Consafos - Tilting at Windmills

Greyday Productions



Rating: 6/10

Originally formed in Los Angeles in 2000 and currently established in Omaha, Consafos is a nicotine-stained, feminine and more ethereal version of Tindersticks - but where Stuart Staples manages to create little pockets of gravity for his gloomy vocals to travel, this Midwest five-piece ensemble takes the path of least resistance when it comes to placing the various elements together. They are well-intentioned, but sadly on Tilting at Windmills they become fossilized a little too soon.

Whenever “On and On” emerges from the stereo, it feels like they’ve just returned from a private lesson from no less than Hope Sandoval; its sepia-driven, folksy feel segues into the beautiful trumpet solo, but afterwards sounds amorphous and deviant that it’s difficult to see the intended direction. By the time the title track evolves with the gentle violin and the vibraphone, you have come up with the band’s underlying equation: Consafos’ interest grows in inverse proportion to the amount of influences they leave behind.

Sadly, most of the time they seem too attached to a background that guides, but also limits, their choices. In fact, Stefanie Drootin’s vocals - unnervingly reminiscent of Neko Case and Margo Timmins (Cowboy Junkies) - send these acoustic gems to the stratosphere, but for rotten pay. Also a member of Bright Eyes and The Good Life, the vocalist tames the apparently untamed drooling effect of her lyrics by seducing and deducing a whole universe from her front porch.

The spell is nevertheless broken when “Chelsea’s Got a Knife” reveals its telluric existence at the last minute. Add to this the harmonica on “Wide Eyed”, which reconfigures all established priorities and sends the listener back to the misty forest; by then it’s too late to haunt and confuse the hangers on. Consafos succeed in showing the path to light, but they finish this illumination after the fourth or fifth song; every latter attempt to walk the same way sounds false, like an anathema to the correct fruition of this work.

From “Broken Record” on, the album enters an infatuated state of epiglottal trance that infuriates any listener who fell in love at first sight. For the second half of this, the band repeats itself, sounding like margin walkers with way less charm than previously shown. Only Laura Watral’s violin is truly necessary and irreplaceable, salvaging the tone. Over all, this should have been an EP instead of a full-length, as sometimes, half the duration means double the delight.

http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=153367602542b559ee8f2a7

A Hawk and a Hacksaw - Darkness at Noon

The Leaf Label



Rating: 9/10

Shuffling through Eastern European flavours, Jeremy Barnes unleashes sections of tape recordings and spits out clumsy fragments of found and augmented noise in his most recent inception as A Hawk and a Hacksaw. Drummer for Neutral Milk Hotel’s instantly recognized record, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, Barnes doesn’t cash in on the myth of the weird fuzz-folk scene; instead he chooses to punctuate his accordion-playing with moments of near-silence, efficiently applying the principles of some sort of musical renaissance.

The residual aura of appeal enclosed in Darkness at Noon - in case you were able to stomach and fully comprehend “Laughter in the Dark”, the texturally-detailed first track - is its close reverence to a rural America – a far way from being commonsensical here. Words, almost inexistent in this record, seem to accidentally tumble from lips, as if warning you that this is a listening process to be deflowered petal by petal, with extra care. At times, it may seem like more of Emir Kusturica’s political lip service, addressed as gypsy-driven memorabilia, but this is a sound work bound to put a spell on you once you lend your ear to it.

“For Slavoj”, for instance, is a track that carries the whole world inside. Expanding from early well-ventilated strings, it builds towards a central point of overwhelming physicality, personified by all instruments resonating where the aural dots – appropriately connected – bleed into those of visual language. You get a picture of a ceremony taking place in the Balkans - especially when beautiful chants spring out and inflame your senses, pilling bricks of gravitational laments into a carefully built wall of call-and-response melodies.

Unlike some of Yann Tiersen’s achievements, particularly those shared by Shannon Wright earlier this year, Jeremy Barnes succeeds in going past the casual oddities he finds in the way; he goes back and forth with his carousel-like slow rhythms and builds up cells of world music that only exist in dreams. “Pastelka on the Train” indivertibly shows what a mariachi ensemble would sound like if they toured around the far-eastern part of Europe. In a word: challenging.

The next track, “Goodbye Great Britain”, is a glitch-fuelled number, whose reminiscence of New York-raised prodigal sons might make one or two wince, even if it doesn’t exceed the two-minute mark. In fact, the eruption of these unconventional parameters occurs in inverse proportion to an adjusted deglutition of the whole work, but Jeremy Barnes soon redeems himself with a puzzled “Wicky Pocky” and a get together with his roots throughout “Portlandtown”.

For some, this whole thing would be a shambles - particularly by someone who has worked with Neutral Milk Hotel (and their confessed love for Anne Frank) - but this is coherent with Barnes’ other projects and collaborations, from Guignol to Oliver Tremor Control. As far as I’m concerned, Darkness at Noon is the most exciting record to be put out this semester, and is definitely more suited to a stuffy bar - located in the Balkans or even in Texas - than the moronic paraphernalia of any commercial radio’s meagre playlist.

http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=136883219242b414801ac4a

Populous - Queue for Love

2005



Morr Music/Flur

Não estaremos todos um bocado fartos do Improv, do noise e de fazer barulho for the sake of it? Há qualquer coisa de tremendamente umbiguista nos retalhos de som que vão tecendo a manta do nosso contentamento ou do contentamento deles, dos críticos e dos músicos. Começa a faltar paciência para as “descobertas” da editora Kranky de cassetes perdidas nos 90 dos Charalambides. Vão estar ainda de rabo alçado, sempre a fuçar, antes de perceberem que a fonte secou ou então não tarda. O mesmo se passa com o hip-hop progressista. Descobriu-se ali uma galinha dos ovos de ouro e vai de lançar coisas a eito, sem qualquer preocupação estetizante. Por isso, também o hip-hop de fragmentos é tão do ano passado.

