Sparkling Wide Pressure – Love ov Love

1.15.19 by Ryan Masteller

I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes …

The latest lovefest from Sparkling Wide Pressure is an actual paean to actual love, like Frank Baugh’s been hanging out at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport around the holidays or something. More likely he’s been hanging out around the arrivals gate at Nashville International Airport, a 45-minute drive from my brother’s house in Murfreesboro, where Baugh also lives. Come to think of it, why on earth would he want to hang out at NIA? Totally pointless.

Metta meditation. That’s where it comes from, inner peace; also communion with family, friends, loved ones, the earth, the trees, the sky. “Love ov Love” doesn’t take the easy route of simply being a warm blanket, though; instead, it rummages around the corners of love and explores its intricacies, teasing out complex feelings. Utilizing a variety of acoustic and electronic instrumentation along with the human voice (for the most human of feelings), Sparkling Wide Pressure winds a bunch of disparate and fascinating elements together. At times dense and at others weightless, “Love ov Love” is a fascinating examination. There comes a time on the title track, which closes the album, when you realize that you CAN just let it wash over you, the acoustic guitar and the organ/synth/whatever tones. It’s a captivating moment.

It’s a Sparkling Wide Pressure moment. We should be used to those by now.

Pink translucent tape in an edition of 30 available from SWP himself. Maybe a Kimberly Dawn release (kimdawn062), but didn’t Frank shutter that label in 2016?

Hallucinogenic Bulb – Pulsating

1.13.19 by Ryan Masteller

What runs down the storm drains in Philly has to penetrate the water table, suggesting a mass psychotic break within the city’s population whose balance is only achieved because of the totality of the mass psychotic break. Sometimes the balance shifts – who throws batteries at Santa Claus? (lazy reference); sometimes it evens out (the 2008 World Series). Always Philadelphia is stigmatized.

Hallucinogenic Bulb harnesses the psychosis. What seeps into the water table seeps into the Bulb, the Bulb churns, the Bulb becomes radioactive, the Bulb decays in a glowing terminal half-life. Pulsating with gritty, indigenous fervor, “Pulsating” emanates outward in an unthinking, unmenacing wave of sheer poison atmosphere, its directionless, nonprejudicial molecular makeup breaking down all normal cognitive functions in its path. It doesn’t mean to do this; it’s just there, and we are not adapted to withstand it.

Hallucinogenic Bulb wields “Pulsating” like its own mutated mascot, a rallying cry to embrace the delusion, to normalize this waking southeastern Pennsylvania nightmare. It seeps from the water table to our blood, our hearts, our brains, polluting the whole shebang of our personalities till we’re iceball-chucking weirdos with an affinity for unprovoked hysteria. Are we now part of a growing army of transmuted monsters, our daily existence distorted by psychedelic transmissions?

Want to find out?

Edition of 50 from those PA purveyors of pulverizing power: Orb Tapes.

Takahiro Mukai – The Passion of Vojtek

1.11.19 by Ryan Masteller

[Looks around, scared.]

There was a bear, a real one.* They brought him from Iran, and, I don’t know, thought that he’d be fun to have around? It was a bear. How much fun could that possibly be?

[Takes deep drag from hand-rolled cigarette. Pinky finger flicks away tobacco fleck from bottom lip. Eyes look up, dart at noise of creaking chair; gaze returns to lap.]

It was wartime, what do I know? What does anybody know, it was crazy, it was crazy. There was a bear, and they named him Vojtek, and the only way they could bring him home was to conscript him. They were fools! Sure, he helped us move ammunition boxes around, he was useful for a while, but things began to change. They just began to shift, I dunno. Maybe it was the salmon drought, maybe it was the honey famine – look, all I know is that Vojtek grew more and more unruly, …

[Wipes brow, quickly takes short drag from cigarette, drums table with nervous fingers.]

And the blood! Oh the blood…

[Sobs.]

[Composes himself.]

I thought I had forgotten it. I thought I had forgotten the passion of Vojtek, but then, there’s this cassette tape! What do I do with this?

