Author Archives: Joseph Neff

Once a largely dismissed and often derided genre, New Age music’s critical reevaluation has been a welcome development, in part because it expanded the style’s history while deviating from expectations and in turn enlarging the potential for pure enjoyment. Light in the Attic has been crucial to this shift in perception, and with new release Kankyō Ongaku: Japanese Ambient, Environmental & New Age Music 1980-1990 they remain at the forefront of this continuing reappraisal. Offered in a package of exquisite design, either as a 3LP with Stoughton “tip on” jackets, slipcase and poster, or as a 2CD with a hardbound book, and both with enlightening notes by Spencer Doran, it’s in stores February 15.

As the title to this set makes plain, part of the reason for Light in the Attic’s success in rehabilitating New Age music is directly related to an inclusive approach that branches into the more reputable associated styles of Ambient and Environmental. However, I Am the Center: Private Issue New Age Music in America 1950-1990, the box set that kicked off the label’s dig into the vaults back in the autumn of 2013, was a pretty specific undertaking. It boldly proclaimed its New Age orientation and said enter if you dare.

What initially sparked my interest was the term private press, which suggested that the contents might deliver something better than expected. Bluntly, it was unlikely to be worse. The second intriguing thing was the timeframe, which largely predated the ’80s popularity of New Age and by extension my lived experience with the form. Well, that collection not only exceeded my hopes, but in deflating stereotypes and uncovering a wealth of unheard artists (G. I. Gurdjieff, Wilburn Burchette, and Laraaji being the main exceptions), it delivered one of the sweetest multi-disc releases of its year.

In late 2016, (The Microcosm): Visionary Music of Continental Europe, 1970-1986 saw Light in the Attic dropping the New Age tag entirely, though it was clearly a sequel (indeed promoted as such), and it did a fine job of linking the New Age goings-on documented throughout I Am the Center to Kosmische, a style many mosey sorta sideways into appreciating due to its link to Krautrock.

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Although it fits with the terminology, to consider the underground as an expansive basement only works so well. It’s perhaps more beneficial to describe the u-ground as a hulking, organically cultivated and mysteriously regenerative onion of uncommon deliciousness and diversity of flavors. As the layers get peeled away, the tastes frequently become more intense, initially intriguing and especially when historically situated, revelatory. Such is the case with Awake In Th Red Desert by Canadian poet bill bissett & the gang of Vancouver outsiders named Th Mandan Massacre. Not a lost record but surely too-little known, Feeding Tube’s first-time vinyl reissue in an edition of 500 should help change that.

If you think music holds vast stores of subterranean obscurity (hey, it does!), you should try literature on for size. Naturally, a high percentage of u-ground writing is located in the poetry section of the used bookstore, in part because the form frustrates the nagging belief that the essence of literature resides somewhere in the neighborhood of “a great story artfully told.” Additionally, poetry largely isn’t writing meant to be quickly grasped by the reader. Instead, it stymies the attempts to conquer its totality, or to employ a contemporary phrase, the need to “get it.”

And thus, bill bissett (deliberately lowercase, and we’ll get to that) remains largely unknown outside of hardcore poetry circles, even after being rated as a “great poet” by Jack Kerouac, a figure who still stands as one the kingpins of the whole grand countercultural experience, even if he’s currently somewhat out of vogue.

Part of the reason Kerouac’s praise hasn’t carried more weight might be due to its coming from deep in the man’s grumpy, boozy Florida-based late period as part of an interview conducted for The Paris Review by New York School poet Ted Berrigan. I do believe the occasion of this chat brought Kerouac exposure (courtesy of Berrigan) to the work of a young Jim Carroll, writing that Jack also praised, but I digress. Poetry’s good for sideroads of thought, y’know?

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Amongst other things, Canada is renowned for producing comedians and playing a whole lot of hockey, but they also have a worthwhile punk rock lineage. One of the lesser-known twigs on that leafy tree was Ottawa’s The Bureaucrats, a band that knocked-out a spectacular 7-inch in 1980 with “Feel the Pain” b/w “Grown up Age.” That record was once the domain of big-dollar spenders, but the Ugly Pop label has given it a much deserved repressing, and anybody with a deeply personal relationship with The Jam’s All Mod Cons or The Buzzcocks’ Another Music in a Different Kitchen should investigate its contents with due haste.

In the annals of punk rock, the coverage of the movement’s Canadian division frequently devotes prominent placement to Vancouver’s D.O.A. And that’s not without good reason, since that group stampeded forth as one of the earliest and finest in Hardcore’s first wave of pissed-off tumult. Indeed, their second album Hardcore ’81 is the meat in a highly tasty and unusually nutritious three album sandwich, with the bread being the 1980 LP Something Better Change and ‘82’s 12-inch EP (later expanded to album length) “War on 45.”

