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

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...

FM DUST IS A RECORD LABEL!

COMING THIS TUESDAY, AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER NOW:

DUST001
ACTUAL BIRDS- Funny Hatz And Other Dubious Experiments
C-90 cassette (edition of 25)
$6 ppd US/$9 intl



US:

INTERNATIONAL:

Why do I keep putting this out in such tiny editions if it's the best full-length I've done to date? That's my business, buster. Anyway, this is my "Portland record" (meaning that 15/18 of it was recorded when I lived in PDX), which I've basically been sitting on for two years even though I think I did a great job. Well, I'm barely rectifying the situation here: I'm gonna lift one cheek and release it in a tape edition of 25, so as to get the new label started, and because it's the only sensible way for it come out.

What have we here? 4-track poppers, SK-1 weirdness, tronix bleeders, jokes, limbo, filler. That is to say: the best of the best. All recorded on a Tascam Porta-02 before Freddy Thomas gave me his superior machine like a damn saint. This record is sad as fuck, but as long as you live, God knows there's hope. Full program on each side. Hand-painted/mod-podged covers. Copious liner notes. SHIT.

*****
DUST002
ACTUAL BIRDS- Rasputin Party Foul
C-10 cassette (edition of 18)
$6 ppd US/$9 intl

US:

INTERNATIONAL:

Just recorded this little fucker yesterday, mixed it direct to tape, and said "welp, there's DUST002". Vocal jizz and chokes, thrown deep into reverb canyon with a busted tape deck that keeps playing 8-year-old loops until I gag. Had to turn the lights off so that the ghosts in my apartment wouldn't watch me. Had a semi-seizure the next morning. Coincidence?

*****
COMING SOON: TEENAGE TIT, BENOIT PIOULARD/CAMPFIRES SPLIT CASSINGLE, FOREVER STOKED (COMPLETE EARLY FLAMING DEATHTRAP RECORDINGS!), PATRICK ELKINS/GROWTH SPERT SPLIT C-20, BLOOD NECKLACE EP, and some other shit I'm probably forgetting. Oh, and a real website when I feel like coughin' up the doughballs.

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

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

21(sic) Century Boy

An old buddy of mine, who ironically did much to encourage my nascent interest in underground musics in high school, once said of noise recordings: "if I wanted to listen to static, I'd just turn my TV on. Anyone can do that". Another toolbox, who was roommates with a cooler cat than himself (thus my acquaintance), suggested that noise, such as it is, was suitable only as the "spice" of music, and that "you can't make a meal out of black pepper".

Seriously, though? fuck those guys. I mean, not really (at least not the former... the latter was totally making out with this girl I had the hots for in the time period when he said that, so maybe fuck him anyway), but they just don't GET IT. To paraphrase Albert Ayler (as quoted by Amiri Baraka): they think it's about NOTES.

Noise is fun. People who aren't in it have this idea that noise is a form cultivated by serious artistes who are striving to be pretentious and obtuse, but in my experience, noise people are mostly a bunch of get-down dudes who eat Little Caesars Hot 'N' Readies, drink shitty beer, do shitty drugs, and watch stupid TV just like anyone else you know. The only difference is, said dudes like to howl at the moon sometimes, and choose to do that through the conduit of mixers, oscillators, broken instruments, etc.

Admittedly, that too is a generalization... no doubt, there are a smattering of dudes who take themselves and their tinkering real seriously. That said, I don't think Dylan Nyoukis is probably one of the latter. Never talked to the guy or anything, but check out the website for his Chocolate Monk label, and especially read the descriptions of their available releases. He's like the British daddy of the verbose goof troupe international underground that you thought John Olson invented (between modifying blenders to turn on lightbulbs, or whatever). No wonder Olson, on the page for his Podcast Inside Inzane Studios, describes Nyoukis's old band Prick Decay as "the best band of the 21(sic) century".

Fuck, I admit it: Olson's podcast (excuse me: John AND Tovah Olson's podcast) is where I first caught wind of Prick Decay myself. Given that John and I are both hankering hard for the same Vomit Visions 7" at the current date (and I'm sure he'll get it before me, if he hasn't already), and the fact that (sure, fine) Burned Mind is on the high end of my Top 10 list of wall-melting platters of the last decade, I figured that his "best band..." would be at least be worth a cursory listen. As luck would have it, Pete Larson (of BULB Records/Couch/25 Suaves notoriety) came into the store I work recently and sold off a stack of 7"s to make room in his love nest. Among them: Prick Decay's Rotten Groove (Ignivomous, 1996).





THANK FUCKING GOD. Not just because it's way more satisfying to hear something in its original format than as streaming mp3s, to hold the sleeve in your hands and such... but because this record is just a damn gem. It really drives home for me, in its hiss-encrusted goofiness, how boring and lame I think a lot of "power electronics"/"harsh noise" can be. This little guy ain't that, no sir. It's funny and fun, but still fucked. Vocal loops with the "warble" knob on 8 or so. Lots of weird bathroom rumble. The two most seasick locked grooves I've heard since I don't know. Just like if I saw the actual physical manifestation of the phrase "prick decay" in person, it makes me wanna hurl... but just as when you do so after one too many pulls of Canadian Club, I'd be so relieved to let that yawn go that I'd probably just fall asleep by the thundermug, content in my knowledge that this record made my day. Next day off I get, it's third in line for my morning turntable ritual, right after "Brandy (You're A Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass and "Sweet City Woman" by The Stampeders, my two other most prized 45 acquisitions of late. Shit, ya gotta have balance in this life.

-Dustin K.
9/27/09

We interrupt our regularly scheduled folderol...

Hey, so... when I'm not writing this blog (or, occasionally, living a real life), I'm doing this record label thing. Actually, I was doing one from 2004 to present called "CASANOVA TEMPTATIONS", but I'm getting rid of that one. Gotta tie up some loose ends first, though.

To wit:

AVAILABLE TODAY:


HAKUNA MATATA- Worried
CT #0034/PT#32
C-20 Cassette
$7 ppd (contact for international postage)

Completely sideways, sick collab between Thom Elliott (Ypsi-based harsh sicko, heralded in THE WIRE) and Dustin Krcatovich (A.K.A. (DJ) Actual Birds, heralded nowhere). Doesn't sound quite like anything else either does in their other projects. Actually, it sounds kinda like the most terrifying jungle safari imaginable. Tronics getting mangled by stampeding antelope, or something. Undead lemurs swinging at you from weird places. Mystery yelps from the depths of labyrinthine caves. Fucked up. Split with Thom's label, PLEASUREDOME TAPES. Limited run of 25!

Watch out for the FINAL CASANOVA TEMPTATIONS RELEASE, a split CD by Valterra Blue and The Telephone Callers. THEN THEN THEN, watch out for my new ALL-ANALOG label, which shares a name with this blog. It will be so SICK (good sick).

Alright. Real blog entry later this week. Thanks for indulging.

-Dustin K.
9/22/09