual melodies, the way the songs would unexpectedly morph into dissonant, elemental jams and the surreal lyrics... all of it suddenly made sense, and changed the way I approached the band's music. After that, I couldn't get enough. Whilst 'Evol' is an arguably better album for me, there is no denying the enduring potency of this record, not to mention its legacy on the alternative rock landscape.
Choosing a song to showcase below was difficult. 'Rain King' is a favourite, but was pipped at the post by 'The Sprawl' whose hypnotic closing minutes feature some of the best guitar work I have ever heard. A true masterpiece in every sense.
I first got into Autechre at the close of the 90s through a friend (different from the two previously mentioned throughout this blog). I was playing him one of my own tracks, and he told me it reminded him of Autechre who were unknown to me at that point. He later put on Autechre's LP5 and as I was totally blown away. The muted intro of opener 'Acroyear' exploded into a flurry of rapidfire electronic glitchwork and staccato synths, and with each track, I became more and more impressed with Autechre's uniquely unpredictable style; melodic and relatively accessible one minute, but wildly abstract the next. I was reasonably familiar with electronica by this point, but Autechre's music was well and truly fresh.
Over the course of a few months, I acquired as many of their albums as I could find, but it was 'Tri Repetae' that really made its mark and stuck with me. If I was to level one criticism at Autechre's music, it would be that it sometimes has a tendency to meander and lose its way, but this certainly wasn't the case with 'Tri Repetae' which, for me, it is their most consistent record.
I also credit Autechre and -in a large way- this album for being the main influence in a lot of in my own music, which strangely, isn't something I was ever consciously aware of as I was making it. It has only been in retrospect, when I have gone back and listened to tunes I created 10 or so years ago that I've been able to perceive the way Autechre's sound had informed my own.
So yes, that's pretty much it. No drawn-out, elaborate anecdotes or personal existential crises to regale this time, just positive words for an album from a group that has arguably helped shaped my musical trajectory possibly more so than anything else on this list.
Once again, I credit last.fm for introducing me to Hanne Hukkelberg's music. The first thing I heard was her debut album, by way of a little ditty called 'Ease' which, like the album it came from, was a mostly light, whimsical affair.
However, the album to really catch my attention was this one, which I discovered a couple of years later. Three albums in, the fluffy Jazz-lite of 'Little Things' is replaced with a darker more experimental sound that incorporates elements of electronica, post-punk, indie rock and percussive found sound, resulting in a sonic brew that is deliciously unclassifiable. Imagine the ephemera of CocoRosie combined with the dissonance of Sonic Youth, the rawness of PJ Harvey's grittier moments and the idiosyncratic flair of Kate Bush, and you'll probably get the idea.
Either way, 'Blood...' managed to tick all the right boxes for me and became an album I played to death, and the songs 'Salt of the Earth', 'Crack' and closer 'Bygd Tyl By' (sung in Hukkelberg's native Norwegian) still give me goosebumps.
The follow up record 'Featherbrain', skirts the same territory in a more stripped down manner) and is also a good album, but for me, this is the preferred album, and one that's made a lasting impact.
You may have probably gathered from my other entries, but I'm very particular about when I play music. Summer music is for summer only, and the same applies for night music, rainy day music and so on. Sense Field falls squarely into the 'summer' category, but unfortunately, living in a country not particularly known for its sunshine, a lot of my summer music doesn't get played as much as it deserves.
UK summers are brief affairs, if you're lucky, you get a month's worth of nice weather spread across the odd weeks and days between June and August. I seem to recall summers being longer and hotter in my childhood, but from about 1998 onward, apart from the odd freak year, summers have been disappointing.
I keep telling myself that one day, I'll move to a sunnier climate.
