Reviews by kuvien

This album is my introduction to the Moors Murderers, the evil pair who raped and murdered children in England in the 60s. Musically this album is pretty cool, with catchy pop rock ditties, but obviously it's just the bare concept of a disturbing stage show fleshed out by improvised spoken lines. I bet that would've been a hard yet fascinating performance.

What I love most about this album is how it will be tiptoeing along, and then someone pulls the carpet out, and it goes all unceremoniously tumbling; how it will be flowing along, and then someone belly flops into the water; how it will be creeping along most dexterously, and then it faceplants. All according to its wonderful design. The piano and guitar spar in alternating bouts of earnestness and jest, while the electronic effects simultaneously buoy and subvert the music.

He's gotta be the most disappointing artist ever.

A rambling half-wild half-peaceful scorching double album divided thematically into the superstitious "elements" of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water... in that order. This collaboration is nothing short of the alignment of the stars. Speaking in tongues, laughing at cosmic jokes, expansive, uplifting flutes, distant whistles and sound effects, and oh my those saxophones, all four of them, weaving in and out of the acoustic guitar phrasings, shamelessly flirting with the sitar. Everything you could ever want from a Brazilian album is here. Every bit of musical detritus flows into this album like a flood, but Côrtes and Ramalho stand waist deep and direct all the elements like the unhinged masters they are.

This one starts off quite disconcerting with its vocals that alternate between harsh whispers and distorted screams, all this with a madman banging on the piano in the background. Someone is...frustrated.

The inclusion of a pretty melody played on acoustic guitar and sung so prettily quickly defuses the tense situation, though, giving the listener time to regroup. I think it's just a ploy to pull me in deeper before putting the boot in...let's wait and see. Gotta put a filter on your heart, bro. And I'm supposed to laugh at your boo-hoos, right?

Is this the kind of music that helps you kill yourself or prevents you from doing so? Is it an invitation or merely cathartic? I honestly don't know, not being a miserable fuck.

Dude, it's been eight years. Are you going to do it, or are you just crying for attention?

The first disc is a collection of improvisational tracks, thus playful, unexpected, and experimental. A lot of negative space here, shaping the music, and even dismembering it. Disc 2 is more standard compositions, but still avant in places.

A pleasant fusion listen for when you're not in the mood for a challenge, when you want something in the morning of one of your holidays. What makes this rise higher in my estimation is the dreamy Brazilian female vocals that keep everything cute and light.

I love the mellow flutes and ethereal vocals on the first track, especially because the electric piano fire kicks in after that, and the vocals give way to screeching. The third track is some bossa nova derpness, but that’s all right because I dig the playful end of the album.

Corea makes room for Vitouš, and Vitouš makes room for Corea, yet they both have room to play off each other, too. Roy Haynes completes the stylish trio, and they're not afraid to let the music die down and experiment with the spaces among them.

emo is the worst thing that ever happened to punk

The soundtrack to a film I've been wanting to see but not yet gotten a hold of. But I already feel like I know this film not only through the sparse, lonesome, twanging acoustic guitar blues but also through the heartbreaking story the man tells to the woman:
________________________________________________________
Man: I knew these people, these two people. They were in love with each other. The girl was very young, about 17 or 18 I guess, and the guy was quite a bit older. He was kind of raggedy and wild. And she was very beautiful, you know. And together they turned everything into a kind of an adventure. And she liked that. Just an ordinary trip down the grocery store was full of adventure. They were always laughing at stupid things. He liked to make her laugh, and they didn't much care for anything else because all they wanted to do was be with each other. They were always together and he...he loved her more than he ever felt possible. He couldn't stand being away from her during the day when he went to work. So he'd quit just to be home with her. Then he got another job when the money ran out. And then he quit again. But pretty soon she started to worry.

Woman: 'bout what?

Man: Money I guess. Not having enough. Not knowing when the next cheque was coming in.

Woman: Yeah, I know that feeling.

Man: So he started to get kind of torn inside.

Woman: How do you mean?

Man: Well, he knew he had to work to support her, but he couldn't stand being away from her, either.

