Over the past few
years, Sweet has recorded and released a clutch of CD-Rs under various
project names—Boduf Songs, Randolph Carter, Pistols at Dawn With
Afterglow, Four Man Ghost, Heavy Manufacturing Concern, History of
Electricity, Map of Hell—some strictly solo affairs and some with a
small cast of collaborators. Sweet has been toiling away in almost
total obscurity at his home in Southampton, England, producing an
impressive catalog of releases, all with lovely handmade packaging, and
most with startlingly distinctive musical content. When I first
received the package from Blue Baby Recordings, full of eye-popping
handmade collage covers, each with its own distinct visual
aesthetic—hand-stamped inserts, xeroxed booklets, intricate
typography—I was impressed by Sweet's dedication to his art. When I
began to listen, I was struck not only by the unusual level of quality
control exercised throughout each release, but also by the fact that
Sweet's work has remained a secret for this long, in an age when
underground, do-it-yourself CD-R labels have been blessed with hipster
cache' and critical acclaim. While The Wire's David Keenan and
his Volcanic Tongue distribution company wanks all over the newest CD-R
of pointless, boring drone from some untalented, unshaven
free-folk-noise outfit from the bowels of a nameless American suburb, a
label like Blue Baby Recordings, right in his backyard, is completely
ignored. All that is set to change this coming October, when Kranky
releases the self-titled Boduf Songs album, which is sure to bring some
well-deserved attention to Sweet and his other projects. Be sure to
check out the great artwork and design at Blue Baby's website, where
CD-R releases can be ordered for extremely reasonable postpaid prices.
Just don't forget that you heard it here first.
Randolph Carter, "Easter Parade"
Blue Baby Recordings
Randolph Carter was one of author H.P. Lovecraft's most memorable
protagonists, a man so frightened by the sudden, unexplainable death of
his companion that he could only provide sketchy details on the
nameless ancient horror they both glimpsed at night in a catacombs,
amidst foul miasmal vapors issuing from an open sepulcher. The music of
Randolph Carter is similarly unspeakable, a collection of chilling
ambient soundscapes each darker and more nebulous than the last,
creaking machines and rumbling undercurrents of noise, strange
vibrations bubbling up from the core of a dying star. It's a noise
record, but one that relies on the subtle creation of insistent dread,
rather than aggressive squalls of feedback, for its effect. It's more
akin to early work by Lustmord or SPK than the familiar cadre' of
modern noise artists, but there is a thread of subtle beauty running
through these compositions as well. It's anyone's guess what kind of
gear was used to create these effects, but there seems to be some usage
of analog synthesizers and a variety of effects pedals, as well as
(maybe) some tape effects. The elements pile on top of each other,
creating an appealingly suggestive low-fidelity tangle of sound, in
which one can pick out backwards-masked voices, animal sounds,
chattering machines, and other sounds which may or may not actually be
present. On "The 9th Duke, Manifest In All His Insufferable Beauty," a
resounding, earth-pounding heartbeat forms a cataclysmic rhythm, while
"Nero Is My Lover" is the soundtrack to an erotic nightmare about a
Tesla coil. The H.P. Lovecraft influence can be felt on a track like
"I'm Clipping Your Wings," a yawning cave echoing with the
reverberating groans of some hoary demon releasing foul, malodorous
belches while bathing in a sea of entrails. "One Who Glistens Horribly"
sounds like the opening kettle drum fanfare for the commencement of a
weird Witches Sabbath rite performed at the edge of a volcano. Much of Easter Parade
is utterly nightmarish, and I was left awestruck, watching amorphous,
necrophagous shadows dance beneath an accursed waning moon.
samples:
- The 9th Duke, Manifest In All His Insufferable Beauty
- I'm Clipping Your Wings
- One Who Glistens Horribly, Like an Insect
Map of Hell
Blue Baby Recordings
Map of Hell makes slow-motion doom metal that should please the
newfound legions of post-Nordic sludge enthusiasts currently clamoring
over records by Earth, Sunn O))), Khanate and Black Boned Angel. Unlike
Randolph Carter, Map of Hell is a full group: M. Sweet on guitar, Clive
Henry on "deathgrunt" and unknown quantities bass and drums. MOH's
particular brand of crushing death rock is a bit more tuneful and less
abstract than the aforementioned acts, and their lengthy excursions
tend to stay grounded in something approaching melody and forward
momentum, but the low-fidelity recording style constantly pushes the
band's considerable bottom-end into the red zone of distortion. This
creates ugly squalls of noise that obscure the group's dynamics,
forcing attention onto the compounding sediment that clings to every
downcast riff, accompanied by what vocals that sound like the
disembodied roars of a giant robotic lion with its tail being held to a
flame. The drumming is the most impressive element, reigning in the
chaotic spray of muddy guitar noise, creating an insulating
architecture amidst the poisonous, choking smoke filling the air. It's
an undeniably hellish concoction that thankfully does not wear out its
welcome by the 32-minute mark, though I must admit that I might already
be tired of the whole "subterranean metal" subgenre at this point. I
still think that there are some unparalleled classics of the
genre—Earth's Extra-Capsular Extraction and Sunn O)))'s White 1—that
I will probably enjoy forever, but the sheer amount of this stuff being
released right now can't help but cheapen even a sincere effort like
Map of Hell's debut, though it's worth noting that this album was
recorded back in 2002, well before the crest of the wave. The liner
notes contain some cut-ups that contribute thematic justification to
the relentlessly negative riffage on the album, not that you ever
really need an excuse to wallow in a pit of twisted, low-end metal
debris.