Regarding Sense Field, I was introduced, once again by the same friend who rekindled my appreciation for the Pumpkins and turned me on to Archers of Loaf (even though I haven't seen this guy in nearly 13 years, he has a lot to answer for). It was during another smoke-filled session, during a brief lull in the music that he piped up with 'Sense Field'. The album he put on was 'Killed For Less', the record that follows this one. I was a little underwhelmed at first; what I heard sounded "meh", but it did grow on me, especially as the album went on, but it wasn't until I heard 'Building' (a few weeks later), that I was really impressed.
'Building' is comprised of 13, eminently tuneful, stirring songs that immediately get to the point and never fail to outstay their welcome (if anything, some end a little too soon). For me, it was very hard not to like this album. Hearing it recalls sunshine and simpler times and never fails to put me in a good mood, which is a big part of why it has managed to stay with me.
Some time in 2011, I learned that Helium frontwoman Mary Timony had recorded a number of solo albums. This discovery revived my interest in Helium's music and compelled me to seek out her solo efforts.
What fascinates me about Timony's music is her knack for crafting unusual and utterly bewitching compositions. Her tendency towards unconventional guitar tunings lends her songs an undefinable quality. One thing I always found particularly intriguing was her affinity towards medieval-esque melodies; this was something she only flirted with in Helium, but explored a lot more earnestly on her first two solo albums. As a result, both of these records sound like lo-fi indie rock as interpreted by someone from the Middle Ages.
I discovered 'Mountains', and the follow up 'The Golden Dove' around the same time and played them almost non-stop for nearly an entire year, and whilst 'The Golden Dove' is just as good as this album (if slightly more polished in terms of overall production), because 'Mountains' was my first foray into Timony's dark indie fairytale world, it's the one that's stayed with me the most. It also seemed to resonate perfectly with how I was feeling when I first heard it.
So, sometime in 2011, it was winter, nearing the end a year that felt like being repeatedly kicked in the nuts, in the midst of family troubles and relationship turbulence, my salvation came in threes. Another Murakami novel (this time, the recently released and utterly fantastic 1Q84), a new but valued friend whom I unwittingly found myself getting closer to than I ever anticipated, and this album. What sticks out in my mind is the synchronicitous cadence of these three happenings, and the poetic manner in which they had coalesced.
The night of 11/11/11, I had a strange night vision where I felt myself almost being tugged from my own body under that evening's full moon. The following day, I received a text from the aforementioned friend that served to draw her and I closer in subtle ways. It felt as though the night before, I'd stepped into a parallel world that presented an unexpected fork in the road. In 1Q84, I read of its main protagonist stepping into a parallel world, a world where a strange, ominous second moon hung in the sky. To this day, the medieval strings (lute?) that open 'Poison Moon' from 'Mountain' briefly take me back to that place in my mind, and the story itself. The poison moon of the song, recalling the second moon from the book, and the moon I slept under that November night. It was as though the book, this album and my life had somehow merged in a surreal kind of way that, with some irony, would not be out of place in a Murakami novel.
The book's second protagonist visited a strange town to re-align himself and evaluate his circumstances, I visited my friend (also out of town) as she helped me with some things. It was good having someone I could talk to so easily, it helped me re-align and evaluate my circumstances (we silently skirted on the edges of something more, but both knew it wouldn't be right). I listened to this album on the train home.
So basically, all of that was just an elaborate, and admittedly somewhat pretentious way of saying the album had a profound effect on me, seemingly resonating with things that were happening to me at the time. This is the main reason why this album has managed to stay with me.
Jazz isn't for everyone, and I'm not even going to pretend it's something I listen to a lot of. I dip in and out, and pretty much know what I like, but I'm no connoisseur. Like many lay folk, I find that Jazz can be too chaotic, too busy and very difficult to follow. However, it can also be fresh, multi-faceted and thoroughly engaging, and this album right here is a fine example of that, and when I discovered Alice Coltrane's music, I immediately realised this was the sort of Jazz I could quite easily get into, and I did.
