I decided to move my blog to Tumblr because it's a lot easier to embed mp3s and videos, and a lot easier to manage a design that I like. Here 'tis FM DUST: the Tumblr version. I will do the Tumblr thing of posting visual non-sequitirs and all that on occasion (as weird as that whole culture makes me feel), but I PROMISE I will keep writing substantial things, as well, at LEAST as often as I ever have here. Don't forget to check the FM DUST WEBSITE regularly for new tapes and fun stuff. Thanks, dudes...
-Dustin K.
5/18/10
5.17.2010
3.08.2010
NOTE TO PEOPLE WHO WANT TO GIVE ME MONEY
Hey everyone! I've noticed some links floating around the internet saying that this is where you come to order FM DUST label product (ie., the Campfires/Benoit Pioulard split, Teenage Tit, etc.). This was once the case, but is no longer so. Please follow the link below and feel free to give me all the money you feel like throwing around:
HTTP://WWW.FMDUST.COM
Thanks, and I look forward to your money. Real update coming soon here...
///Dustin K.
3/8/10
HTTP://WWW.FMDUST.COM
Thanks, and I look forward to your money. Real update coming soon here...
///Dustin K.
3/8/10
2.02.2010
Sweet Georgia PHWEEEEEEEEEEET!
Ethel Romelfanger. Man, it doesn't roll off the tongue so much as stumble and start yelling expletives. I mean, I ain't makin' fun here... my last name IS Krcatovich, after all... but damned if that name's neither pragmatic nor aesthetically pleasing (in a conventional sense, you see).
All the better, then, that that is the name behind my favorite record I've heard so far this year (Sten Hanson has an LP in the running for same, but I'll get back to that some other time). Brass Whistles Somers Steam Calliope (come to think of it, that doesn't roll off the tongue too easy, either) is like listening to everything great about humanity being evaporated into steam, then blown out of a series of... well, brass whistles. By way of steam calliope, I mean. Sorry, That wasn't a very good analogy, I guess...
photo by Patrick Pyne
I'll tell ya the truth. I've never made much of a practice of listening to steam calliope records. I know: weird, right? Some quick "research" (two minutes on Wikipedia) has yielded the understanding that, typically, the higher register of the instrument tends to have trouble staying in tune, a circumstance which makes the occasional bum note inevitable. This is a important for a couple reasons:
1) If the instrument on this record were perfectly in tune, then Ms. Romelfanger was in the wrong line of work, and I hate feeling like I'm laughing at people who are bad at their job, and
2) I need to hear every bit of steam calliope music ever committed to tape, because it makes me giddier than a 12-year-old girl at a Babysitters Club convention.
Let me explain: on this here platter (recorded at the Circus World Museum of Baraboo, WI), a tune will get going, and 90% chance it's gonna be a melody that everyone everywhere ever knows, like "Sweet Georgia Brown" or "Baby Elephant Walk". At first, it'll be tootin' along just fine. The low end sounds great, kinda like a buncha dudes playing tuned jugs together or something. The melody is going okay in the higher register, too, BUT THEN
"HONK!",
and you're all like, "Jesus, that was a sour note!", and then
"PHWEET!",
and you're like, "DANG! That's raw!". Y'know what, though? IT KEEPS ON LIKE THAT. Whole record. Every five seconds, that old dog (I mean the calliope, not Ethel) hits a note that is so far off the mark, shit's almost avant-garde. Doesn't get old, either. I could listen to this shit at least as often as I check out Astral Weeks, or anything else comparably "human" or "transcendent". Easy.
Seriously, I'm at a loss for words on this one. This record just makes me HAPPY. Like, Sammy Hagar happy (and that's SERIOUS, brother). If you're ever trucking through Baraboo, you'd be a damned fool not to do a quick thrift store sweep for this disc (or you could do the other thing and order it on CD here). Here's a quick piece to whet your whistle:
ROMELFANGER!!!!!
Okay, enough gushing for now. More soon. In the meantime, please visit the new FM DUST WEBSITE (unless you're epileptic... if so, I apologize). Ciao for now...
////Dustin K.
2/7/10
All the better, then, that that is the name behind my favorite record I've heard so far this year (Sten Hanson has an LP in the running for same, but I'll get back to that some other time). Brass Whistles Somers Steam Calliope (come to think of it, that doesn't roll off the tongue too easy, either) is like listening to everything great about humanity being evaporated into steam, then blown out of a series of... well, brass whistles. By way of steam calliope, I mean. Sorry, That wasn't a very good analogy, I guess...
photo by Patrick Pyne
I'll tell ya the truth. I've never made much of a practice of listening to steam calliope records. I know: weird, right? Some quick "research" (two minutes on Wikipedia) has yielded the understanding that, typically, the higher register of the instrument tends to have trouble staying in tune, a circumstance which makes the occasional bum note inevitable. This is a important for a couple reasons:
1) If the instrument on this record were perfectly in tune, then Ms. Romelfanger was in the wrong line of work, and I hate feeling like I'm laughing at people who are bad at their job, and
2) I need to hear every bit of steam calliope music ever committed to tape, because it makes me giddier than a 12-year-old girl at a Babysitters Club convention.
Let me explain: on this here platter (recorded at the Circus World Museum of Baraboo, WI), a tune will get going, and 90% chance it's gonna be a melody that everyone everywhere ever knows, like "Sweet Georgia Brown" or "Baby Elephant Walk". At first, it'll be tootin' along just fine. The low end sounds great, kinda like a buncha dudes playing tuned jugs together or something. The melody is going okay in the higher register, too, BUT THEN
"HONK!",
and you're all like, "Jesus, that was a sour note!", and then
"PHWEET!",
and you're like, "DANG! That's raw!". Y'know what, though? IT KEEPS ON LIKE THAT. Whole record. Every five seconds, that old dog (I mean the calliope, not Ethel) hits a note that is so far off the mark, shit's almost avant-garde. Doesn't get old, either. I could listen to this shit at least as often as I check out Astral Weeks, or anything else comparably "human" or "transcendent". Easy.