Woman: Lassie!

Man: And the more he was away from her, the crazier he got. Except now he got really crazy. He started imagining all kinds of things.

Woman: Like what?

Man: He started thinking that she was seeing other men on the sly. He'd come home from work and accuse her of spending the day with somebody else. He'd yell at her and break things in the trailer.

Woman: The trailer...

Man: Yes, they'd lived in a trailer home. Anyway, he started to drink real bad, and he'd stay out late to test her to see if she'd get jealous. He wanted her to get jealous. But she didn't. She just worried about him. But that got him even madder. He thought if she'd never get jealous of him that she didn't really care about him. Jealousy was a sign of her love for him. And then one night, one night she told him that she was pregnant. She was about three or four months pregnant. And he didn't even know. And then suddenly everything changed. He stopped drinking, got a steady job. He was convinced that she loved him now because she was carrying his child, and he was going to dedicate himself to making a home for her. But a funny thing started to happen. He didn't even know to set it first. She started to change. But the day the baby was born she began to get irritated with everything around her. She got mad at everything. Even the baby seemed to be an injustice to her. He kept trying to make everything all right for her. Buy her things, take her out to dinner once a week. But nothing seemed to satisfy her. About two years he struggled to pull them back together like they were when they first met. But finally he knew that it was never gonna work out. So he hit the bottle again. But this time it got mean. This time when he came out late at night, she wasn't worried about him, nor jealous. She was just enraged. She accused him of holding her captive by making her have a baby. She told him that she dreamed about escaping. That was all she dreamed about: escape. She saw herself at night running naked down a highway; running across fields; running down river beds; always running and always just when she was about to get away, he'd be there. He would stop her somehow. He would just appear and stop her. And when she told him these dreams, he believed them. He knew she had to be stopped or she'd leave him forever. So he tied a cow bell to her ankle so he could hear at night if she tried to get out of bed. But she learnt how to muffle the bell by stuffing her sock into it and inching her way out of the bed and into the night. He caught her one night when the sock fell out and he heard her trying to run to the highway. Caught her and dragged her back to the trailer and tied her to the stool with his belt. He just left her there, went back to bed and lay there listening to her scream. Then he listened to his son scream, and he was surprised at himself because he didn't feel anything anymore. All he wanted to do was sleep. For the first time he wished he was far away, lost in the deep, vast country where nobody knew him. Somewhere without language or streets. And he dreamed about this place without knowing its name. And when he woke up he was on fire. There were blue flames burning the sheets of his bed, and he ran through the flames toward the only two people he loved. But they were gone. His arms were burning and he threw himself outside and rolled on the wet ground. Then he ran. He never looked back at the fire. He just ran. He ran until the sun came up and he couldn't run any further. And when the sun went down, he ran again. For five days he ran like this until every sign of man had disappeared.

Basically a folk rendering of the rock in opposition motifs popular in the late 70s. Charming, brilliant, carefree yet careful. Almost like an unplugged version of the genre. Like most examples of RIO, this album descends into mad festival territory. Love it.

Ear-rape in five sophisticated movements. This is what the Rakdos guild makes their captive audiences listen to. Just when you think it's getting better, it gets worse. No one's going home!

I can't tell if the people screaming are the makers or the victims of the noise infliction. Maybe both?

Seductive, cool, masterly. Melodic and catchy, yet also an embedded complexity that doesn't mitigate against the band's interplay. Some of the best flute and bass I've ever heard.

When you're too scared to listen to real avant-prog.

Sounds like a pretty good album for the right kind of person.

This is so bland it's actually more offensive than something that is actively bad.

Oh no! Grandpa Comus is gonna rape me in the forest. I guess I'd better sweep the leg and walk away.

Oud, tambura, and bass all weave an intricate, meditative structure upon which Sanders' soprano saxophone can swing, upon which Coltrane's illimitable harp playing can climb, up and down, down and up, like a ladder connecting heaven and earth. And just for the record: Satchidananda isn't a place; it's a man, a swami, one of Coltrane's spiritual guides.