It was D.O.A., and to a lesser extent their hometown cohorts The Subhumans (responsible for the killer ’83 album No Wishes, No Prayers amongst other worthy material, and not to be confused with the Brit anarcho-punks of the same name) that really put Canada on the map for a generation of younger punk fans. And through relentless touring and unflagging political commitment, D.O.A.’s rep really persevered. In fact, it’s continued to linger even as their most productive musical period grows ever more distant in the rear-view mirror of history.

But the truth of the matter is that D.O.A. and The Subhumans were kicking up dust in a country with considerable punk rock achievements already under its belt. Three of the earliest and most notable bands in the land were Teenage Head, The Diodes, and The Viletones, all formed in Toronto during the formative and formidable ’75-’77 period. And part of the reason for this trio’s enduring profile relates to a four-night stand the three bands undertook at New York’s CBGB in July of 1977, with the late Lester Bangs giving them a write-up in The Village Voice.

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New York United is saxophonist Daniel Carter, electronic specialist Tobias Wilner of the Danish duo Blue Foundation, bassist Djibril Toure, known for his work with Wu-Tang Clan, and drummer Federico Ughi. New York United is a collaboration blending jazz of the progressive/ avant-garde variety with contemporary, often beat-driven electronic sounds; at their best, which is often, they connect with the vitality of a well-seasoned band. New York United is their debut album, recorded in 2016 and belatedly released right about now, on vinyl in an edition of 300 copies and digitally with a bonus track. It’s in stores February 8 via 577 Records.

For a style that some are eager to declare as being moribund if not altogether dead, jazz is a wonderfully resilient and multifaceted thing, in part because, purists be damned, a portion of its makers have reliably strained against the music’s supposed boundaries. This pursuit for fresh possibilities often included engaging with forms outside the realms of jazz, and with the expected critical blowback, whether it be pop, classical, R&B, or rock.

Yeah, the blowback. One of the nicer developments in the last quarter century (or thereabouts) is the decrease in opprobrium over crosspollination (to be followed by varying degrees of reevaluation), meaning that one need not shake off the burden of somebody else’s vented spleen (or conversely, uncritical enthusiasm), the better to absorb the music on its own merits, good or bad.

New York United land securely on the positive side of the landscape as they have direct ties to precedent, specifically the intersection of the jazz avant-garde, electronica and hip-hop that comprises a significant portion of the Thirsty Ear label’s Blue Series. Indeed, alongside pianist Matthew Shipp and bassist William Parker, both Blue Series mainstays, Daniel Carter was a contributor to some of that initiative’s most crucial entries.

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The musical profile of Ashville, NC’s Sarah Louise Henson initially derived from her skills as a fingerpicker in the American Primitive style, but membership in the duo House and Land (with Virginia fiddler Sally Anne Morgan) and 2018’s Deeper Woods established a desire to tap into broader sonic realms. Both were natural, fully realized efforts, and the same is true for her considerably bolder move into expansive avant-garde territory Nighttime Birds and Morning Stars. While surely a major development in Louise’s artistic trajectory, it’s not as radical a departure as a casual listen might suggest. It’s out now on pink vinyl, compact disc, and digital through Thrill Jockey.

In terms of musical growth, Nighttime Birds and Morning Stars certainly fits onto the category of Giant Steps (capitalized but not italicized, though in terms of spirituality, there is an affinity with John Coltrane), but it’s not as if it came out of nowhere. Indeed, it seems probable that a significant portion of her fanbase will be fully receptive to the path she’s taken.

That’s because House and Land’s self-titled effort, while thoroughly informed by Appalachian tradition, was intense and restless rather than well-mannered and quaint. To the ears of this writer, it was one of the best records of 2017, with Deeper Woods gathering a similar level of esteem last year as the first of her solo albums to integrate her voice into an already robust instrumental equation.

In so doing, it was a substantial enlargement of Louise’s approach, one as likely to attract lovers of psych-folk as those smitten with her prodigious talent on guitar. But Deeper Woods, like House and Land, was a song-based collection, and the major difference here, along with a partial receding of vocals in the overall thrust, is that her prior LP was consonant with the avant-garde while Nighttime Birds and Morning Stars is a full-on expression of an experimental sensibility.