Seriously, I'm at a loss for words on this one. This record just makes me HAPPY. Like, Sammy Hagar happy (and that's SERIOUS, brother). If you're ever trucking through Baraboo, you'd be a damned fool not to do a quick thrift store sweep for this disc (or you could do the other thing and order it on CD here). Here's a quick piece to whet your whistle:
ROMELFANGER!!!!!
Okay, enough gushing for now. More soon. In the meantime, please visit the new FM DUST WEBSITE (unless you're epileptic... if so, I apologize). Ciao for now...
////Dustin K.
2/7/10
11.14.2009
Haunted Magic From The Underbelly Of Hog Heaven
Now, lookie here: there's no such thing as a review written sans personal bias. That shit is a myth. One could choose to try to swath the inherent bias of a review in "journalistic integrity" (a dubious prospect for the form, to say the least), or one can just come right on out and say "I feel this way about _______ because this is me, these are my personal experiences, and this is my opinion".
Ahem.
Haunted forest melancholia. I just came up with that! Who wants to give me money? Tiny Mixtapes, perhaps (do they even pay)? Anyway, that's the most evocative phrase I could come up with to describe Portland, OR's Ah Holly Fam'ly. If you see them in Portland, "chamber-folk" wouldn't be a wholly inappropriate descriptor, as they've been known to incorporate strings, brass, winds, and a bevy of odd percussion into their live sets over there. I'm hesitant to use that phrase, though, because it sounds like something I wouldn't like all that much, and brother, I fucking LOVE Ah Holly Fam'ly.
When I first met Ah Holly Fam'ly, they were living in Moscow (former town name: "Hog Heaven", swear to God), a lovely small town in the Idaho panhandle. Moscow was the second stop in a Greyhound bus tour/soul journey that I had embarked upon from Ann Arbor back in May 2005. My roommates, who had just been on a similar adventure and stopped in Moscow, said that I would love it there ("it's like 1/8 the size of Ann Arbor!"), and it was on the way to Seattle, so why not? My roommates helped me book a show at a house, Le Cold Lab, that had previously held shows for then-respectable-but-increasingly-famous acts like Animal Collective and Devendra Banhart. I took from this that a) it was basically the only game in town, but also b), it was not a bad game.
Good perception, that. Despite a brief feeling of being hornswaggled as the Dog rolled into town (the outer edge of Moscow greets you with the same vile Big Box horror landscape as pretty much anywhere else in the United States, which never bodes well for a decent show despite the fact that it's like that, y'know, everywhere), Moscow ca. 2005 indeed held up to its lofty promise. The people I met during my brief stay, in fact, could have justified the entire cross-country journey even if the rest of the tour had been a bust. I will forever treasure memories of drinking "Red Pabst" at a jam-band bar with James Victor Yeary, or collabo-jam painting in a garage with Brad Watkins and talking about his "noise art" concepts, or improvising music in the living room of Le Cold Lab as James read excerpts from Ionesco over the top (a clip of the latter can be heard towards the end of "Tender Shades Of Fuchsia And Greige", a track from my album Vive La Fantastique! Avec Actual Birds And Friends. Sorry for the scummy self-promotion, but it's relevant, at least...?).
Just as much, I will always treasure seeing Ah Holly Fam'ly for the first time. Their music, performed as a 3-piece that night (the core duo of Jeremy Faulkner and Becky Dawson, plus regular drummer Whitney Menzel), was simple, understated, and gorgeous. Every bit of the music was intriguing, every touch necessary. They incorporated potential novelties like banjo and washboard in a way that stripped them of all novelty value; they sounded like they simply HAD to be there. I am typically one for grand, gaudy strokes in my live shows (if you've ever seen me play, or fuck, if you read this blog at all, this should come as no surprise), but everything in Ah Holly Fam'ly's music was so organically, subtly placed that night that it seemed to grow out of the ground, or perhaps gently sway down from the trees above. It was quiet, it was subtle, but Jesus, was it potent!
A year and change after this lovely experience, I moved to Portland, OR. My old roommates weren't too far off regarding how I'd feel about Moscow, but still, I didn't see myself LIVING there; Portland, however, felt like a second home at the time. Whenever I'd visit PDX, there were all these moments of beauty and serendipity that... well, that require a whole other think piece (I threw that phrase in to piss off one of my best friends in the world. You're welcome, Alx) to really explore. Suffice it to say, Portland had a leg up over Moscow.
Apparently, all of my friends in Moscow had felt the same way, because virtually all of them trickled into Portland around the same time as myself. I saw Jeremy from afar at Vashti Bunyan's first U.S. performance a month after I'd arrived, but wasn't convinced that it was actually him until I saw a blurb for an Ah Holly Fam'ly show in the Portland Mercury the following week. I became reacquainted with the band at said show, at which point I found out that James and Brad were also moving to Portland. Wow! Half the people I wanted to be with in this world were going to be living in the same city. This was going to be great!