[Picks up tape, holds it out accusingly before slamming it back down onto the table, cracking off the connecting hinge of the Norelco case.]

Takahiro Mukai wasn’t even there. He wasn’t even there, yet he mocks us with this document, this “composition,” and I can’t sleep – I CAN’T SLEEP – and all the while I read these numbers and hear these clinical electronic sounds and I feel like I’m part of some kind of laboratory experiment, some kind of drug trial! What more do you want from me? Why can’t I leave?

[Stops. Takes a deep breath, then another long tug on the cigarette. Rubs bloodshot eyes.]

Oscillations. These rhythmic patterns conform to the dance of death, the “Passion of Vojtek” [Plaża Zachodnia] that I bore witness to. He snapped, he slaughtered my comrades, and it was so workmanlike, so mechanical. Takahiro Mukai is so removed, so far removed.

[Looks up. Eyes fix mine. A sliver of a grin appears at the corner of his mouth.]

But there is beauty in the dance, in the performance, in the ritual destruction. Does art imitate action here, or is the action informed by the art? Mukai…

[Shakes head.]

Brilliant. Counterbalanced. Surgical. No chaos, just containment, inevitability. He is juxtaposed against the proceedings, and the proceedings do not disappoint in their importance. There is one thing that I do know about all this, that I shake my head at every time I think about it: we should never have brought that bear back with us. Never.

[Lifts cigarette to lips. Inhales.]

*This account is an alternate universe representation of the story of Vojtek the bear. In our current historical timeline, Vojtek is much nicer and doesn’t kill anyone.

Various Artists – Splixtape
1.9.19 by Ryan Masteller

We take notice sometimes. We don’t have our heads so far crammed into the earth like ostriches that we are unaware of unusual instances that happen outside of our immediate frame of reference. No matter how often or how thoroughly some of us clean the HQ studio or pat ourselves on the back for it, our job remains the same: to report back to you on the rare and exciting occurrences coming to a boil on the hot stove of independent underground tape culture. We are heroes, in a sense.

And so it is today that we have something rare and exciting – a new tape label, fresh-faced and enthusiastic, not at all ground down yet by the rigors of its operation. Hypnic Jerk (great name) out of Birmingham, Alabama, a place I only know because I pass its exit sometimes on 75 when I’m heading north (otherwise the whole of Alabama is just a peripheral dream to me), is looking ahead to a perfectly stupendous 2019. In this season of year-end lists and other ephemeral nostalgic nonsense, Hypnic Jerk slides “Splixtape” across the counter with an icky wink, ensuring that they’ve made some kind of impression on us music writers who now wearily have to create a “2019 year-end list” Excel doc before 2018 even kicks the bucket.

But we’re not all such a cynical bunch (OK, sure we are, who am I kidding), so it is with some semblance of seasonal joy that I can report “Splixtape” is ACTUALLY worth starting up a new best-of list – its five tracks by four artists expand like atoms across the expanse after some bang of a big type. All four are legends in the long-form guitar/synthesizer evolution field, and all step up big time and deliver: Prana Crafter, ragenap, Tarotplane, and Horse Apples keep you hanging on every second of “Splixtape,” hoping against hope that you drift forever on their vibes. Ranging from celestial ambient to overdriven post rock (guitar only), you’ll find something for every itch you’ll ever need to scratch. Unless of course that itch is some sort of hip hop, metal, indie rock, R&B, vaporwave, EDM, Cheesecake, Afrobeat, etc. itch… that’s actually a lot of itches. You should go to the doctor.

You may have to wait till February 6 for the physicals to drop, but you can enjoy streaming “Splixtape” on Hypnic Jerk’s Bandcamp page right freaking now!

Forget the Times – Winter Haven
1.8.19 by Ryan Masteller

Forget the Times is dangerous. Sure, their freeform skronk is as serrated and jagged and explosive as it gets, and the “collective” happens to employ one of their own for “guitar processing” (Josh Miller; core dudes Sean Hartman on guitar/tenor sax and Andrew Buczek on drums round out the band on this release), so you know it’s going to be at least a little noisy, a little unpredictable, a little perilous. Listen at your own risk kind of stuff. It’s up to you to chance it.

