masteller

Hairbrushing – Drip Intervals
5.31.18 by Ryn Masteller

So many yellow blue, orange red, white and green strands, so little time. That’s the Hairbrushing model anyway, a vast colorful nest of patch cords connecting this circuit to that one, a glorious heap in which maybe a little bird could build a nest, lay a couple eggs, raise a couple chicks. I’ve got birds on the brain, because we’ve got that exact nest situation going on right on our front porch, and my son needs something to occupy his mind before school ends and Switch season begins. But Hairbrushing proves the ability to push through my metaphor into entirely new territory, as the glorious synthesizer workouts he traffics in have me huffing and puffing as if I had the heart of a hummingbird, such is their unblocked forward momentum. Plus I had a little eureka moment when I popped this one in, a “holy moley, this tape is the cat’s tits” event where my blood was pulsing through heretofore undiscovered capillaries that had my head all floaty because it couldn’t keep up with the activity.

Listen you guys, I’ve heard a lot of synthesizer tapes, and I’ve heard some GOOD synthesizer tapes, but “Drip Intervals” is in the top tier, it’s not even close really. There’s just something about D. Marcum’s approach (that’s Hairbrushing’s real name) that strikes that chord (or is it “cord,” yuk yuk), a harmonious component within my own wiring that aligns almost directly with the dense emanations from Hairbrushing’s machines. Most of the time we’re treated to blistering arpeggios that resolve themselves into magic paintings, the ones where you have to relax your eyes (read: ears) to see (read: hear) (although I’ve never been able to do those, so I’m not really an authority on them). Or the jutting crystal melodies refract into sharp, colorful forms that resemble a rainbow-colored Fortress of Solitude (but Superman is a big fat piece of crap) or a rainbow-colored EQ readout emblazoned across your laptop screen. Hey, speaking of, did you read they have Fruity Loops for Macs now? Pitchfork FTW!

First thing you do tomorrow (because it’s what, 9:30 p.m. already?) is go to Obsolete Staircases and buy one of these things. They’re still available, even though they came out in November. … Oh, the internet is on all night? Well do it now then!

New Batch – Do You Dream of Noise?
5.29.18 by Ryn Masteller

April in Sweden is still probably colder than it ought to be – just look at all that snow in the promo shot! Brrr. Human beings expect warmth in springtime, the sun blazing in a piercing blue sky, those piles of snow melting and receding, floral growth, rivulets and streams running and gently overflowing their banks, grasses inundated with mud and muck, mosquitoes and gnats hatching and nibbling on skin deficient in vitamin D, incessant rains as the temperatures change, ducks humping, fish humping, rabbits humping, bears humping, snakes humping… Oh god, spring is disgusting! Why can’t winter last just a little bit longer? Why?!

Luckily we have Do You Dream of Noise?, the Swedish experimental tape label, ready to dowse our perceptions of spring with a partially frozen bucket of psychic slush, thereby relegating all of us, everywhere in the world, to a constant state of huddling indoors with no intention of stepping outside. But while these four cassettes (well, three of them anyway; see entry number four for the outlier) may not want to get out from under the covers, they at least acknowledge the world around them. They’re just busy contemplating the internal, the infinite, the life of the mind. Plus, they probably think springtime is gross too – they’ll poke their heads out when summer rolls around (which, in Sweden, feels somewhat like a Florida November, I imagine).

 

SLIM VIC – NORR OM DALÄLVEN (ROMANTIKENS FARSOT)
Taking a break from his “day job” as “one of Sweden’s leading innovators of the DJ and turntable culture,” Slim Vic drops an icy slab of ambient loveliness fit to be piped from the highest point of the largest glacier while accompanied by the aurora borealis. The title translates as “North of Dalälven (The Fate of Romance),” and here’s a little bit of background and a map. The river Dalälven is a bit south of the Arctic Circle, but that doesn’t make it any less cold at any time of the year. Heavy on meaning and intention, “Norr Om Dalälven” weighs upon the mind and invites vast introspection – what does “the fate of romance” even mean? If the mood is any indication, its fate is ponderous and tragic, cracking with violent seismic activity like an ice floe at the wrong temperature. And it is centered directly north of the river Dalälven, the scientifically agreed-upon birthplace of the concept of romance itself. OK, I’m just kidding about that part, but wouldn’t it be weird if that were true? Anyway enjoy this dark synth ride.

 

BLODET – KRISTALLPALATSET
Now we’re talking. Did you mention something about wanting sheer bliss destroyed by utter planetary violence? No? Who was I just having that conversation with, then? Anyhoo, Sweden’s Blodet trick you into thinking they’re all twinkling starlight sparkling off ice crystals before taking a dramatic turn toward sledgehammering a rocky outcropping with their guitars and their drums. Unabashedly post rock, Blodet builds a foundation of beauty on side A’s “Solstorm” (solar storm) before wrecking it with loudness and distortion. Any crotchety old dude sitting on his porch will be calling the cops halfway through, you can count on that. Side A continues with “Kristallpalatset” (crystal palace), which begins much more groovily before dropping off to let the track breathe, but of course after a bit of unaccompanied chimey guitar in the middle, the band divebombs back in, Explosions in the Sky comparisons flying from the typewriters of music critics everywhere. This is not a bad thing – EOTS is a wonderful band. (And I actually use a typewriter. Mike Haley does all the website word processing for me.) Side B is a bonus track called “Ocean,” which is not a Velvet Underground or Pearl Jam cover.