Well, it was and wasn't. That's another story. What WAS great was getting to see Ah Holly Fam'ly on a semi-regular basis. For awhile, they seemed to get better, more transcendent, with every show. They had, for most of these shows, swelled into a quintet (joined by Jeff Diteman and Morgan Hobart), but their sound, despite being mostly acoustic, sounded like that of a band twice their size. Even then, the grandiosity of their arrangements was always tempered by an almost crushing intimacy: I remember opening a beer can during a song once, and feeling like I had opened up a small black hole for ten seconds. Full, rapt attention is almost a prerequisite here, or at least, it should be. When my then-girlfriend and I started dating, they were one of two bands I bullied her into seeing that we both agreed were beyond excellent (which is saying something, given that she often thinks I'm a total 'tard about music).
When I moved back to Ann Arbor in the fall of 2007, The Moscow expat crew were almost definitely the first thing I missed about Portland. Sure, there's plenty of other great stuff about Portland, not much of it is magical. I'm pretty sure the music of Ah Holly Fam'ly is magical.
Before I moved, I offered to release an album for the band. Jeremy sent me an excellent recording entitled Your Body Will Become An Anchor, which circumstance prevented me from ever putting out, which WOULD be a goddamn crime against nature were it not currently available on CD through their website and at shows. Good news. Even better: this year, the good folk at Portland's Lucky Madison label have had the good sense to release their new album, "Reservoir", on CD and vinyl, finally immortalizing the band on God's chosen format. I would've loved to have the honor of same, but I just didn't have the hustle... still, who cares? I don't give a shit, and neither should you. Regardless of who put this record out, you should get it into your life ASAP. It's a damn stunner. The arrangements, the harmonies, the melodies, the lyrics... all this shit is almost eerily spot-on in a way that even a cynical, bent-eared idiot like myself can appreciate as simply GORGEOUS. It's like looking out over the Columbia Gorge or something... only a monumentally fucked person, I think, could experience this and not think it's lovely.
Okay, now I'm getting pushy, and yeah, I may be letting my critical guard fall to the wayside a LITTLE bit. Read: biased. Yes, it's true (full disclosure!!!): I do think of the people in this band as my friends. When Jeff's other band, the lovers duo The Areyoumadatme?s (with relatively recent Fam'ly addition Amelia Harnas), came through Ann Arbor this summer, they thoughtfully brought me a very nice bottle of Portland IPA even though they barely got paid to play; when Jeremy and Becky came through on tour earlier this week (with Ryne from Ohioan and their friend Nathan playing pick-up quite ably, an alternate version of the band made necesary given the economic realities of touring, which are not kind to what has swelled in Portland to an octet), I was just as happy to see them and chat with them as I was to actually see them play. If you choose to read all that, though, as reason to disregard my endorsement, you're only fucking yourself.
-Dustin K.
11/14/09
Ah Holly Fam'ly website
Ah Holly Fam'ly Myspace
Ahem.
Haunted forest melancholia. I just came up with that! Who wants to give me money? Tiny Mixtapes, perhaps (do they even pay)? Anyway, that's the most evocative phrase I could come up with to describe Portland, OR's Ah Holly Fam'ly. If you see them in Portland, "chamber-folk" wouldn't be a wholly inappropriate descriptor, as they've been known to incorporate strings, brass, winds, and a bevy of odd percussion into their live sets over there. I'm hesitant to use that phrase, though, because it sounds like something I wouldn't like all that much, and brother, I fucking LOVE Ah Holly Fam'ly.
When I first met Ah Holly Fam'ly, they were living in Moscow (former town name: "Hog Heaven", swear to God), a lovely small town in the Idaho panhandle. Moscow was the second stop in a Greyhound bus tour/soul journey that I had embarked upon from Ann Arbor back in May 2005. My roommates, who had just been on a similar adventure and stopped in Moscow, said that I would love it there ("it's like 1/8 the size of Ann Arbor!"), and it was on the way to Seattle, so why not? My roommates helped me book a show at a house, Le Cold Lab, that had previously held shows for then-respectable-but-increasingly-famous acts like Animal Collective and Devendra Banhart. I took from this that a) it was basically the only game in town, but also b), it was not a bad game.
Good perception, that. Despite a brief feeling of being hornswaggled as the Dog rolled into town (the outer edge of Moscow greets you with the same vile Big Box horror landscape as pretty much anywhere else in the United States, which never bodes well for a decent show despite the fact that it's like that, y'know, everywhere), Moscow ca. 2005 indeed held up to its lofty promise. The people I met during my brief stay, in fact, could have justified the entire cross-country journey even if the rest of the tour had been a bust. I will forever treasure memories of drinking "Red Pabst" at a jam-band bar with James Victor Yeary, or collabo-jam painting in a garage with Brad Watkins and talking about his "noise art" concepts, or improvising music in the living room of Le Cold Lab as James read excerpts from Ionesco over the top (a clip of the latter can be heard towards the end of "Tender Shades Of Fuchsia And Greige", a track from my album Vive La Fantastique! Avec Actual Birds And Friends. Sorry for the scummy self-promotion, but it's relevant, at least...?).
Just as much, I will always treasure seeing Ah Holly Fam'ly for the first time. Their music, performed as a 3-piece that night (the core duo of Jeremy Faulkner and Becky Dawson, plus regular drummer Whitney Menzel), was simple, understated, and gorgeous. Every bit of the music was intriguing, every touch necessary. They incorporated potential novelties like banjo and washboard in a way that stripped them of all novelty value; they sounded like they simply HAD to be there. I am typically one for grand, gaudy strokes in my live shows (if you've ever seen me play, or fuck, if you read this blog at all, this should come as no surprise), but everything in Ah Holly Fam'ly's music was so organically, subtly placed that night that it seemed to grow out of the ground, or perhaps gently sway down from the trees above. It was quiet, it was subtle, but Jesus, was it potent!