But Forget the Times is also sneaky, dropping a little botany lesson on us as they whip themselves into a frenzy over two long tracks, one per side, improvised to within an inch of chaotic self-destruction. (I can’t stress this enough – this is the kind of energetic output that caused all those Spinal Tap drummers to spontaneously combust; I’d be careful if I were Forget the Times.) On “Nasturtium Blues,” they’re down about this little edible thing (because “blues” signifies that something’s got you down). Maybe one of them had a urinary tract infection and nasturtium wasn’t doing it for them? Those infections are painful – I don’t blame anybody for savagely jamming for seventeen minutes because they were pissed at how bad one of them hurt. (Oops, shouldn’t say “piss” in this situation I guess!)

“Bergamot Swirl” is a psychedelic examination of the bergamot orange, a green, Ionian Sea lime-looking number that “tastes less sour than a lemon, but more bitter than a grapefruit.” First, I thought oranges were orange, so can someone clear that up please? Second, I like lemons and grapefruits, so I’ll be sure to try one of these when I can. Anybody brewing IPAs or anything with bergamots? Mixing them into smoothies? “Bergamot Swirl” is the sonic equivalent of the results of chugging a bergamot smoothie on a dare.

See? Dangerous: Forget the Times wants us to eat our fruits and our vegetables. And how’s Big Sugar gonna take that? Not sitting down, that’s for sure not how.

Avoid scurvy this wither over at NULL|Z0NE as they maintain some kind of healthy eating propaganda machine through sound. Edition of 50!

Dechirico – Please Don’t Let the Universe End Just Yet
1.7.19 by Ryan Masteller

This is the exact body of the email I wrote to my congressman just a couple of months ago:

Dear Congressman:

Please don’t let the universe end just yet.

Sincerely,
Ryan

How in the world did Dechirico know? How could there possibly have been overlap? Did Dechirico have access to my emails? Did I forget to properly password-protect my server? This could be a big deal – there’s been a lot of talk lately about the importance of emails and server safety. I don’t want to go to prison or anything.

Also in my email:

Dear Congressman:

Do you like krautrock? If you listened to some krautrock, maybe you’d mellow out a little bit.

Sincerely,
Ryan

… You’re seeing this too, right? I’m not going crazy? Look, we live in some strange times, but this is a little too close to the mark for my liking. How does Dechirico know I dig krautrock to such a degree that I’d risk making a fool of myself in front of my own congressman? And it’s true: I listen to Neu! an awful lot. Tangerine Dream. The old Vangelis stuff. Kraftwerk, duh. And Dechirico loves all these bands too, you can totally tell. Gleaming metallic rhythms, futuristic synthesizers, beauty in repetition. But there’s something about “Universe” that’s different, something fundamental that sets it apart …

It’s humanness.

That’s right, Dechirico has blood pumping in actual veins that lead to an actual heart; lungs inhale oxygen and exhale carbon monoxide. There’s a brain in which synapses fire instructions to various body parts. Chances are that Dechirico is either eating, sleeping, or taking a dump right at this very moment. Now THAT’S human. So instead of passionless robots, we’ve got a pulse, an emotive center in a being that cares just enough that it requests of someone, something to allow the universe to exist for just a little while longer. Maybe there’s something Dechirico has to do, or something Dechirico has to tell someone. At any rate, we can thank Dechirico for addressing this important question, putting it in writing, in song, right out there for anyone to heed.

Now, if someone could only reach the cold steel mechanism my congressman calls a heart, that would be great.

Grippity grip this tippity tip [tape] from Bonding Tapes!

The Last Ambient Hero – Under the Same Sky
1.4.19 by Ryan Masteller

Armed with superior skill, our hero returns – The Last Ambient Hero, a superbeing gifted with the ability to create the densest and most intricate ambient soundscapes humanity has ever heard. Deploying “Under the Same Sky” from a hidden base in Manchester, England, the LAH seeks to defeat the crushing evil of indifference, the vast villainy of boredom, the insidious machinations of only-half-paying-attention. How, you say, can only one person fight the good fight against the wickedness of subpar ambient music? How can a single entity pry the attention of world’s masses from EDM and Mariah Carey? The Last Ambient Hero has a secret weapon in his toolbelt: tape loops.