'Journey' is a very short album (only 5 songs), but as the title suggests, those songs are journeys. The music possesses a transcendental, meditative quality (understandable given Coltrane's obvious spiritual leanings). The bass and droning sitar provide the backbone to Coltrane's mellifluous harp work which, in turn, is framed by the horns and flutes that adorn the mix.
After finding this album, I dug into the rest of Coltrane's discography, becoming an eager fan of her work. Again, hers is the sort of Jazz I can truly connect with, even at its most chaotic and even find her music more enjoyable than that of her more celebrated spouse.
Since discovering this album, I have journeyed into Satchidananda many, many times and will do many, many more.
Of course, everyone knows the story of how the band came to be, formed as it was from the ashes of Joy Division, and everyone knows at least one of their songs (probably 'Blue Monday'). It goes without saying that New Order has been incredibly prolific and influential, but the album that's stayed with me is this one, their very first post-Curtis recording.
Listening to 'Movement', you'd be forgiven for thinking it was Joy Division; at this point, they'd not yet forged their own identity, and Ian's ghost haunted the songs, clearly shaping the sound and feel of the album. It works for me because refines the band's Joy Division works whilst also offering a small glimpse of what lay ahead, its dark, gloomy vibe best suited to grey, overcast days.
The album clicked particularly as it reminded me of some of the material I was writing for the band I was in at the time (and that's before I'd even heard it). And so, I would find myself drawing upon it for inspiration.
I would later pick up a few other New Order albums, but this is the one I came back to the most. Again, it's nothing like the music they would go on to create, but for me, it is their most consistent (aside from Technique) and definitely an all-time favourite.
Sometime around 2002, a good 3 years after this, this was released, I became acquainted with the work of Mos Def for the first time. The tracks to first gain my attention were 'Umi Says', 'Mathematics' and 'Rock 'N Roll'. I'd heard the former at a party during a friend's DJ set at a party, and the other two tracks online somewhere, and bought the album on the strength of those songs.
However, it wasn't until around 2005-ish that I really started getting into the album, though. On my holiday to Japan that summer, I played it to death on my mp3 player, which is partly why I associate this album with sunshine (it just doesn't sound right in the winter or on cloudy days).
Whenever I hear 'Black on Both Sides', not only do I think of the summer, I think of parties, I think of when I used to drop songs from the album into my own DJ sets, of feeling almost indestructible walking the streets with it on my headphones. It is therefore unfortunate that none Mos Def's albums (with the exception of his Black Star collaboration with Talib Kweli) came anywhere close to this.
In spite of that, BOBS is, for me, a masterpiece of a record, an exceptional debut and an album that holds a lot of happy memories.
One of the things I love most about music is the way it can serve as a constant companion. For me, whatever I've been through in life -good or bad- music has always been there.
The latter part of 2004 (when this album was released) and the first half of 2005 were low points for me. A variety of personal circumstances had taken their toll, and as a result, I wasn't in a good place emotionally. I've never really been the sort of person to openly talk about things that are affecting me, so I kept most of what I was going through to myself. I would try to drink and smoke away the gloom, but that only got me so far. During that time, many evenings after work were spent in a quiet corner of a pub, nursing a pint while reading 'The Wind up Bird Chronicle' by Haruki Murakami (which is now one of my all-time favourite books). As with many of his novels, this book seemed to metaphorically reflect what I was going through on some level. It was one of the things that helped keep me sane during that dark period, another was 'The Lost Riots'.
Hope of the States took me by surprise. I encountered their first single 'Enemies/Friends' on a TV show, liked what I heard and kept a mental note. Some time later, I chanced upon 'Sadness on My Back' online somewhere as a downloadable mp3; I liked that too. I then learned of the album and I rushed out to get it.
My first impression was that whilst I enjoyed the music, I didn't like the singer's voice. He really sounded as though singing was a tremendous effort for him, and it grated on me, spoiling my enjoyment of the record. However, after repeated listens, my opinion shifted; the desperate earnestness in his delivery became the point, inextricably fused with the music itself and providing contrast to it. It's not that I grew to like his voice, but I saw the honest vulnerability as adding to the music rather than detracting from it.