A year and change after this lovely experience, I moved to Portland, OR. My old roommates weren't too far off regarding how I'd feel about Moscow, but still, I didn't see myself LIVING there; Portland, however, felt like a second home at the time. Whenever I'd visit PDX, there were all these moments of beauty and serendipity that... well, that require a whole other think piece (I threw that phrase in to piss off one of my best friends in the world. You're welcome, Alx) to really explore. Suffice it to say, Portland had a leg up over Moscow.
Apparently, all of my friends in Moscow had felt the same way, because virtually all of them trickled into Portland around the same time as myself. I saw Jeremy from afar at Vashti Bunyan's first U.S. performance a month after I'd arrived, but wasn't convinced that it was actually him until I saw a blurb for an Ah Holly Fam'ly show in the Portland Mercury the following week. I became reacquainted with the band at said show, at which point I found out that James and Brad were also moving to Portland. Wow! Half the people I wanted to be with in this world were going to be living in the same city. This was going to be great!
Well, it was and wasn't. That's another story. What WAS great was getting to see Ah Holly Fam'ly on a semi-regular basis. For awhile, they seemed to get better, more transcendent, with every show. They had, for most of these shows, swelled into a quintet (joined by Jeff Diteman and Morgan Hobart), but their sound, despite being mostly acoustic, sounded like that of a band twice their size. Even then, the grandiosity of their arrangements was always tempered by an almost crushing intimacy: I remember opening a beer can during a song once, and feeling like I had opened up a small black hole for ten seconds. Full, rapt attention is almost a prerequisite here, or at least, it should be. When my then-girlfriend and I started dating, they were one of two bands I bullied her into seeing that we both agreed were beyond excellent (which is saying something, given that she often thinks I'm a total 'tard about music).
When I moved back to Ann Arbor in the fall of 2007, The Moscow expat crew were almost definitely the first thing I missed about Portland. Sure, there's plenty of other great stuff about Portland, not much of it is magical. I'm pretty sure the music of Ah Holly Fam'ly is magical.
Before I moved, I offered to release an album for the band. Jeremy sent me an excellent recording entitled Your Body Will Become An Anchor, which circumstance prevented me from ever putting out, which WOULD be a goddamn crime against nature were it not currently available on CD through their website and at shows. Good news. Even better: this year, the good folk at Portland's Lucky Madison label have had the good sense to release their new album, "Reservoir", on CD and vinyl, finally immortalizing the band on God's chosen format. I would've loved to have the honor of same, but I just didn't have the hustle... still, who cares? I don't give a shit, and neither should you. Regardless of who put this record out, you should get it into your life ASAP. It's a damn stunner. The arrangements, the harmonies, the melodies, the lyrics... all this shit is almost eerily spot-on in a way that even a cynical, bent-eared idiot like myself can appreciate as simply GORGEOUS. It's like looking out over the Columbia Gorge or something... only a monumentally fucked person, I think, could experience this and not think it's lovely.
Okay, now I'm getting pushy, and yeah, I may be letting my critical guard fall to the wayside a LITTLE bit. Read: biased. Yes, it's true (full disclosure!!!): I do think of the people in this band as my friends. When Jeff's other band, the lovers duo The Areyoumadatme?s (with relatively recent Fam'ly addition Amelia Harnas), came through Ann Arbor this summer, they thoughtfully brought me a very nice bottle of Portland IPA even though they barely got paid to play; when Jeremy and Becky came through on tour earlier this week (with Ryne from Ohioan and their friend Nathan playing pick-up quite ably, an alternate version of the band made necesary given the economic realities of touring, which are not kind to what has swelled in Portland to an octet), I was just as happy to see them and chat with them as I was to actually see them play. If you choose to read all that, though, as reason to disregard my endorsement, you're only fucking yourself.
-Dustin K.
11/14/09
Ah Holly Fam'ly website
Ah Holly Fam'ly Myspace
10.24.2009
Hail To The Woz/NO HEAVY TRUCKING
Shit. Busy times, ups and downs, and everything moves me. I've heard some beautiful, borderline-sappy old r&b songs in the last month or so that have moved me to tears and/or made me sit there mumbling "good goddamn, what the hell?". I've dug up some buckwild noise bleeders that would drive a sensible person to distraction even as they give me the damn chills. I got that Joseph Spence reissue on Mississippi (order that from Exiled, my favorite PDX record store, or come by my work sometime... we should be getting more soon), and that was a totally unsurprising headbreaker.
What I'm trying to insinuate here is that I haven't kept up on this here blog because, other than the fact that life is stealing all my time, I just can't figure out what to focus on. When all else fails, though, I can just grab whatever shit Brian Wozniak sold back to my store and know that it'll probably give me SOMETHIN' to write about.
To wit: when I found a copy of Kenneth Higney's Attic Demonstration at work, I had no idea it was a desirable "underground/private press psych gem" or whatever... the cover would lead you to think that this was possible, sure, but its appearance suggests a lousy, rote Christian folk record just as much. Despite my ignorance regarding its content, I listened to it on spec and discovered that it was, in fact, a total woolly weirdo WTF WOW. Naturally, I took it to the face of the aforementioned Woz and said "dude, you GOTTA hear this!"... and he was all like "yeah, dude, that record rules! I sold that to you guys!".
OF COURSE. You can't get anything past Brian Wozniak. He's every decent Michigan noise dude/record collector's favorite brother, all the cool girls love him to death, he can turn a wolverine into a unicorn with his giggle... in short, dude rules. The fact that he made it possible for me to find this Kenneth Higney platter is just icing on the cake.
