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lost season 1 episode 13 subtitles torrent

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Doubtless, at some time in the future, I'll look back over the previous six years - the time we've spent putting together Careless Talk Costs Livesand Plan 8-and shrug, amazed: that we were able to do so much with such limited resources, but with overreaching self-belief and enthusiasm and support from the unlikeliest of places.

Not right now, though. Frances took a holiday this weekend - her first in over a year, and it was only for two days! What to do first? Finish off writing the six-page antifolk article which had two pages added to it at the last moment , write the MusicThatTime Forgot special got added right on deadline , edit down the albums section, edit the cover feature, tryandcomeup with some cover lines that don't totally suck eggs, write a last-minute comics page.

Yeah, Chris Houghton is going on sabbatical. Don't know for how long, right now. This might not mean much to those of you who deal with the magazine on a strictly reader basis- hell, why should it? Alongside Andrew Clare and myself, Chris helped conceptualise the magazine you're holding in your hands: I knew that I needed someone to be handling the financial side of affairs a lesson hard-learnt from Careless Talk while Frances and myself mainly Frances looked after the editorial side; that I needed someone to be the public face of Plan B to the industry, to broker the deals and cross theTs, and - urn - worry about the money; to look after the Internet side of things; to do the forecasts and plan ahead; work on media sponsorships, coordinate advertising.

It's going to feel weird without his smiley face greeting me every time I voyage up to London to visit the office Chris sits closest the door, the better to keep the wolves away. In his stead, Richard Stacey-our unsung assistant publisher and also ace hip hop writer - is taking on a more full-time role, handling administrative duties. Oh boy It's jubilant in a measured way, like when you wake up one morning and make a conscious decision to change.

Midlake Balloon Maker Muffled brass and gargles of organ greet the day like a chorus of pillow- voices and bathroom glugs. But despite any woozy-floozy feelings that may descend, there's a creepiness to this track isn't just my imagination - check the video, with arguments at dinner tables, doors leaning from hinges, dubious hospitalisation and giant masked foxes abducting girls. Francoiz Breut Over All I write beneath artificial hotel lights while a flatscreen monstrosity blasts sugar-rush colour into relentlessly empty beats.

It's distracting; it's brash. There's also rain. Yet somehow, I'm not here: instead, there's a waltz at 5am in the dark, as the low-octave piano trips a little behind the bass, already half-asleep on the journey across the carpet towards bed. The Dears Hate Then Love As the year draws ever more threateningly near its end, that internal urge to have done something important by the time the sun sets grows increasingly stronger-and you can hear it here, in the restrained histrionics of yearnsome guitars and in Murray Lightburn's adamant repetition.

Don't think he doesn't mean it. Explosions In The Sky The Only Moment We Were Alone Magnesium strips burn and hover in front of your eyes; your eyes, meanwhile, are so tired that coloured spots and meta-shapes jitter almost tangibly before them. I know these kinds of descriptions are so cliche, but seriously: the summit of a mountain at dawn; the flare from a camera lens; the colossal weight of everything on the planet settling forthe night.

Beach House Apple Orchard It begins with a harmonium drone, slowed-down ultrasound, and those rich yawns of whales and water. Victoria Legrand's voice resurfaces from your distant past; in a picture frame, or at the bottom of a suitcase. You find words scrawled in the back of a long-lost book, given by a friend, years ago. The Czars Lullaby In which John Grant's Denver-based group gets all deceptively peaceful, and voices layer like a conversation across long-distance wires.

While the title suggests that he knows one more lament won't really make a difference, you can't deny someone the space to sing for company, or wish we could rewind. There are twilights and once- full, now-vacated houses-y'know, things we're all familiar with. He lists the items strewn across the table.

He decides to bundle them into a package, put them in the post, address them back to her. Maaaan, break-ups. Here, Regan manages to nonchalantly shrug his way through the memories with just the right amount of enforced detachment. Nominated for a Mercury, and all that. I should have listened closer back then: the quickly-dragged strings sound like a loud, creaking pendulum in a grandfather clock, while the ending's spoken narrative talks of melting snow.

Chord sequences work their way downwards before electrics scythe through a lullaby beat; glimmers of hope in unexpected major keys are gently brought back to earth. Lift To Experience Falling From Cloud 9 Sounding more like a sleepy ascension than a tumble from the skies, 'Falling From Cloud 9' sees this Denton band struggle upwards through layers of fur and zuzz.

From there, they balloon outwards to suit their name: all slow-motion whirlpools of tired leaves and cracks appearing in the pavement. Admire his fairy-light use of flute, marvel at his seemingly carefree leaps in octave, and wish that you could remember how to whistle like that.