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Drug addict, gun enthusiast, Harvard graduate, cat lover, convict, accused conjurer of smut, and a distinguished member of the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters; the late and very great William Seward Burroughs II’s transformation from a consummate flouter of norms into an enduring icon of the counterculture didn’t transpire overnight. Most important were his writings, but the recordings played a large role as well; 1965’s Call Me Burroughs was first, and a half century after it helped to define post-Beat pre-Hippie underground cool, it remains amongst his best.

Barry Miles’ biography of William S. Burroughs, which just happens to share a title with the singular litterateur’s first LP, came out early last year. I’ll admit I’ve not read it, a circumstance pertaining far less to the tome’s 718 pages than it does to the simple fact that I’ve carried Burroughs’ writing and knowledge of his struggles, failings, and accomplishments with me for the entirety of my adult life. I do look forward to eventually inspecting its contents, however. I’ve only engaged with a small portion of Miles’ stuff, but in my experience he does sturdy work on subjects of interest to him, specifically musicians, writers, and the counterculture; if disinterested in hatchet jobs or salacious gossip, he’s also not a sycophant or a shill, and it’s possible to disagree with a conclusion Miles might make and yet want to continue reading.

I discovered Burroughs in my teens, so my own observations on the man and his achievements are solid if still open to change. But it occurs to me that a younger generation knows of him as just one in the myriad ranks of Great Dead Artists, which stings a bit since even in late age the guy was larger than life. Frankly, I’m totally chuffed a hefty Burroughsian study has recently appeared.

Bothersome is the pesky seriousness of those who abjure Burroughs’ celebrity as an obscurant to his worth as a writer, but trust me, they’re less obnoxious than folks who champion his reputation as a badass while deeming it needless to crack a spine. If the notoriety is unavoidable and oft-captivating, the importance of William Burroughs is primarily literary; as one of the Beat’s big three, he was a wily conduit between pulp and the postmodern.

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It’s been nearly five years since the American composer Robert Ashley passed at age 83. Noted if underrated as a groundbreaker in the field of 20th century opera, he’s just as appropriately described as a leader in the modern avant-garde. But where many of his contemporaries were minimal, Ashley was labyrinthine. This may lead a novice to conclude that his work was formally rigorous or even downright severe, but in fact his mature work can be quite accessible while possessing depth that’s effectively inexhaustible. Private Parts is a crucial serving of the man’s brilliance, and on February 1 it’s getting reissued on vinyl by the folks who put it out way back in 1978, the aptly named Lovely Music, Ltd.

In chronological terms, Robert Ashley’s recording career dates to the 1957 piece “The Fox,” a five-minute hunk of vocals and early electronic manipulation inspired by a Burl Ives song. This is followed by “The Bottleman” in 1960, a much longer tape composition utilizing contact mics, loudspeaker, voice and other found sounds that was conceived to accompany the film of the same title by George Manupelli.

But the public at large didn’t get to opportunity to experience these pieces until 2003, when the Italian label Alga Marghen issued them on the CD Wolfman, where they were combined with the title track, an 18-minute blast of feedback, drone and vocals performed at Charlotte Moorman’s Festival of the Avant-Garde that’s been called the most extreme thing Ashley’s ever done.

A 15-minute “Wolfman” from ’67, performed as part of the University of California at Davis’ First Festival of Live-Electronic Music, hit wax as side-A of the 2×10-inch compilation/ magazine combo Source: Music Of The Avant Garde Issue Number 4, but that wasn’t Ashley’s debut on record, as his “In Memorium Crazy Horse (symphony)” was part of the ’66 comp Music from the ONCE Festival.

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Of Lead Belly records, there are a ton, and the reasons why are simple. Foremost, this titan of American music possessed a deep reservoir of songs, but he was also something of a crossover artist, robust enough in style to appeal to subsequent generations of blues fanatics as diversity of subject matter and musical approach ensconced him as a godfather-cornerstone to the burgeoning mid-20th century folk movement. Smithsonian Folkways’ fresh reissue of Easy Rider: Leadbelly Legacy Volume Four is a tidy encapsulation of the man’s aptitude for social commentary, its arrival welcome in this period of severe tumult. It’s available now in the label’s signature tip-on jacket, remastered and with the original notes.

Born in January of 1888, Huddie William Ledbetter was a performing musician prior to the 1920s commercial boom for the blues, which party explains the breadth of his talent beyond the form. Like many early blues players, he’s just as aptly described as a songster (versatility allowing a player to become something of a one-man show in those days), and while an effective multi-instrumentalist, his excellence on the 12-string guitar was matched by the strength of his voice and an ability to consistently communicate the essence of his songs, many of which were handed down from oral tradition.

