Do you find music that functions solely as a cold, academic exploration of sound boring and irritating? Good. That means you’re normal. Move on, and don’t let your life be troubled by these unpleasant sound-theorems. If, however, you’re like me, and have somehow become wrongheaded enough to think that sounds like a fun Friday night (or Thursday, whatever), then you probably want to click the link below.
I am fucking blown away and you need to get this right now.
Been a while since I listened to this but I think it was pretty good in the twitchy way these sort of things are.
Free jazz is dead, long live free jazz.
Want to listen to low-pitched, gravelly rumbling and crackling for an hour? No, no, you probably don’t. Nevertheless, here is some of that.
You say you like Minimalism? Prove it.
nou pda tes, perhaps, would also have been a suitable title for this blog. In any case, this album is a classic if there ever was one. The pinnacle of freak folk, in my book. You should already have it, but if you somehow don’t, prepare for a treat.
How this album hasn’t been canonized long ago and, in fact, remains painfully obscure, utterly baffles me. This is really something you have to hear for yourself, but I suppose I should at least try to give an impression of what it’s like. So, okay. Structurally, it’s an album of gritty, meandering, stories of the seedy side of Cleveland (although it could really be any large city in the pre-Disneyfication NYC mold) couched in avant-chamber-rock arrangements. Also, there’s a vignette about cat shit.
Let’s wallow in filth a little longer thus. Brainbombs play sleazy, saxophone-accented garage punk through a haze of chloroform and this is their best album. Great to listen to the next time you go out at 4 a.m. looking for prostitutes to murder.
An absolute undeniable classic, and also about the only thing I can bring myself to listen to on the cheap, shrill earbuds I’ve been stuck with the past couple days. Very appropriate, too, given recent events.