Dose One é um repetente nisto mas com cátedra assegurada na divisão do alt-hop. Assim se percebe que Populous, produtor italiano a tentar a sorte nesse comprimento de onda, o tenha convidado para espalhar poesia falada numa das faixas do novo disco. E é logo na segunda, “My Winter Vacation”, que é para o ouvinte morder o isco. Aquele hiss de cassete, aquela nebulosidade toda, aquelas palavras circulares lembram qualquer coisa. Que saudades de quando se fazia hip-hop de serviço comunitário, com o credo a desfazer-se em rimas. Há pouco gueto a explorar no Pro Tools.

Mesmo “Hip-hop Cocotte”, que parecia de início desviar-se para a velha guarda, é explorada por Andrea Mangia com o mesmo aparato de circum-navegação das electrónicas de bolso ou laptop. Também há o empréstimo vocal de Matilde Davoli em dois temas, “Bunco” e “Clap Like Breeze”, a tactear a folk, a tingir de luz um quarteirão maquínico. Ainda se safa a penúltima “Canoe Canoa”, que deixa à mostra linhas de guitarra, recortes analógicos, superfícies adocicadas pelo dedilhar humano.

Mas o som demasiado glitch de Queue for Love torna-o objecto de uma hibridez que não sabe encontrar resposta corpórea para a excessiva colonização das máquinas. Dá para animar noites lounge e golpear dias de rotina chata mas pouco mais. Foi uma oportunidade perdida.

http://www.bodyspace.net/album.php?album_id=457

Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Paraiso U.F.O. - Born to Be Wild in the U.S.A. 2000

Wabana



Rating: 7/10

Music used to be a communal thing, and still is in some cases. From the work songs that - along with the blues, the protestant spirituals and ragtime - gave birth to jazz, to the traditional rituals of yesteryear and everyday based on deep-rooted cultures, music is addressed in a public manner. Nevertheless, Internet and the proliferation of freeform radio stations have created an individual appeal and most musicians who share a common, ever-growing ground have dropped off the public radar.

Sometimes mistaken for a religious congregation, Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Paraiso U.F.O. (Underground Freak Out) is Japanese guitarist Mokoto Kawabata’s collective ensemble. He founded the Temple in 1996 to pursue the paths of such heavyweights as avant-garde prominent Karlheinz Stockhausen, psychedelic and progressive gems and the Krautrock heritage personified by the German eccentrics Faust, just to name a few. Before forming the band - allegedly to give room for unknown musicians to record and release their work - Kawabata had already received plaudits for his guitar additions to other projects.

Originally released as a cassette, then leaked to a 1000 copies-limited edition LP, Born to Be Wild in the U.S.A. 2000, now properly remastered as a CD, documents part of the Temple’s American tour that year. It does so unleashing sonic prophecies that are well worth the price value of the record, keeping a precarious balance between the fudged bass played by Atsushi Tsuyama and left hanging pendulously around tracks like “Pink Lady Lemonade” and “Speed Guru”. The hard-edged vector of 13-minute “La Novia” cuts through the twitching feel of the rest of the disc, remaining half-cooked and engrossing a crowd of advancing zombies to their following.

Most progressive acts take pains to dismiss any link to the unknown and take comfort in nurturing a (sometimes fake) sympathy for the devil, but Kawabata’s troupe is completely different. Being Japanese, they don’t renegade the spiritual prism of perception they grew up with. At certain points, notably in records like last year’s Mantra of Love, it feels like psychedelic journeys are painted in a more tainted hue when shone through the pyramid of their spiritual selves. They even finish this record with a track called “God Bless AMT”, feeding constant highbrow allusions to folksy mystical endeavors. Before listening, take note: it is advisable to delve into other Japanese fellow musicians like Ghost and Nagisa Ni Te in order to fully comprehend Acid Mothers Temple’s DNA.

http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=132650370042a30dfed5ba7

Os Bravos Não Têm Descanso, de Alain Guiraudie

França / Áustria, 2003

Temos a imagem do penúltimo sono, sonha-se e depois morre-se. Mas sabe-se: um dia vamos ter que acabar por dormir. É um filme de vigília em permanente rota de colisão com os filmes de vigília orientados para o segmento pré-adolescente. O protagonista foi beber um copo e só voltou dois meses depois, em Agosto, queixa-se a mãe. Souleilhes é uma aldeia pacata onde morreram vinte pessoas numa noite, assassinadas.

Há cenas de uma ironia mordaz, como aquela em que um rapaz toca guitarra e outro ordenha as cabras. Ou quando, pela inércia, o autocarro pára e o rapaz é projectado pelo vidro da frente (que não existe). A cena de sexo na mesa de bilhar, as cores inebriantes, estamos à superfície dos sonhos, geografia de todos os desejos e luxúrias. A conversa à janela, uma vela atrás, com um vizinho. Planos quentes.

Basile é o rapaz que não dorme porque não pode. Mas arranja forma de descansar um pouco. Se puser o despertador para daí a algumas horas, acorda e aquele não será o seu último sono. Johnny Got é o outro, preso a um baloiço por alegadamente ter roubado bolinhas vermelhas. E há ainda Igor. Há um que repete as perguntas que lhe fazem. E depois há cidades imaginárias como Bairoute.

Um ano depois regressa, o filho pródigo. A mãe queixa-se, claro. Mas só não o viu porque não procurou por ele. O plano de fecho dos três amigos, com a ficha técnica a passar, é qualquer coisa de inenarrável.