samples:
- Further Remarks on the Doctrine of the Vanity of Existence and the Suffering of the World
- The Eternal Silence of These Infinite Spaces Terrifies Me
Pistols At Dawn With Afterglow, "No Songs of Birds, No Rustle" and "Your Own Heaven Is Smoking, And Your Clouds Are On Fire"
Blue Baby Recordings
Pistols At Dawn With Afterglow create lengthy compositions, stretching
organic drones and loops across the entire length of an album, with
subtle acoustic elements nudging their way in, lonely almost-melodies
that bubble up and dissipate, leaving a trail of ghostly echoes in
their wake. On No Songs of Birds, No Rustle,
an eerie drone keeps cycling around, rudely sputtering every time it
begins anew, sparsely decorated at unpredictable intervals with
reverberating guitar notes, the bowing of a cello, or tiny pockets of
analog glitch. Each of these elements disturbs the calm ever so
slightly, sending out rippling echoes over the placid surface of the
pastoral drone, the tiny waves intersecting and bouncing off of each
other, subtly changing frequency and wavelength, creating tiny,
compelling microtonal events. Half an hour into the piece, when I began
to hear what sounded like someone sighing into a harmonica, it seemed
like it arrived exactly at the perfect time, just as it should have.
PADWA is the improvising duo of M. Sweet and Clive Henry, who together
seem to have an uncanny knack for creating compositions that gradually
reveal their treasures; beginning minimally, slowly coaxing out
harmonious swells of sound. By the last few minutes of No Songs of Birds,
the piece has become nearly overwhelmingly gorgeous, a thick blanket of
pregnant, vibratory cello drones with slow, uncomplicated melodies
shimmering in the surrounding atmosphere. Your Own Heaven Is Smoking
uses a very similar palette and working method, but arrives in
crepuscular territory. The backbone of the album's first track is a
rumbling, uncertain drone that feels warm, wet and plugged in,
nervously shaking as ghostly tones snake lazily around its crackling
field of electromagnetism. Track two is even more adrift in the
interstices of ancient circuitry, much of the sound occurring just
beyond the threshold of cohesiveness, with only the chirping of
crickets echoing out across a dusty desert at night to remind me of my
general location in spacetime.
samples:
Four Man Ghost, "I" and "II"
Blue Baby Recordings
Four Man Ghost is yet another group, this one consisting of M. Sweet on
drums, Clive Henry on guitar and another unidentified human playing
bass. The music made by Four Man Ghost is probably the most
straightforward of any to be found on the Blue Baby imprint: a
post-rock trio that keeps rhythm and melody at the forefront at all
times. The interplay of this trio of musicians is quiet and deceptively
simple. Though I must admit I wasn't initially bowled over by the
insistent plainness of tracks like "Elizabeth Constance Byrd" upon
first listen, I slowly realized that Four Man Ghost make their biggest
mark by what they do not do: by the notes they leave unplayed. The
group is remarkably consistent at slowly building drama and intensity
by deliberately refusing to fill every silence with extraneous
composition and aimless soloing. This can sometimes lead to
compositions that build slowly and rely on repetition, but the results
are more often than not quite gorgeous and hypnotizing. Songs often
take six to eight minutes to run their course, meandering lazily
through metronomic rhythms, subtle tempo changes and cyclical melodies
that gather complexity as they revolve. Though the group consists of
only three, the fourth man of the title might very well be a ghostly
presence, as most of the tracks are named after historical personages
said to haunt various locations in Great Britain. There does seem to be
a slight ghostly presence on some tracks, in the form of rippling
undercurrents of drone and creepy atmospherics. This is even more
obvious on FMG's second album, which is mostly a solo affair, M. Sweet
playing most of the instruments, utilizing overdubs, with C. Henry
helping out on a few tracks. While the music is no less precise and
melodic, songs are matched with electronic textures of esoteric origin,
often upstaging the simplistic melodies. There is also a stronger sense
of "room tone" on many of these tracks, with the rudimentary recording
equipment and impromptu overdubs bleeding through, creating a charming,
low-fidelity quality. Both FMG albums end just as they are becoming
tiresome, which is more than I can say for the last Tortoise album.
samples:
- Elizabeth Constance Byrd (1690)
- Caligari Sequence
- The Cloudy Enemies Born of Stagnant Self Hypnotism
Heavy Manufacturing Concern, "Ausserhalb Under Erasure" and "All Language Is A Drunk Goddess In My Mouth"
Blue Baby Recordings
Heavy Manufacturing Concern is M. Sweet working solo with an array of
analog noisemakers, and it appears to be the project name reserved for
his most abstract and exploratory work. As HMC, he creates lengthy
soundscapes full of warm, outdated factory machines throbbing noisily
along with the rhythms of alternating electrical current. Ausserhalb Under Erasure
sounds not unlike the sort of records that Beequeen were releasing
several years back: oddly suggestive albums made up of dusty drones and
atmospheres seemingly recorded in abandoned hospitals, disused military
bunkers and vast, uninhabited space stations. There are all manner of
ghosts and strange chirping, electrical homunculi inhabiting the
machines of Ausserhalb, chewing holes in the wires and pulling
levers to make the machine spin out of control. It's an album for deep
listening on headphones, with its fictional machine soundscapes
captured so vividly that they recall the finest of Nurse With Wound or
Cyclobe. The outstandingly named All Language Is A Drunk Goddess In My Mouth
contains one long piece, an exercise in reigning in static and white
noise, creating psychedelic whirlpools of thought-cancelling noise,
tunneling through your cerebellum, making way for a new imprintation of
reality. In the midst of all of these staccato detonations of mind-fog,
you could almost miss the dark melody pushed far into the background,
sounding like a reverberating church organ playing the love theme from Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me.
It's a gloriously fucked sound, moving through a series of dark tonal
shifts until it finally reaches down into a very dark place to finally
claim your soul for good. Don't fight it.
samples:
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