Raised on a peacock farm, she would sneak to the roofspace and dream up haunting, twisted fairytales. Basically, this is evocative of everything everybody wants their childhood to have been like, transposed to a more adult world of real ghosts, lost animals and deserted spaces.

Dirty Three Everything's Fucked Sometimes, you just have to agree with their sentiments, huh? This instrumental is absolute wonderment: beauty crystallised within. There are flicker under his slippery skin. As Marnie Stern, too many people in here tonight, standing too Zach Hill and Robbie Moncrieff play through still, necks craned, scared to lose their hard- In Advance.

Scared to close their eyes or move their bodies in case they miss anything. Where does this begin, and- " A spark of notes, sharp-edged and dirty crystal. Arpeggios rush out to snag on the low ceiling and the drums catch them on the way down, scattering emphases all overthe stage. There's precision here somewhere, I mean, there was, but something happened to it on the way up and it imploded under pressure and suddenly- FUCK -you can see this music on your eyelids and it looks like an impossible shape hovering ready to burst apart.

It's the unmind, it's fractal aerobics, , it's a glimpse of that place, you know that place Skullf lower can go, or Boredoms, for hours at a time. That ecstatic white light disaster area. Where does it end? Expectations are high. Marnie Stern just met 'hem, head-on.

You sense it's there, feel it stretching jerked fingers through the chaos, but you can't always hear it exactly. You remember that life drifts out of sync often, breaking apart and chasing to put itself back together again like the drums fall out of line with the guitar. You remember that you should practise something every day. That things are funny, that Marnie Stern can tell a story about "pooping" on an aeroplane and then launch into the 'Absorb Those Numbers' riff that splits the roof open for a second.

The set closes with a truncated version of 'Patterns Of A Diamond Ceiling', possibly Stern's clearest exposition of her music and philosophy. Until she put her lyrics online I was labouring underthe misapprehension that when Marnie Stern sang the chorus of 'Vibrational Match' she was singing, "I near it!

I near it! To say you 'near' something feels archaic or scientific and certainly not part of spoken speech, whether that's 'nearing' the Celestial City or 'nearing' orgasm or germination or maturity. Noone would really ever saythat, I thought, apart from Marnie Stern. I saw her going at something, something gleaming in the distance, and saying to herself in her high-pitched voice, "I near it!

Especially if. Even when I read that the line was actually "I'm near it", it still tickled me. I near it. I'm near it. Peace on earth had been attained. Then a friend accidentally stumbled across the recipe for 'Zade: the substance that provides the ultimate high and yet has no side effect.

We generously handed over the recipe - one part 'Zade to three parts Napalm - to the rulers, so that everyone could benefit. Our whole society was 'Zading around the clock. Paradise had been attained in an ugly bubble rising 80 km off the earth's surface. By the way, there are some ancient scriptures logging all the physics and personal stories of key insane voyagers from this epoch, hidden in a pair of grey plastic slip-ons," it informs me.

Yes, poo-ing was illegal and punishable by ejection from the warm embrace that the biosphere provided. What lies beyond this biosphere is literally unspeakable. However, we found a way of surviving this punishment and formed a band. Music both arcane and pop-tastic has seen any amount of chancers adopting cosmic robes and esoteric masks for instant effect, but I figure that only with a decent creation myth can a civilisation truly flourish.

And if that civilisation then marks its territory with monstrous riffs, death-disco vox and seismic, synth-embellished, horn-punctuated grooves, truly it deserves to thrive, and rule -and if the above is true. Chrome Hoof look set to inherit a universe or three. Legend also has it that the band sprang from monumental UK doomers Cathedral, with bassist Leo Smee taking a detour from that band's brilliant mulch of Sabbath-style monolithism, sedated ferocity and phantastical subject matter to grow his own heavyweight cosmic party band in the early years of this century with brother Milo, drummer and one half of electro outfit 5 Mic Cluster.

The pile-up of ideas and personnel this generated can be heard on last year's Beyond Zade, where the grooves fight their way through Medievalist whimsy, progressive flights of fancy and Krautrock-with-hornsjams. With new album Pre-Emptive False Rapture, out now on Southern, Chrome Hoof have honed their more meandering impulses into a collection of ecstatically restrained songs, all of which hit like an asteroid to the belly.

The hefty rhythms still provide the power, along with the supersized, grinding guitar, but the band's new, not-so-secret weapon is the blistering vocal performance of Spektrum's Lola Olaf isoye. Many singers would've been tempted to warble f reeform over the slabs of riff and beat, but Olaf isoye follows the groove to the letter, a space priestess keeping her alien army on a tight leash.