 

MARSTRAND – MEMORIES OF A PLACE I’VE NEVER BEEN
Here it is, the full sound of northern life on the coast, the title itself a clue, no, an answer to exactly what Marstrand sounds like. I imagine myself somewhere along the Gulf of Bothnia, always been there, always will be there, the waves a constant companion, the wind a benevolent overseer. I have never been to Sweden, yet “Memories of a Place I’ve Never Been” suggests images more real and more earnest than those in front of me at any given time. Induced nostalgia, sure, but a welcome vacation/diversion from everyday life. The entire tape – and it’s a long one – crests over you and fills your mouth, your lungs, your brain, your heart with such a distinct sense of place. Or maybe it’s just me, feeling side effects from this litany of medication I’m on for the scientific study at the Local University, which, I have to admit, is Florida State. So – these Florida “scientists” probably aren’t real, accredited ones. In fact, I think they’re just feeding me tequila shots now.

 

BUILDING CASTLES OUT OF MATCHSTICKS – TO DREAM OUTSIDE THE LINES
Anna Sulikowski is SO not from Sweden, which is something to note among this batch! Instead, she’s from Hamilton, Ontario, birthplace of such noteworthy famous folks as Eugene Levy (“American Pie”), Martin Short (“Arrested Development”), and Dave Thomas (“Arrested Development”). But Sulikowski, under her moniker Building Castles out of Matchsticks, is not so much funny ha-ha as not really funny at all. No, she crafts contemplative soundscapes “using guitar, loops, synths, and pedals, allowing us a glimpse inside her mind as she “shares her daydreams” with us via cassette tape. At times quite active (see opener “even the Romans fell,” with its IDM rhythms, and the trip hop glitchery of “her speech was unremarkable”) and at others wistfully blissed (“a moment of clarity,” “to dream outside the lines”), “To Dream Outside the Lines” is as close as it gets to approximating lying on your back in the middle of a field and watching puffy white clouds drift across the blue sky. The breeze is your best friend, and the world is open to you. Who said anything about spring being terrible? I don’t think it was me.

William Carlos Whitten – Burn My Letters
5.23.18 by Ryan Masteller

Real talk: If you were to peruse my cassette collection circa 1996, you’d perhaps catch a glimpse of St. Johnny’s “Speed Is Dreaming” somewhere in the middle of the pile. I say “middle” because it didn’t reach the top all that often. See, I was a young rogue then, and the ladies mostly dug all those Pixies tapes I had (they really didn’t get Pavement or GBV either, for some reason), and none were particularly enamored at my “sorta Sonic Youth-y but not!” platitudes I lobbed at Bill Whitten and his band of NYC rascals. But it was their loss, and everyone else’s loss, because St. Johnny got the major shaft in the end, ceasing to exist and becoming Grand Mal, among other things (And by the “major shaft,” I mean the “major label shaft” – St. Johnny were DGC castoffs in the era of the great post-Nirvana cash grab. I paid almost twenty dollars for a CD at the Wall sometimes back then. What was I thinking.)

But something happened between 1996 and now. (Besides 9/11 of course.) Bill “William Carlos” Whitten, against all odds, with his back against the wall, a true underdog in every respect, kept the dream alive, and here we are with “Burn My Letters,” a throwback, a progression, a snapshot of what Whitten’s got up his sleeve. More intimate than theatrically guitar-y, and, well, duh, Whitten’s older than even ME, so there’s a well-worn, lived-in quality to these tunes that I can totally relate to as an ex-indie rocker who used to practice guitar by adjusting feedback on my amp for hours at a time. We’re supremely in Mercury Rev territory – why is that such an easy conclusion to jump to? Oh – because there’s a Mercury Rev alum (Justin Russo) on it. Also, Dave Fridmann mastered it. Plus, Grasshopper was once in St. Johnny – but that has nothing to do with “Burn My Letters.” Look, I can go on forever about how natural, how RIGHT this tape feels, how it brings back all sorts of formative music memories, but in the end you’ll just have to trust the guy who wrote about the red wheelbarrow beside the white chickens, the guy who wrings so much from so little.

Oh wait, that’s the OTHER William Carlos Whitten with the poetry. Gosh, I’m so embarrassed. This one’s still good. Preorder the cassette from I Heart Noise, which drops June 4.