All of these attributes found Lead Belly fitting nicely into the early US folk scene, but it was probably his relationship to the pre-recording industry roots of folk tradition (he was an eight-year elder of Blind Lemon Jefferson) that sealed the deal. This places him historically in strong and varied company; think Mississippi John Hurt, Son House, and Lightnin’ Hopkins for starters, but with the crucial difference that Lead Belly wasn’t a subject of rediscovery after an earlier dalliance with commercial record makers.

He was discovered, however. Like many others of his circumstance in Jim Crow USA, it was during a stay in prison, with Lead Belly first recorded in 1933-’34 by John and Alan Lomax while serving a term in Angola. These songs weren’t commercially released until the ’60s, but once he’d been given early release in ’34, the man took the ball of interest in his music and ran for a career-securing touchdown.

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David Vassalotti is the guitarist in Florida’s 4AD-signees Merchandise. If you’re hip to that band’s amped-up post-punkish pop, you might think you have a rough idea what’s in store on the man’s latest solo LP, but hey, slow down there, partner. Even those who scooped up Vassalotti’s 2016 solo set should be prepared for fresh developments, as Guitar Dream is a pop auteurist statement recalling the boom in singing and songwriting that sprang forth during the original wave of indie pop while sidestepping mere emulation of those glories. A remarkably assured effort that’s vivid without faltering into the grandiose, it’s out on vinyl, compact disc, and digital January 25 through Wharf Cat.

There’s been a steadily increasing Anglo-ist vibe to the work of David Vassalotti’s main gig that attained a level of refinement with their 2016 effort A Corpse Wired for Sound; had that record served as my introduction to Merchandise, it seems likely I would’ve been, if not shocked, then at least mildly surprised that the band are a byproduct of life in the Sunshine State.

This statement unquestionably reinforces my upbringing in an era where geography’s relation to individual/ group dynamics played a much bigger role than today. Fittingly in the context of the considerably more wide-open and connected nature of our current cultural landscape, it’s worth stressing that Merchandise aren’t indulging in a simultaneously highfalutin and low-stakes brand of mimicry. This is also the case with Guitar Dream.

The major diff is that the ten songs shaping up his latest sharpen the focus onto a decidedly indie pop state of affairs. Well, except for one thing; the original UK indie pop wave was populated by bands. Just peruse the participants on the New Musical Express’ C86 tape for evidence. After a few acquainting spins, Guitar Dream registers as descended from the roughly concurrent ’80s wave of pop auteurs but with attention paid to the impulse’s overlap with indie pop. Most immediately, I heard The Smiths.

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Shifting of size and shape across the decades yet always recognizable, The Flesh Eaters endure as one of punk rock’s very greatest bands. Since the early ’90s, this beast has sprung to life only intermittently, with the constant and essential element being vocalist-lyricist Chris Desjardins, better known as Chris D. The good news is that the most star-studded Flesh Eaters lineup, featuring members of X, The Blasters, and The Plugz has reassembled and been roaring for some months now, playing live dates and then hitting the studio. I Used to Be Pretty is the result, a strikingly worthwhile and expectations-bypassing effort out January 18 on double vinyl, compact disc, and digital through Yep Roc.

Back in the day, the roots-horror-pulp brilliance of The Flesh Eaters simply oozed too much weird personality to gain major popularity from inside the confines of the US punk scene, but it’s not like they were unknowns. To the contrary, two of their first four LPs, through the subsidiary Ruby, were issued by Slash Records. Furthermore, by the late ’80s, when Chris D. was helming The Divine Horsemen (and for one LP, Stone by Stone), the entirety of early Flesh Eaters output was highly respected by those who valued punk as something other than a downward spiral into the genericism wrought by hardcore.

It remains thus. Based purely on recordings, I Used to Be Pretty is likely to be chalked up as a reunion album, and that’s not wrong, but it’s important to make the distinction that the set’s 11 songs are a document of the sparks that flew after reconvening this storied lineup for live shows, first back in 2006 as part of All Tomorrow’s Parties and again in 2015 and last year.

While I Used to Be Pretty features two new songs that open and close the album plus three covers, the rest is made up of tunes already found in The Flesh Eaters’ ample discography. If that worries you, don’t let it, as the decision isn’t a retracing of steps by a bunch of utility players. Instead, it’s the greatest Flesh Eaters lineup (widely regarded as such, whether or not you consider ’81’s A Minute to Pray, a Second to Die to be the band’s recorded apex) diving into songs they never had the chance to play or record (at least not as a complete unit).

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