Reviews by kuvien

Georg Friedrich Haas’ music performed by Klangforum Wien under the direction of Sylvain Cambreling. Despite how easy this music is on the ears, it's quite demanding of one's listening quota for a day. This music, so multi-layered, has so much going on that it doesn't let up for a minute. There are always at least ten things happening at once, never a moment to breathe or pause, leading to crescendos involving all 24 instruments.

The beautiful harmonizing of the high, warbling flutes is the perfect mountaintop music, both isolated and all-encompassing. Though this album is mostly original compositions with only one song written by someone outside the band, the clear folklore influence on the music is woven like a bright thread through it all. Singing of cornfields, girls with black braids, the mountains, the valleys, lost love... a strong elegiac pastoralism to this beloved Bolivian music.

When I got home from work today, I sat down at the dinner table, asked my kids how school had been, and then told them I'd listened to an album made by plants. My teenage daughter started swaying in her seat like a sunflower and humming the Plants Vs. Zombies game music. Yes. That. That would've been a way better listen than this boring, wanky shit.

This is a delightful live album of Kishi Bashi's best songs. Sung by the artist, every song is conducted by him, too, as he leads a string quartet through his musical gems. An intimate and beautiful recording with some interesting, tribal-esque percussion thrown into the performance.

At nine tracks, this is a rather long EP, but three of the tracks are covers brilliantly done: "This Must Be the Place" by, "A Sunday Smile" by, and "Twilight" by. The other six tracks are pure Kishi Bashi in all their beauty, creativity, and, surprisingly, sadness. This EP swings from the dark humor of "Unicorns Die When You Leave" (spoiler: he murders the unicorn) and the death-bed regret of "Conversations at the End of the World", wherein Kishi Bashi uses a breathing machine as part of the musical fabric of the track.

Have you ever had a perfect day where even the mundane fills you with wonder, like when the sun gives you the stars? Evening comes every day, but its regular occurrence doesn't make it any less wonderful. And as if your heart could not be filled with any more joy, the stars come down to you and float around you as you whirl through a field of fireflies. Hotaru, hotaru, futari no yume wo mireru. Mireru? Mireta? This album oscillates between reality and fantasy with such clarity that it is nothing short of exhilarating. It is my go-to psychedelic album, an effortless painting of one perfect day, where dreams become--for a time--reality. Just listen carefully right at the end: that's heavy, even breathing you hear. Yes, you've been asleep this whole time. One perfect night.

I wouldn't say I'm "swept away" by this album, but it's a charming folk left-turn from the art pop artist I've grown to love. And those hints of bluegrass? Light and springy, like a forever-young traveling companion. Regina Spektor and Dolly Parton covers herein. Like he did earlier with Electric Light Orchestra's and Talking Heads' songs, Kishi Bashi has a knack for making a song his own.

Aetara dou suru? That's how Kishi Bashi's debut album starts. "What'll happen if we actually meet?" This sets the tone for a beautiful, imaginative, creative, and unique pop album. I've never heard anything like Kishi Bashi. I guess the only things that come close are or. Kishi Bashi is pop's violinist savior. No one plays with his energy and creativity, and the way he uses his foot-pedal loop machine is nothing short of genius. Although this has only very little to do with the actual music, I love the word play of the album title. "One five one a" would be in Japanese pronounced ichi go ichi e, which could also mean 一期一会. This basically means "one chance", as in, "this moment will never come again". Kind of like a less enthusiastic carpe diem. I feel like this album is the musical equivalent of tripping with my nemesis out in the desert as he reads stories out of a storybook to me.

Full of hooks, so many that I said repeatedly while listening, “Parts of this sound like they could have been written today.” Almost riff-like in spots. This masterpiece is as delicate as it’s bold. A treasure few can compare with.

You're at a speakeasy during Prohibition, dancing the night away to some hot, swinging jazz, but the alcohol is making your head spin--either that or your blonde partner whose legs stretch to Chicago. Well, you gotta sit down and take a breather anyway. As your fever cools, the paranoia sets in, and you imagine the whole blind pig getting smashed up by the cops. Glasses broken, sirens blaring. Ah nope! It's all just your imagination. You've got your second wind now, and it's back to the dance floor. And that's when the cops rush in, smashing up your beloved little gin joint.