New Batch – \\NULL|ZONE//
5.22.18 by Ryan Masteller

It’s getting ridiculous, isn’t it, this \\NULL|ZONE// output? How many tapes is it this year already? Twelve! And we’re halfway through May. It’s like Michael Potter, the Svengali behind the label, the Lou Pearlman of experimental music percolating in Georgia (and elsewhere – Georgia is just Potter’s home base), has been dabbling in the dark arts to conjure so many recordings ripe for release. And if you, like me, are absolutely incredulous at the fact that I’ve never dropped a Hogwarts reference in relation to Potter and his label, be incredulous no more. I’m going Snape-shit all over that wayward allusion. So strap on your sorting hats, because we’re all in for a bumpy ride … of music criticism … on the back of a Hungarian Horntail dragon!

That could’ve been smoother.

 
GRANT EVANS – VESSEL
Hiding in plain sight like Jim Broadbent as a chair, Grant Evans’s “Vessel” isn’t necessarily what it seems. Quivering like the fragments of a Cotswolds living room in the aftermath of an energy explosion, “Vessel” hovers on the point of recombination, of rolling time back before the big blow to clean itself up and make itself proper and presentable again. But that never occurs, because that would simply be the easy way out, the boring way, the path to avoidance and ignorance. Instead, every fragment wobbles with kinetic energy, the tiniest particles induced with magical residue they don’t know how to process, so they tremble there in place, panicked, until everybody leaves the house and the effect wears off. What did you just witness here? What sounds passed through your ears? Otherworldly manipulations, processes, performances. Expectations thick upon the air. Why don’t you leave me alone, Dumbledore, can’t you see my teaching days are through? I don’t WANNA fight Voldemort.

 
MANAS – Live At
MANAS is Tashi Dorji and Thom Nguyen, but let’s not kid ourselves! They are the Weird Sisters, and they are obviously “Live At” the Yule Ball, where everybody is “Doing the Hippogriff” and making out in the Room of Requirement out of the watchful eyes of teachers. … Sure, I’m lying. But hey, anything for the narrative thread, right? Seriously, Dorji and Nguyen continue their masterful MANAS-ing “Live At” Fresh Produce Records, Macon, Georgia, on August 5, 2017. That’s no joke. With Dorji on guitar and Nguyen on drums, the two experimental mages square off and improvise the snakiest, wiliest, most taut concoctions you’re likely to find this side of a witch’s cauldron. Connecting telepathically like they each drew out wisps of memory from the other’s minds via wand and combined them in some sort of enchanted bowl, Dorji and Nguyen feed off one another and gain in power the more their instruments swirl around each other. Ever hear a drum kit swirl? You have now. MANAS is like a perpetual motion machine, gaining momentum the more it moves, thermodynamics be damned. Although isn’t that the whole premise of magic anyway, unnatural bending of the laws of the universe? I’m going to have to do some more research on that.

Both tapes are out in editions of 100. Get em right now!

Koster – MASC
5.19.18 by Ryan Masteller

Guys, this one’s going to be tricky. Not only is Köster’s “MASC” the soundtrack to an experimental dance piece (which I HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN), but there’s some hefty baggage being shouldered here by both the dancers and the Tallinn-based DJ (Tallinn’s in Estonia, if you needed some help with that; I had to look it up). Hypermasculinity is not a laughing matter, and violence toward women (and men) is simply unconscionable. But that’s sort of the point of the “MASC” dance performance, along with the idea that the behavior accompanying its mindset has penetrated “gay culture and homoeroticism.” These practices, normally “associated with heterosexual cis-gender men,” are here filtered through “an LGBT prism.” Also tricky is that I identify as a cis white heterosexual male, and so missing some nuance is going to be a thing that I’m simply going to have to admit to right up front, because who knows. But this cis white heterosexual male knows how to enjoy the crap out of almost any artistic endeavor, no matter the audience, no matter the perspective, and so therefore I’m all hepped up on goofballs about this thing, some parts more than others, but still. Remember, though, I can’t SEE it.

Some of “MASC” might be strange without the visual accompaniment; for example, long stretches of “Hatching” simply beg for visual stimulus, especially in the stark contrast to hits like “Club 1” and “Club 2,” obvious slabs of strobey techno crafted with the titular location in mind. (That’s “the club,” just in case you missed it.) Still, “Hatching” bears connotative relation to the idea of emergence, of issuing forth from a previous iteration of what one was previously, its relative silence and primordial gathering of its constituent parts a formative soundscape ripe for interpretive movement. Is that emergence into an LGBT community of some sort? Does “the club” represent the predatory ideas of hypermasculinity, a toxic pitfall for the newly curious hatchling? “The Hook Up” and “Rituals” suggest in their stasis (i.e., relative rhythm-less states) that there’s a period of adjustment, and this is where the cavalier sexuality surely takes its toll on the protagonist. “Hypermasc” ends the cycle with more center-cut techno, but to what end? To overcoming violence? To perpetuating the cycle?

We can only turn to an unseen performance for answers we may never have.

But we will always have this tape to keep the conversation going.

That is, of course, if I don’t drop it in the sink while I’m washing dishes or erase it while I casually stroll past the industrial magnet at the demolition yard where I work.

Anyhoo, delight yourself in “MASC” from the fine folks at Crash Symbols. Remind yourself while listening that men of all stripes are awful. Take this cue to be better somehow.