Employing this newfound technique over the length of an EP, the LAH blankets the earth with magnetic rain, coating the planet with a calming atmosphere of soft drones and gently shifting synthesizer patches. Thus the population falls under a benevolent trance, drifting through existence encased pleasantly in a vaporous cocoon of tone. We are all “Under the Same Sky,” as it were, no longer influenced by gritty or agitating music, no longer staring blankly into the depths of Muzak hell. I think we’ll have to call this newfound utility of the LAH’s a success – I’m certainly having a better day because of the great work of the Last Ambient Hero.

“Under the Same Sky” is available in an edition of 20 from the Hero’s own Bandcamp page.

SqrtSigil – Lost In
1.4.19 by Ryan Masteller

I wrote a story where small synthetic animals scurried across the floor of a digital jungle, foraging, rummaging, hiding from predators, generally doing things normal small animals do on a jungle floor except these ones weren’t real. SqrtSigil helped me out, helped me to visualize whatever the heck was nagging me about these creatures, providing the audio to my imagination and the universe these things lived in. I barely had to break a sweat with the text of the thing – the sounds did all the heavy lifting for me. In fact, I finished what I was writing just as “Lost In” came to a close, and as I looked at my computer screen, I was surprised to see the open Word document in front of me was as blank as a Tabs Out Podcast script! I had imagined the whole thing, even writing the whole thing. I was pretty embarrassed about it. Still am.

I’m definitely NOT embarrassed about allowing SqrtSigil the opportunity to take over my waking life for approximately forty minutes. The Polish artist’s synthesizer work burrows into your brain, like tiny critters burrowing into the fresh, moist loam of the jungle floor. There they work, sleep, play, eat, shit, procreate, and survive, just like SqrtSigil’s bustling, forever-active sound experiments. Like a demented NatGeo documentary score, “Lost In” fills in the sonic accoutrements of the action, ever-shifting as digital nature takes its course, its inhabitants’ codes executing and rewriting themselves as life unfolds. Tactile and fully present, “Lost In” is as fascinating to listen to as it is to participate in – that is, if you’re watching what I’m watching in my head, and you can’t help yourself but to start exploring that jungle too.

You better act fast if you want one of the 33 copies from Szara Reneta – there are only four left!

Linden Pomeroy & Nicholas Langley – Are We Not Drawn Onward to New Era
1.3.19 by Ryan Masteller

The answer is, no. But then again, if we really, truly consider the trajectory of society, if we squint very, very hard, it becomes clearer that we may, indeed, be inching toward that “new era.” A heretofore unrealized new era, an evolution toward utopian existence. A rejection of the damaging arc on which we’re spinning out of control. A glad embrace of reason and kindness and forgiveness that will truly push us forward as a species. A golden age of health and prosperity for all humankind.

Do I believe any of that? The answer is also, no.

Then why do Linden Pomeroy and Third Kind Records label head Nicholas Langley insist upon it? Perhaps it’s because the “new era” is simply different than the old, not necessarily better. It would explain the somewhat hesitant, distant tone they strike on “Are We Not Drawn Onward to New Era,” a collection of ten experimental ambient meditations that marks Third Kind Records’s final foray into releasing music until some-bloody-time in the (hopefully) near-future. Not to mention that side B plays side A in reverse, as if it’s a philosophical study in perspective and perception. And time manipulation. Time manipulation is certainly a part of it.

Through processed field recordings and hazy sonic constructions and downright poignant moments of clarity and cynicism and beauty (depending on where you’re standing), Pomeroy and Langley wipe the memory of 2018 with an emotive bang, a wire scrub to the brainpan that has us all pointing in a new direction, toward that “new era.” Could that “new era” be a more positive 2019, which leers at us provocatively from the other side of December 31? My guess: not remotely – I expect more of the goddamned same.