That said: man, is said icing TAY-STEE! The story goes that Higney was a New Jersey trucker trying to get a break as a singer/songwriter; his main reason for producing this record was simply as a demo, to get other artists to record his songs.
I can't imagine any even semi-mainstream singer, though, tackling anything on here: though the recording is fairly clean, it is still permeated by intense, supremely damaged bedroom spirits. In other words, a BUMMER. Higs is borderline Jandek vocally/lyrically: most songs are delivered in a largely monotone mumble-sing (shades of Alan Vega... Coincidence?), and he flops betwixt opaque quasi-surrealist ferlbahoo and high schoolish "woe is me" poetry in a means much akin to those of Corwood's representative. In short: heavy moods. Heavy, heavy moods. Musically, I suppose it's a piece more together than all that, but maybe only inasmuch as the guitars are at least ALMOST in tune (or should I say "conventional tuning"). Still, this is droning, relentless stuff. Two chords and the uncomfortable truth. A hot mess. Some of it comes across kinda more hushed, like our man is trying to keep this shit secret, but even some of those bits are jolted with some reputable-but-jarring lead guitar, or synth farts that rarely fall in time with the other instruments. It's unreal... nothing grounds this record in anything that makes sense for the time of its release (1976), and hindsight and context only do a teensy bit to change that.
VIBES. DUDE, VIBES. That's what this record fucking has in spades. Put it on with the lights out and it's fucking spooky. Shit just seems a little unhinged, but it's creepier for the fact that THE MADNESS IS NOT TOTALLY THERE... BUT BUT BUT IT COULD BE ON ITS WAY. It's kinda like how Yip/Jump Music is a better record than Hi How Are You?... the former is always threatening to collapse into despair but doesn't, whereas the latter is essentially an audio document of a nervous breakdown. I dunno, maybe other people feel differently, but that kind of voyeurism is just too uncomfortable for me. People in a bad way getting their shit together enough to make a classic album by simple plain-folk means, however, is goddamn inspiring. Not sure if that's really the case here, but dude definitely sounds it, and it works real fine.
Either way: thanks again, Woz. This record kills. I owe you a beer.
-Dustin K.
11/1/09
PS: you can order a CD reissue of this on CDBaby, right here... Higney himself did the reissue! They even have a couple sound samples. There's supposed to be a vinyl reissue, too, but it doesn't seem to actually be kickin' around anywhere. Big surprise, it's supposed to have liners by Byron Coley... keep your fingers crossed, looks like it's already some 6-8 months late comin' out...
What I'm trying to insinuate here is that I haven't kept up on this here blog because, other than the fact that life is stealing all my time, I just can't figure out what to focus on. When all else fails, though, I can just grab whatever shit Brian Wozniak sold back to my store and know that it'll probably give me SOMETHIN' to write about.
To wit: when I found a copy of Kenneth Higney's Attic Demonstration at work, I had no idea it was a desirable "underground/private press psych gem" or whatever... the cover would lead you to think that this was possible, sure, but its appearance suggests a lousy, rote Christian folk record just as much. Despite my ignorance regarding its content, I listened to it on spec and discovered that it was, in fact, a total woolly weirdo WTF WOW. Naturally, I took it to the face of the aforementioned Woz and said "dude, you GOTTA hear this!"... and he was all like "yeah, dude, that record rules! I sold that to you guys!".
OF COURSE. You can't get anything past Brian Wozniak. He's every decent Michigan noise dude/record collector's favorite brother, all the cool girls love him to death, he can turn a wolverine into a unicorn with his giggle... in short, dude rules. The fact that he made it possible for me to find this Kenneth Higney platter is just icing on the cake.
That said: man, is said icing TAY-STEE! The story goes that Higney was a New Jersey trucker trying to get a break as a singer/songwriter; his main reason for producing this record was simply as a demo, to get other artists to record his songs.
I can't imagine any even semi-mainstream singer, though, tackling anything on here: though the recording is fairly clean, it is still permeated by intense, supremely damaged bedroom spirits. In other words, a BUMMER. Higs is borderline Jandek vocally/lyrically: most songs are delivered in a largely monotone mumble-sing (shades of Alan Vega... Coincidence?), and he flops betwixt opaque quasi-surrealist ferlbahoo and high schoolish "woe is me" poetry in a means much akin to those of Corwood's representative. In short: heavy moods. Heavy, heavy moods. Musically, I suppose it's a piece more together than all that, but maybe only inasmuch as the guitars are at least ALMOST in tune (or should I say "conventional tuning"). Still, this is droning, relentless stuff. Two chords and the uncomfortable truth. A hot mess. Some of it comes across kinda more hushed, like our man is trying to keep this shit secret, but even some of those bits are jolted with some reputable-but-jarring lead guitar, or synth farts that rarely fall in time with the other instruments. It's unreal... nothing grounds this record in anything that makes sense for the time of its release (1976), and hindsight and context only do a teensy bit to change that.
VIBES. DUDE, VIBES. That's what this record fucking has in spades. Put it on with the lights out and it's fucking spooky. Shit just seems a little unhinged, but it's creepier for the fact that THE MADNESS IS NOT TOTALLY THERE... BUT BUT BUT IT COULD BE ON ITS WAY. It's kinda like how Yip/Jump Music is a better record than Hi How Are You?... the former is always threatening to collapse into despair but doesn't, whereas the latter is essentially an audio document of a nervous breakdown. I dunno, maybe other people feel differently, but that kind of voyeurism is just too uncomfortable for me. People in a bad way getting their shit together enough to make a classic album by simple plain-folk means, however, is goddamn inspiring. Not sure if that's really the case here, but dude definitely sounds it, and it works real fine.