Meanwhile, horns, bassoon, synth and some audaciously prog violin keep things moving at rocket speed, while the doom interludes remind you emphatically that space, while glitzy, is pretty fucking deep and it is endless. Chrome Hoof's bludgeoning sonic confidence sits alongside an apocalyptic sensibility, with the album's title referencing the Christian splinter belief that before we're all saved at the end-times, we'll be deceived first, by a 'false rapture' claiming to be the real deal.

Only the chosen will spot the real one. Are the Hoof suggesting that their listeners will be among the elect who experience the 'true' rapture, with their music serving as a psychic shield against illusion? They think for a while, pondering, "The interesting theory of projecting images into the sky and direct sensual experience into our brains, from the technology that has un secretly been developed under our noses, to fool us into giving up our souls -as a last ditch attempt to keep us locked in a spiritual downwards spiral, before paradise returns to the planet of tribulation Stockpile yr silver cloaks, and take cover.

Yes - that Akon. I biked past a guy on the street today singing, 'Nobody wants to see us together. It's a rare treat to find Sixties psych stoners surrounding themselves with a variety of synthesisers and electronics as well as with Rickenbackers. This, from their second and even stoned-er album, is a beautiful love hymn to boot. His music both lifts and seemingly falls apart, miles apart from other dance music and more like a living, breathing mass wobbling its way to greatness!

For his final party trick he goes and finishes the album with the same track again, but with the vocals replaced by animal noises. Why isn't there more of that in pop music? There's something effortlessly great about the soaring melodies and the patented Pink production sludge that belies how fantastic it is. Sweet like molasses. Furthermore, this track sounds like a gold- plated ice cream sundae of love. Guitars glisten, preened sea-feathers, shivers of bells, basslines impossible Escher staircases.

Vocals, old scars, f larepaths, chalkboard symbols. And OK, I know, but this is one of those bands that sidestep simplification, fox you into metaphors. There's something almost liturgical about the fusion of tones. There's something 'Everything about the story has to change' inscrutable about how such complex structures, as lateral as narrative, came into being. We need facts. Kelsey Barrett vocals , Elizabeth Hart bass , Corinne Jones drums , Nicky Mao acoustic guitar, violin , Sara Shaw electric guitar , Rebecca Squires accordion, clarinet and Jessica Stathos percussion are seven 2 1st Century women named after one fictional 19th Century woman Eff i being the doom-laden heroine of German-language realist writer Theodor Fontane's 1 'adu Itery tragedy' Effi Briest.

We need feedback. But when I ask them to explain this paradox, the mystery only deepens. So far into the future that everything about the story has to change. Plus there's more going on - more to see, and the layout on stage and in your ear is more spatially involved. The songs evolve out of this or that fragment of an idea, but they wouldn't become what they are without everyone having their say. Once we're in it, it becomes personal. Then we can play it because we've been there.

Or we're there right now, looking out at the listener. Self-sufficiency, yes, but also interdependence. Music made in a group can be the living image of solidarity. There are enough of you, I note, to make up a pretty decent book club. Computer models for weather prediction spiralled out of control; tiny variables could have massively unforeseen consequences. Scientists attempting to increase the signal to noise ratio in transmissions found something strange about static- it possessed self-symmetry at every scale.

Think of the conurbations of a coastline, or the self-replicating patterns of the Mandelbrot Set. Boosting signal strength didn't produce clearer transmissions, just louder noise. Even primitive artificial intelligence was caught up in this burgeoning field. The really interesting stuff didn't happen in the cold, clinical lines of mathematical simplicity. It arose in the fuzzy, multi-layered swirls of Complexity. Electronic pulses, samples of gently twinkling mandolins, snippets of poppy girl group harmonies swirl together, interfere in audio moire patterns, coalesce into gorgeous shards of song, smothered in bursts of warm fuzz.

The layers part, stripped back to their basic components, or pile on top of one another in a massive joyous rush of enveloping noise. I ask laptop boffin Ben Daniels if their music evolves though accident or design. Chaos is just a complex pattern. But everything is probablyjusta metaphor anyway," he replies. His working method is an organic growth process. Usually songs start on the guitar or mandolin, but these started from samples or mistakes from another song.

Or maybe just before or while taking a nap? In a live setting, I definitely want to be in the background. My ideal live experience is playing on a dark stage where people can't even see us but go about their evening, 'I used to have reoccurring dreams about tornados' with us as the background.

I don't like it when I go to shows and the band says something like, 'Come up front and dance! We played at this old Baptist church that is now an art space. The band set up around the altar and the crowd just sat in the pews. There was a crucifix hanging above us to which was attached a neon Jesus. If they had turned out all of the lights except for the Jesus, it would have been perfect. I used to have reccurring dreams about them. The dreams would be a different sort of story each time, but the tornados were always the same and the dreams were always terrifically scary.