This one is studio on Side A and live at Newport on Side B, and it all kicks off with a double-dose of raunchy soul, which is what one would expect from The Roland Kirk Spirit Choir singing about experiencing freedom through sex. What starts off as a rather politically-conscious effort quickly ascends to a merely musical plane, above petty considerations. So much is said with every instrument, and that includes Kirk's throat, lips, and tongue. I feel the anatomy of his vocal organs must be discussed, the same way someone might talk about the way a pianist touches the blacks and whites. There's some lazy fun at the beginning of this album--just getting people up and playing and singing--jumping from one pop tune to another, but it's serious playtime as they march in their musical parade, the flute walking on air, leading the way. Things go crazy on the live recording, but the music never goes off the rails. It's a train, and everyone's on board going the same direction, inevitably and unstoppably. Kirk's flute is bell, whistle, horn, and engineer, with not a single sour note hit, no matter how fast Kirk plays or how expertly he moans and beeps and boops right along with the staccato rhythms of his virtuoso playing. The way he inhales and just explodes, understanding that his throat is no different from the horns and woodwinds he blows on: it's just another instrument. From there, we are taken on a dizzying ride down serpentine explorations on the tenor sax. Jazz is a dead body in the alley, and nearby is the murder weapon: a blood-spattered flute. The cops got a lead on their suspect, and when the whistles blow at the end, that's them arresting Kirk for being too damn deadly with his musical weapons.

Davis played the trumpet, Coltrane the saxophone, but Kirk plays (at least on this album) the tenor saxophone, the manzello, the stritch, the clarinet, the flute, the whistle, the English horn, and the flexatone. From what I've read, the manzello and the stritch are variants on the sax but different shapes, and thus producing different sounds. This cat knows his sounds and knows just what he wants, whether it's smooth or rough, bitter or sweet. It's all good. This is one of the most impressive post-bop albums I've heard.

There are restless spirits in those flutes. As a folk and prog fan, I’m slain by woodwinds when they’re done well, and I can’t think of an album where they go better. There are moments in this album where I just turn to the speaker and say “yes...yes”. I feel this music through and through, like Kirk’s summoning my soul out of me to meet him up there somewhere. Almost enough to scare me.

I was familiar with Kirk's wilder, more avant work later on, so it was interesting to come back in time and listen to a younger Kirk who had not yet found his full expressive voice. This is still a great album, of course, with Hill on side A effortlessly handing off the baton to Haynes on side B. Kirk has his moments here, too, that make my ears prick up, moments where Kirk half vocalizes while still blowing. He is mostly melodic and smooth here, but anyone with ears can hear that bit of raunchy dirtiness coming in.

Imagine being a boxer, and unlaced gloves is part of your winning strategy. Kirk is the drunken master of jazz, slippery, unpredictable, unstoppable. Imagine being able to do the things Kirk does and be taken seriously. Kirk, flying at right angles to the Divine, breaking the glass between you and eternity.

Experimental multi-instrumentalists Simon Balestrazzi, Gregorio Bardini, Patrizia Mattioli, and Paola Sartori come together to make some weird yet compelling music, in some ways sounding very much like some of the stuff Moondog does... but Italian. An exquisite hidden gem! Spin the top, and see where it goes.

One of those meta-music albums, an recording of music about the music industry. Good music, though lyrically not really touching any of us listeners. Except maybe the giant "Lola", one of those songs that comes along and blows all its peers out of the water. I mean, who of us hasn't met a beautiful girl at a pub only to find out later she was a bloke? A tale as old as time. Take a walk on the wild side, where we shave our bodies and deny our ape nature.

Is this joke music?

I don't care if it's a boxed set. This is too long. Nobody needs that much King Crimson. And ain't nothing five hours long higher than 3.5 stars.

A complex and beautiful album, of course, but what I really love about it (more than the bombastic sound of “The Great Deceiver”) is “Trio”, the delicate and understated violin piece.