Reviews by kuvien

Semen-drenched, vomit-strewn, dismembered debauchery. Glad I heard this once. I guess this is loosely based on Saint Joan of the Stockyards, a play written by Bertolt Brecht, a narrative in which Joan of Arc is re-imagined as a meat-packing worker fighting against the exploitation of capitalism, a battle she eventually loses and is martyred in.

It’s hard to think, off the top of my head, of a more musically cohesive album. I mean, this is basically one super-long song, and it all fits so perfectly together. Not a single misplaced note, from the trenches of the organs to the high plateaus of the flutes. Even those few unexpected moments of sound experimentation add exactly what they’re supposed to to this parody of the concept album. But here’s the thing about parodies: when people are far enough removed either in time or experience from the parody, all that’s left is the art taken seriously. And this is a serious album, at least musically.

You can really hear the tension between blues rock and folk rock on this album, and it’s wonderful. I’ve noticed that a lot of great art is borne of conflict—I mean, that’s an aphorism, but it’s certainly apropos in this case. Ian Anderson takes artistic control on this the band’s second album.

This one really rolls and punches in ways a lot of their earlier stuff doesn’t. It’s not a delicate album, despite the prominent presence of the flute. “Ring Out Solstice Bells” sounds like some kind of anthemic holiday tribute to Cat Stevens. It’s...weird.

Fuck you, guy who finished the 1001+ album listening challenge and then submitted this trash to the hall of fame.

A folklore album, par excellence, since the music was discovered in the early 20th century among workers of African descent, these tunes being handed down from the mining slaves of yesteryear. An excellent musical document featuring soothing vocals and soft, natural percussion. Features instruments such as afoxé, agogô, caxixi, and ganzá.

A wonderful mix of traditional tunes and original compositions delicately balancing the drone of the hurdy gurdy and cabrettes against the somber, meditative vocals, and just when you think the music is going to pull you down into its hypnotic whirlpool, the soft plucking of a banjo buoys you back up, giving you a lungful of sweet air.

A tidy dance-pop album chock full of earworms, this has all the standard makeup-breakup fare, but what really strikes me about these songs is how brazenly Carly expresses her timidity and--I assume--the fears of her generation. You almost said you loved him? He kissed you over the phone? You're not sure if this is the beginning or the end of the relationship? But the craziest thing of all isn't that you gave your number to someone the day you met him (that is literally how anyone starts a relationship). No, the crazy thing is that you expect him to call, not text, you.

This album opens with a synth riff that's nothing short of proclaiming, "This is the soundtrack of your life!" We all know someone who really, really, really, really, really, really hates this album, and I get it. It takes a pophead's feelgood abandon to embrace music like this, an album that bounces carelessly between hyperactivity and drama, like a high school dance. The kind of album where you exclaim "this is my favorite song" until the next song starts, and then you and your friends all look at one another and say, "but oh man this one!" And you all laugh. Hat tip to the gays for keeping this album afloat until the rest of us caught up.

“We’re all outlaws in the eyes of America.” A powerful opening statement for a bunch of hippies who actually believed what they were singing about. It’s funny. The more things change, the more they stay the same. These political songs are as appropriate now as they were 50 years ago. “Tear down the wall!” etc. The only difference is that being 50 years ago, they have more Biblical references than would exist in folk music today. I wonder what else doesn’t mean shit to a tree.

Is there any other drug that has a genre named after it? I don’t think so. Anyway, remember that no man is an island—he’s a peninsula! That’s...kind of correct. I wonder if that observation came to one of the band members during a trip. The second track sounds like something the LAFMS label would later release. I feel like “Rejoyce” is the (musical) sequel to “White Rabbit”. Can’t you hear the caterpillar in it?

Charming, unexpected, born-too-late folk out of Miami, FL. And by born too late, I mean by 15 years, not 500. I'd be happy to return to this fragile yet earnest exploration of the Arthurian myth.

Everything jazz can be when its potential is realized: collaborative, creative, communicative. The Jazz Composer's Orchestra, a revolving-member jazz collective, was but one part of the Jazz Composer's Guild, a tight affiliation of NYC-based jazz musicians who met above the legendary Village Vanguard and there gave concerts in workshop format. Imagine being fortunate enough to sit in on something like that! That was the mid 60s, and though by the late 60s the guild had discontinued its activities, the orchestra lived on and released albums such as this, their debut (I call it that because the personnel are different). If you have a taste for chaos, give this double album a whirl.

Unexpected, quirky, theatrical. Three big draws for me in music. Jauniaux takes her off-putting, experimental vocals away from Aqsak Maboul to explore her own ideas and the concepts brought by her collaborator, Hodgkinson, who in turn is bringing in his crazy Henry Cow music. This is the perfect little album that most people would hate. More, please!

Frightening, beautiful, mysterious. The beginning is a jazz belly-dance that whirls its way into a wistful dream. The conclusion is you waking up from that and hearing a thousand things in your hectic life clamoring for your attention.

I ran across this one in my somewhat erratic and haphazard search for lesser-known 20th-century composers, and I already knew Keith Jarrett through his ECM stuff (and I was well impressed with his handling of Tabula rasa). Most of Shostakovich's works were composed between the 1930s and 1960s. Jarrett is crazy in his native element; here he is technical, true to the subject matter.

I had quite the solipsistic experience listening to this one. I live in one of the world’s major metropolitan areas, and I cycle to and from work every day. So as I set out this morning, this album pops up in rotation. It takes exactly the amount of time to get to work to play through, incidentally. Anyway, as I’m cycling, I get the weirdest feeling that I’m in a game, and all the scenery and people and encounters that are occurring around me are a simulation. Rarely does the setting in which I listen to an album affect the music, or vice versa, but this is one of those surreal moments.

My kid was like, "Daddy, are you listening to the free music on YouTube Studio?" I dunno what that means, but it doesn't sound good.

I really like the long instrumental intro of the album before he ever sings a word. The simple acoustic suite really sets the mood, making the title track, with all its quiet earnestness, snag my attention. It’s funny. I’ve gotten to the point where I can recognize Child Ballads by their storytelling, and this one is another excellent example from the long list of traditional folk songs of the British Isles.

This is an album of night and day, side A manifesting the inherent violence of the children of the sun, for what maelstroms must stir the human heart if the storms on the sun’s surface is anything to go by. Side B is to be played after the sun goes down, for in it you will find indiscriminate sex and human sacrifice by the light of the moon, and only the stars stand in witness of your depravities.