Either way: thanks again, Woz. This record kills. I owe you a beer.
-Dustin K.
11/1/09
PS: you can order a CD reissue of this on CDBaby, right here... Higney himself did the reissue! They even have a couple sound samples. There's supposed to be a vinyl reissue, too, but it doesn't seem to actually be kickin' around anywhere. Big surprise, it's supposed to have liners by Byron Coley... keep your fingers crossed, looks like it's already some 6-8 months late comin' out...
10.09.2009
Maybe I'm Just A Guy Who HATES Heels
Alright, so I was slaving over an entry for the past week about something else, and I do intend to get back to that. However, I need to steer the discussion away from records for just a minute. Instead, let us consider VHS tapes, and the death of the rental shop.
The one cool video rental place in Ann Arbor, Liberty Street Video, will be closing its doors soon. I admit that, since I started working at used record/media store where I'm allowed to borrow whatever DVD might come in, I've done nothing personally to prevent this. I'm still pretty bummed about it, though.
When I first moved to Ann Arbor in 2000, Liberty Street Video was one of those local institutions that made Ann Arbor cool (along with Encore, Wazoo, and the Fleetwood Diner, and a few other places that hadn't garnered my attention yet). They had videos you had read about, but never thought you'd be able to rent (if you grew up in the sticks like me, anyway). Their staff was young and hip, and they were almost always watching good movies in the store. Even though it paid poorly, it was nearly as coveted a job as the ever-desirable record store gig.
So it goes, I guess. The store had changed ownership a couple of times in the last few years, which had kind of changed the character of the shop. Business had slowed to a crawl. A competition clusterfuck between free DVD rentals at the nearby library, Netflix, and digital downloads assured Liberty Street's eventual passing. Familiar story: another one bites the dust of the information age. So long, community space for film fans. Hello... Starbucks? Condos? Ooh, I hope they put in another Potbelly's sandwich shop!
Of course, the selfish piece of good news is that the store is selling off its stock. These sales always tug at my heartstrings, but happenstance finally pulled me in there with a couple dudes yesterday. It was bittersweet, indeed, but the sweet part almost made it worth it: I have finally procured a copy of Crimewave.
For those not in the know: Crimewave (1986) is a feature-length collaboration between the Coen Bros. and Sam Raimi. When I tell people this, the typical reaction is "Sam Raimi and the Coen Bros? No way!", the usual implication being that Raimi was a b-movie director at this point, while the Coens were well on their way to high-falutin' critical acclaim. Why would the latter bother with the former? People who know the filmmakers for their more famous works tend to be surprised that these guys ever worked in tandem, but us nerds know that they were actually a tight-knit crew back in the day (look for Bruce Campbell's EXTREMELY brief cameo in Fargo; he's on the TV that's on the fritz in the hideout cabin). Like Tarantino and Rodriguez, it's hardly a surprise that these guys would work together, but it's still an event to be savored.
That said, the film has never been domestically released on DVD, because the filmmakers have basically disowned the film. The production was plagued by excessive studio interference, among other fiascoes, which left virtually all involved with a bad taste in their mouths. Crimewave, thus, is typically glossed over in the filmography of its creators, the black sheep of a critically-acclaimed film family.
Understandable, but a damn shame. Flaws aside, this movie is a hoot! I first saw it with my friend Mike when I was 16, and we felt like we'd discovered buried treasure. Being fans of both Raimi and the Coens (not to mention Bruce Campbell), we loved picking out whose stylistic tics were whose in the production. One of the Coens' earliest forays into crime comedy, it strikes one as a classic '60s screwball-fest, until you realize how self-aware the corny jokes are, how willfully stereotypical the characters.
Whether they like it or not, this film is Coen Bros. 101 (at least for their comedic side). It's loaded down with cartoon violence, ridiculous dialogue, and absurdist caricature; the only thing missing is the ironically verbose dunderhead. The photography and shot direction seems a blend of both directors' nascent styles (although I believe Raimi was mostly responsible for this aspect). The plot (hired "exterminators" flub a job, go on a killing rampage but exterminate themselves in the process, the nice guy hero gets blamed for the whole thing and put on death row, and only has mere minutes to be saved when the only witness is his love interest who has mysteriously disappeared... GOOD GOD, HOW WILL IT END?!) is cliche and silly, but the exploitation of same is kind of the point. I can see how the end product could've been better with greater creative control, but it's still pretty great.
I've tried (and failed) to get a copy of this movie for 11 years, so I'm pretty stoked to finally have it. If only one of the last gasps of interesting local business in Ann Arbor didn't have to shut down for me to get it, I'd be pretty happy. If only...
-Dustin K.
10/09/09
The one cool video rental place in Ann Arbor, Liberty Street Video, will be closing its doors soon. I admit that, since I started working at used record/media store where I'm allowed to borrow whatever DVD might come in, I've done nothing personally to prevent this. I'm still pretty bummed about it, though.
When I first moved to Ann Arbor in 2000, Liberty Street Video was one of those local institutions that made Ann Arbor cool (along with Encore, Wazoo, and the Fleetwood Diner, and a few other places that hadn't garnered my attention yet). They had videos you had read about, but never thought you'd be able to rent (if you grew up in the sticks like me, anyway). Their staff was young and hip, and they were almost always watching good movies in the store. Even though it paid poorly, it was nearly as coveted a job as the ever-desirable record store gig.