Oh well! We still have this awesome tape, “a red and white C74 with red shell print and cover art by Karen Constance” in an edition of forty. Nine left from the label!

New Batch – Personal Archives
12.27.18 by Ryan Masteller

A hundred and frickin twenty-seven releases in, Personal Archives should be the name on the tip of everyone’s tongue when you start talking about longevity in the tape scene. (Already Dead notwithstanding – we’ll get to them in a minute.) So why is it that I have to keep reminding you with these posts, huh? Shouldn’t you have this down by now? Bob Bucko Jr. curates a strong stable of interesting and inventive artists, cajoling them to record and collaborate and mix it up a little, have some fun, hitch a ride on the back of a garbage truck when no one’s looking. Live a little, why don’tcha. Read these first, though.

 

Cop Funeral – lo quality self-value
This is who I was talking about: Joshua Tabbia runs Already Dead, and Already Dead runs circles around the competition for sheer release volume. But that’s not why we’re here – Joshua also records as Cop Funeral, a melancholy drone project that gives heartache its ambient soundtrack. Just look at the two song titles here, one lengthy piece for each side of the tape: “she challenged everything I knew about being a miserable person” and “buyer’s remorse,” each one playing spoiler for Cop Funeral’s mood with words like “miserable” and “remorse.” Sure, there’s introspective qualities there, glimmers of hope even, maybe, but if you’re stuck in a rut, look no further than Cop Funeral’s work. Actually, “lo quality self-value” itself is pretty descriptive, and if I’m being honest, you really have to squint to see that hope glimmer. But still, we’re here for the challenge, and as usual, Cop Funeral makes the passage worthwhile.

 

James McKain – The Detectives
I’m WATCHING them, get it? No, sorry, no more Elvis Costello dad jokes today, I’m too tired. I’ve been on the beat, see, staking out joints and following up leads. Shaking down suspects. Getting to the bottom of mysteries. Peering menacingly out from under the brim of my fedora. That’s what I feel like I’ve been doing all day when listening to James McKain’s “The Detectives,” a cycle of mournful solo sax that will make you turn your collar up against the wind and rain as you walk under streetlamps at night. No good reviewer will avoid the word “noir” in their writeup, because the film noir street vibe pouring from McKain is unmistakable. Take this smattering of track titles, for instance: “Even Angels Burn Out,” “Mott Street Breakdown,” “Aces,” “Some Real Soprano Shit, Buddy,” and “Alley Cats.” You’re there, right? In the story? In your imagination? If you’re not, “The Detectives” will help you get there.

 

Michael Foster and Dane Rousay – Mail & Tool & Turmoil
“YOU manipulate this object!” “No, YOU do it!” I can only imagine the arguments between these two, neither of them wanting to use the wood block or the junky old shaker they found in their parents’ basement. Nothing remotely like this probably happened, but you never know – what we DO know is that objects were manipulated, and drums and saxophones were played. I’m gonna venture that friendships were, in fact, maintained. Foster and Rousay’s recordings here exhibit the utmost restraint as they explore the space between their playing and the instruments themselves, focusing solely on the mood of the room – which sometimes necessitates bursting into dank bebop, of course. I love it when that happens.

 

One More Final I Need You – A Plea
“You who build these altars now, to sacrifice these children, you must not do it anymore.” Thank you! I was waiting for someone to say that, because it’s getting pretty ridiculous, people dying for ridiculous reasons (everybody’s somebody’s child). “A Plea” pleads (because that’s what pleas do) for sanity, all while illustrating the insanity we need the sanity to replace. Taylor Campbell (guitar), Landon Deaton (drums), PA label head Bob Bucko Jr. (tenor sax), and Eli Smith (laptop, electronics) pool their resources for their release as One More Final I Need You, colliding their combined expertise to explode out two live improv sessions. Their manic energy is infectious, and invigorating, even as they plow through tunes titled “Wrong Longings” and “A Child’s Body.” Obviously, OMFINY retains some dead-centered and rigid seriousness as they flail without abandon, playing off each other with intense glee. THAT’S the way you deliver a message.