As for the music itself, HOTS' grandiose chamber indie reminded me somewhat of 'Godspeed You Black Emperor': bruised, tremulous strings, sprinkled piano and taut, strangled guitars painted the soundscape, creating an emotional footprint, with vocalist Sam Herhily's voice underscoring the sense of struggle inferred by the music. Like the Murakami novel I was reading then, 'The Lost Riots' also resonated metaphorically. Whilst not the most cheerful of albums, it represented exactly where I was at the time, and how I felt, and for that reason, it offered comfort and healing in that way that only music can.
Hearing the album now, I am reminded of those grey months, but find myself looking back on them with a strange sense of fondness, which is testament to how this album helped me through.
I was initially unsure as to whether to include this. Of course, I like the album, but I debated as to whether it truly qualified as an all-time favourite. Then I thought back...
I thought back to when I saw it on a listening pod in Virgin Megastore in 1997, read the blurb and realised these guys were signed to Warp, the same label that sired many of Aphex Twin's releases; and that label familiarity gave me something to go on.
I thought back to how, having liked what I heard on the pod, I decided it was worth paying £14.99 to own it (I shudder as I recall how expensive CDs were in those days....). I thought back to how often I played the disc, how it was one the first earnestly electronic albums I bought, and how it would (unconsciously at first) reshape my tastes and inform the trajectory my own music would take when the day came for me to start making it.
I thought back to how the progressive unpredictability of the tracks kept me second guessing throughout, how I was constantly wrong-footed and pleasantly surprised. I recalled the goosebumps I got from Extork's dark, near-industrial grit and how it juxstaposed with Nicolette's smooth, yet somewhat acidic chirrups (see below), and how I knew straight away, that I needed to hear more music like this. I recall the chilled vibes of 'Rakimou' and the way Fer's breezy, off-kilter Aphex-like melody shifted like day and night into something more menacing.
Above all, I thought back to how this was the beginning of my first foray into experimental eletronica (to this day, I REFUSE to use the term IDM), and how it reconnected me to my electronic roots, showing me a world far beyond the generic 4/4 dance-pop that was so ubiquitous back then.
So yes, this album definitely shaped me in a big way, and leaving it off would've been a regrettable oversight. Thankfully, I saw sense.
A few years back (2013) I was riding home from work in a taxi. Annoyingly, it was quite busy, so a lot of time was spent sitting in traffic. Fortunately, the tedium of the laboured journey was made more bearable by the driver's choice in music. He was playing some chilled, instrumental guitar music that I really liked the sound of. I glanced over at the HUD and saw the name 'Hungry Ghosts', but no song title. I committed the name to memory.
Later, I Googled Hungry Ghosts but found very little about them online. I learned from the only page I could find that they'd recorded 2 full length albums, but there was nothing to stream and no way to get hold of these albums. A few months later, I started looking again, but this time, I discovered they had a Bandcamp page which gave me the opportunity to actually listen to their music. I really, really liked what I heard.
The beauty of Hungry Ghosts' music is its minimalism. Most of their songs feature just guitar backed by violin, sparse percussion and occasional accordion flourishes. The spartan arrangements and clean production gives their compositions space and room to breathe, showing that quietness and even silence can sometimes convey intensity greater than loudness. Their songs also possess an almost cinematic quality, many of which wouldn't sound out of place in a epic western.
I picked up their eponymous debut, the EP and this, the follow up around the same time and they are all phenomenal pieces of work, but this is the one that's stuck with me the most. When I listen to Hungry Ghosts, I am always struck by the emotional dimensions their music invokes, and how it's able to say so much with no lyrics whatsoever. In fact, lyrics would detract from their music in a big way, especially given its film score-like quality.
Whilst I am relatively new to this band, the fact that their music has made such a huge impact on me so quickly speaks volumes.