So it goes, I guess. The store had changed ownership a couple of times in the last few years, which had kind of changed the character of the shop. Business had slowed to a crawl. A competition clusterfuck between free DVD rentals at the nearby library, Netflix, and digital downloads assured Liberty Street's eventual passing. Familiar story: another one bites the dust of the information age. So long, community space for film fans. Hello... Starbucks? Condos? Ooh, I hope they put in another Potbelly's sandwich shop!
Of course, the selfish piece of good news is that the store is selling off its stock. These sales always tug at my heartstrings, but happenstance finally pulled me in there with a couple dudes yesterday. It was bittersweet, indeed, but the sweet part almost made it worth it: I have finally procured a copy of Crimewave.
For those not in the know: Crimewave (1986) is a feature-length collaboration between the Coen Bros. and Sam Raimi. When I tell people this, the typical reaction is "Sam Raimi and the Coen Bros? No way!", the usual implication being that Raimi was a b-movie director at this point, while the Coens were well on their way to high-falutin' critical acclaim. Why would the latter bother with the former? People who know the filmmakers for their more famous works tend to be surprised that these guys ever worked in tandem, but us nerds know that they were actually a tight-knit crew back in the day (look for Bruce Campbell's EXTREMELY brief cameo in Fargo; he's on the TV that's on the fritz in the hideout cabin). Like Tarantino and Rodriguez, it's hardly a surprise that these guys would work together, but it's still an event to be savored.
That said, the film has never been domestically released on DVD, because the filmmakers have basically disowned the film. The production was plagued by excessive studio interference, among other fiascoes, which left virtually all involved with a bad taste in their mouths. Crimewave, thus, is typically glossed over in the filmography of its creators, the black sheep of a critically-acclaimed film family.
Understandable, but a damn shame. Flaws aside, this movie is a hoot! I first saw it with my friend Mike when I was 16, and we felt like we'd discovered buried treasure. Being fans of both Raimi and the Coens (not to mention Bruce Campbell), we loved picking out whose stylistic tics were whose in the production. One of the Coens' earliest forays into crime comedy, it strikes one as a classic '60s screwball-fest, until you realize how self-aware the corny jokes are, how willfully stereotypical the characters.
Whether they like it or not, this film is Coen Bros. 101 (at least for their comedic side). It's loaded down with cartoon violence, ridiculous dialogue, and absurdist caricature; the only thing missing is the ironically verbose dunderhead. The photography and shot direction seems a blend of both directors' nascent styles (although I believe Raimi was mostly responsible for this aspect). The plot (hired "exterminators" flub a job, go on a killing rampage but exterminate themselves in the process, the nice guy hero gets blamed for the whole thing and put on death row, and only has mere minutes to be saved when the only witness is his love interest who has mysteriously disappeared... GOOD GOD, HOW WILL IT END?!) is cliche and silly, but the exploitation of same is kind of the point. I can see how the end product could've been better with greater creative control, but it's still pretty great.
I've tried (and failed) to get a copy of this movie for 11 years, so I'm pretty stoked to finally have it. If only one of the last gasps of interesting local business in Ann Arbor didn't have to shut down for me to get it, I'd be pretty happy. If only...
-Dustin K.
10/09/09
10.04.2009
Dork Side Of The Goon
Okay, there are a couple of things I need to establish right off the bat:
a) As soon as I came up with the title above, I knew what I was going to write about for this entry, and
b) I fucking hate Roger Waters.
I mean, I've never met him, so who knows? Maybe he's an alright dude. One can never really know unless you spend time with a person; one must always remember that there is a human lurking inside every unsavory public personality who is as real and fragile as any of us. That, of course, means that maybe George W. Bush is an alright dude, too... I've never met him.
Both, however, certainly come on like the Lords of Douche Village on film/in print. So, to be more specific: as a songwriter, public personality and historical figure, I FUCKING HATE ROGER WATERS. I know that I'll be towing the party line for "my people" by saying that Pink Floyd started as one of the finest psychedelic pop bands of the day, then proceeded to sink further and further into the mire of "rock-as-art" bullshit after fatefully not bothering to pick up Syd "Mandrax Shampoo" Barrett for band practice... but that's the party line because it is basically true. If they had started a new band to pursue their shitty muse (okay, it's not all shitty, but play along), I don't think I'd be so up in arms, but to let Bigface Waters take the reins whilst keeping/disgracing the name Barrett came up with for HIS band remains a harsh toke 40 years on (and don't get me started on the tackiness of "Shine On You Crazy Diamond").
That said, I recently gave Atom Heart Mother a fair shot after ignoring it for years, and found the first side to be quite pleasant. I'd say I was pleasantly surprised, but I was more relieved. This revelation merely bolstered my already-high opinion of composer/performance artist/producer/nutjob Ron Geesin, who co-wrote this epic title track, without increasing my respect for Pink Floyd one iota. Given that most of Pink Floyd has gone on record discediting Atom Heart Mother, it actually served to remind what a bunch of dildoes they all are, especially (you guessed it) Roger Waters. Quote:
"Atom Heart Mother is a good case, I think, for being thrown into the dustbin and never listened to by anyone ever again."
-Roger Waters
Would you trust this man with your rock and roll?
Man, I wish they would've left this guy waiting on the side of the road instead of Syd. Just imagine all the self-important twaddle we would've been spared, and what latter-day makers of same wouldn't have had Waters around to influence their ponderous decisions (although, of course, it probably would not have kept us safe from Peter Gabriel, but that's a whole other thing).
Okay, so now y'all know where I stand on THAT. Hey, I mentioned Ron Geesin, didn't I? Now, that dude RULES. He's like a British Henry Jacobs except maybe a generation younger, or a one-man avant-Monty Python. Why he would associate himself with such a seeming tool as Roger Waters is a mystery to me... but then, who knows what the inner mechanisms of the Carnaby Street scene might've wrought back in the day?
