Reviews by kuvien

Fuck this band, its stupid name, and the stupid names of its albums. Cassette culture assholes.

This is one of those recordings where the band members cut one album and called it quits. It's refreshing in its eclecticism, not sticking to one sound. Of the five compositions here, two are interpretations of Corea's and Bonfa's works. Discordance gives way to what the casual ear would identify as more "normal" jazz, and the record ends on a strong Latin note. What I really wanted to know, however, was why the album is called Tachibana. "Tachibana" can be a feudal clan name in Japan, or it can be the name of a train station, or it can be, simply, a surname. I was fascinated, hoping the name alluded to something historical, or at the very least referenced a train station nearby where this record was cut. Nope! It's just the surname of the producer, a man who operated a local drive-in theater.

Though the track order does not follow the chronological order of the chapters, that's all well and good, since the novel breaks a lot of narrative "rules" anyway. It's in keeping with the spirit of the book, a tale of Satanic pride. Plain and simple. This album is, of course, a voyage into deep darkness, where the sea itself is one planet-spanning tomb, ready to swallow up any and all who set themselves up as lords of the ocean. The music is a nuanced siren's call, simultaneously warning and tempting, so full and close that you can almost feel the water up to your neck. And though you once stood with Ahab and cursed fate, your doom is to tread water until the waves sap your strength, and you drown in the music.

When you sneer so hard it affects your pronunciation. The vocals fire like a machine gun, and I can't help but think this must be damn fine music to sk8 to and forget for a while that you're part of the money machine and cannot escape, no matter how hard you grind or how long you railside.

Pessimistic, misanthropic, and apathetic? Sounds like some people I used to know.

I like the sample from The Wicker Man.

I just happened to be walking past a graveyard on a hot August morning when this album popped up in random rotation, and it got me thinking about how the Japanese bury their dead. See, here in Japan, they cremate their dead and keep the ashes in urns in family grave plots, but they don’t burn the bodies down all the way to smooth ash. Just most of the way. I guess 99%. Because once the cremation process is done, family members are given chopsticks and invited to sift through the ashes for choice bone fragments to keep and honor during the obon holidays, which are mid-August (so right around the corner from the time of this listening). The doom metal, the black metal, and even the dark folk are all part of this post-metal cremation mix.

Very anthemic and singalongable. Very much raising and reaffirming the volatile emotions of hormone-controlled teenagers. I imagine equally powerful mood swings between cheers and tears when those susceptible to this kind of music listen to this.

If you like quirky, strange, yet interesting pop with a lot of unexpected twists and turns, this album is for you. As it most definitely is for me. I can’t even wrap my head around how much is going on here. I just love it more with each listen. No two tracks sound the same.

Experimental, child-like (not childish) play on percussion, using, it seems, whatever she can find to bang on or rattle or shake. Haco is the leader of this weird musical parade, and she’s inviting you along, so if you’re up to it, grab an instrument—or something that’s not, as long as you’ll use it as one—follow, and play.

I guess this is all right. It's just that every time I see Terry Riley's name, my eyelid starts twitching.

A fun little recording with a lot of delicacy but also boasting some brass robustness. Banned music never sounded more defiant. Make sure you stick around until the last track. Its joyful, surreal sound is worth the wait.

In my quest for non-English language folk, I stumbled upon this giant. Kind of hard to miss when you narrow your field to what I did. This is the album that introduced me to música de intervenção, a specific brand of protest music in Portugal in the 60s and 70s. Very much homegrown anti-colonial music. Although I do not speak Portuguese, I appreciate the songwriters’ skill at couching their criticism of political leaders in metaphors that the censors were too dense to detect. The strong fado backbone of this music communicates admirably-constrained passion, for if you are trying to persuade, you must communicate and not lose control of your message. Some powerful, haunting moments herein.

White trash durag music.

Too fast and sarcastic for suburbia. Life's too hard for white boys. Won't somebody help them?

This album made my friend's nose grow.

There's just something about Nigerian music that goes on and on and on, and there's neither anything I can do about nor anything I want to do about it. Just kick back and enjoy, and don't be expected to taken anywhere, because where you are, right now, is just right. In the center of enjoyment.

Miles Davis on trumpet, Art Blakey on drums. Smooth with just the slightest touch of a calculated rough edge.

I've got an empty beer can and a forehead.

Awful, rotten, soul-stench noise.