Anyway, these dudes collaborated a couple times. Before Atom Heart Mother, they did Music From "The Body", a soundtrack to a film that I've not seen but which seems to mostly involve close-ups of nipples and nose hairs. Maybe the sections I've seen are misleading (search for it on Youtube and judge for yourself). I have, however, listened to the soundtrack, which is a valuable experience in itself.
Even without the helpful liner notes indicating who's responsible for what, you can definitely hear the division between Waters' and Geesin's contributions here. Multi-tracked voices making weird noises and giggling, sideways electronic experiments, beautiful instrumental passages, and just generally being entertaining and engaging? Oh, hmm, I think that's Ron Geesin. Lukewarm balladry with gospel choir? Hrmmm, I wonder who that could be..?
Okay, okay, you're right. That was harsh. Waters' contributions to this LP aren't all that bad, to be honest, and they most assuredly make the album more accessible. I'm sure, also, that having his name attached to the project didn't hurt sales of the soundtrack album a bit. In fact, I sincerely doubt I would've ever seen a copy without shelling out a mint had he not been involved... hell, and that assumes that it even would've gotten pressed in the first place! God knows I have a bitch of a time finding any of Geesin's solo albums. Ah, the mechanics of the music biz!
Fuck it. Thanks, Roger Waters. You may be a butthole, but if you tripped into being on a couple of good records through no fault of your own, I guess I have to at least give you credit for that. Kudos!
-Dustin K.
10/11/09
a) As soon as I came up with the title above, I knew what I was going to write about for this entry, and
b) I fucking hate Roger Waters.
I mean, I've never met him, so who knows? Maybe he's an alright dude. One can never really know unless you spend time with a person; one must always remember that there is a human lurking inside every unsavory public personality who is as real and fragile as any of us. That, of course, means that maybe George W. Bush is an alright dude, too... I've never met him.
Both, however, certainly come on like the Lords of Douche Village on film/in print. So, to be more specific: as a songwriter, public personality and historical figure, I FUCKING HATE ROGER WATERS. I know that I'll be towing the party line for "my people" by saying that Pink Floyd started as one of the finest psychedelic pop bands of the day, then proceeded to sink further and further into the mire of "rock-as-art" bullshit after fatefully not bothering to pick up Syd "Mandrax Shampoo" Barrett for band practice... but that's the party line because it is basically true. If they had started a new band to pursue their shitty muse (okay, it's not all shitty, but play along), I don't think I'd be so up in arms, but to let Bigface Waters take the reins whilst keeping/disgracing the name Barrett came up with for HIS band remains a harsh toke 40 years on (and don't get me started on the tackiness of "Shine On You Crazy Diamond").
That said, I recently gave Atom Heart Mother a fair shot after ignoring it for years, and found the first side to be quite pleasant. I'd say I was pleasantly surprised, but I was more relieved. This revelation merely bolstered my already-high opinion of composer/performance artist/producer/nutjob Ron Geesin, who co-wrote this epic title track, without increasing my respect for Pink Floyd one iota. Given that most of Pink Floyd has gone on record discediting Atom Heart Mother, it actually served to remind what a bunch of dildoes they all are, especially (you guessed it) Roger Waters. Quote:
"Atom Heart Mother is a good case, I think, for being thrown into the dustbin and never listened to by anyone ever again."
-Roger Waters
Would you trust this man with your rock and roll?
Man, I wish they would've left this guy waiting on the side of the road instead of Syd. Just imagine all the self-important twaddle we would've been spared, and what latter-day makers of same wouldn't have had Waters around to influence their ponderous decisions (although, of course, it probably would not have kept us safe from Peter Gabriel, but that's a whole other thing).
Okay, so now y'all know where I stand on THAT. Hey, I mentioned Ron Geesin, didn't I? Now, that dude RULES. He's like a British Henry Jacobs except maybe a generation younger, or a one-man avant-Monty Python. Why he would associate himself with such a seeming tool as Roger Waters is a mystery to me... but then, who knows what the inner mechanisms of the Carnaby Street scene might've wrought back in the day?
Anyway, these dudes collaborated a couple times. Before Atom Heart Mother, they did Music From "The Body", a soundtrack to a film that I've not seen but which seems to mostly involve close-ups of nipples and nose hairs. Maybe the sections I've seen are misleading (search for it on Youtube and judge for yourself). I have, however, listened to the soundtrack, which is a valuable experience in itself.
Even without the helpful liner notes indicating who's responsible for what, you can definitely hear the division between Waters' and Geesin's contributions here. Multi-tracked voices making weird noises and giggling, sideways electronic experiments, beautiful instrumental passages, and just generally being entertaining and engaging? Oh, hmm, I think that's Ron Geesin. Lukewarm balladry with gospel choir? Hrmmm, I wonder who that could be..?
Okay, okay, you're right. That was harsh. Waters' contributions to this LP aren't all that bad, to be honest, and they most assuredly make the album more accessible. I'm sure, also, that having his name attached to the project didn't hurt sales of the soundtrack album a bit. In fact, I sincerely doubt I would've ever seen a copy without shelling out a mint had he not been involved... hell, and that assumes that it even would've gotten pressed in the first place! God knows I have a bitch of a time finding any of Geesin's solo albums. Ah, the mechanics of the music biz!
Fuck it. Thanks, Roger Waters. You may be a butthole, but if you tripped into being on a couple of good records through no fault of your own, I guess I have to at least give you credit for that. Kudos!
-Dustin K.
10/11/09
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