The sky was this really eerie grey and on the horizon were about 1 5 tornados. I was standing on the dock at the lake staring at them, there was a brown bear at my side, and back in the cabin were about 20 children in a sort of duck-and-cover crash position. It was terrifying, but I could only stand there. Then, about a month later in reality, notthedream l was up at the cabin and the sky and everything was exactly like it was in my dream. No tornadoes, bears or children though.

It was creepy but nice. Rather than being scared I was filled this sense of purpose. Build a nice studio, learn how to farm and make cheese, and then buy a big bus and go on tour for the next several years. They are remarkable organisms. Picking a favourite is too hard, but I like maples, especially Japanese and Sugar ones, any fruit trees, cedars, and pines. I've never seen asequoia, but I would very much like to. By the grainy black and white photography of their jewel-cased sleeves -a single bilbao tree, a black dog on scorched stones, wiry children playing in their underclothes -you'd sense we're far from home.

North West Africa, you're told - Mali, to pinpoint the spot. Somewhere along the intersection of river and ravine, desert and urbanity, where you'd imagined Ali Farka Toure spun his festive coloured ragasand picked his dusky far-flung blues. Mali, with its flag of three colours, borders on seven nations, and winding paths of ancient and alive musicianship, played out here, for your ears, beneath one loud searing sun.

Label founder Jack Carneal relocated to Mali Winding paths of ancient and alive musicianship eight years ago. Frequenting the kaseti shanties of the local markets of Bougoni and Bamako - place names which, if said with attitude, sound like rhythmic cusses in themselves, he was soon swallowed in the sounds of the towns' streets.

Streets to which he didn't quite belong, drawn to djembe drums, electrified lutes and amplified gourds. He recognised traditional patterns, familiar from the exported discs of Salif Keita and Toumani Diabate, and a piece-it-together attitude he'd absorbed long ago albeit in a different form back in New York. He saw ancestral rites played by inventive new hands, whose cultural grand- parents he had believed to be the likes of the aforementioned exports, but whose lineage was in fact thanks as much to electric DIY and distortion - a customary part of Malian music.

Daouda Dembele follows the tradition of the griot, or jeliya 'transmission by blood' : a caste of professional musicians and orators whose surnames have resurfaced throughout their culture's past, artists bound as craftsmen and home historians. They recite genealogies along scripted refrains, or improvise lyrics around litanies of names, honed and paraded to the pride of their predecessors.

They utilise fishing lines to fizz and scratch, pacing rhythms that circle one step forward, three back, in the distorting rays of the equatorial sun. While one lute takes the role of rhythm guitar, the second emits furious plucks and screeches over the top, making for a tinfoil- scrunched recording quality that the 'worldly' likes of Devendra Banhartcanonlytryto reproduce. The pair urge each other on into rough two- chord riffs, gaining speed and impetus to the audience's delight; a sprawling, heady dirge that fades into rust-red horizons with the day's forcing close.

Here, the various voices of Bougouni Yaalali take over, throwing a hoe-down al fresco -the equivalent to a NYC block party, with metal scratched for cowbell, a balafon rigged through horn speakers for xylophone, and an involved crowd of revelers collaborating in this music for simple and immediate appreciation.

You can imagine the little jumps of joy as Carneal heard the rumble of drums and laughter around the corner, and came across dancing, a spread of home-crafted instruments, and a woman - with a rasp like Billie Holiday-singing joy eternal. It was Carneal's aim to extend this appreciation, with non-profit and whole-hearted intentions, but there is some discussion as to whether his recordings, "Auditory documentaries of a very particular place", are justified.

He brings their sounds to our ears, as we seek exoticism and street- cred in their rusticity. The marked gap between performer and listener launches conflicting claims of otherness that we cannot deny. The various musicians on Bougouni Yaaliare anonymous, and the other two records are untitled aside from the performers' names; tracks are simply numbered and no context is given. Even so, Yaala Yaala, like their comrades over at Sublime Frequencies, at least allow this music to speak for itself in its strangeness if, to not-so- foreign ears used to a myriad of collected sounds from other people's travels, dreams and kitchen tables, it really seems that strange.

And the artists, we can hope, will continue, all the while, in their wandering. Songs of her own on her own coming soon on Too Pure's own singles club. Kick: 'Decorous'. Mooning, in vocal sense. Stevie: I'm thinking of arts channel idents, adverts for skin cream. Frances: It's odd to hearArthur Russell played on a piano.

I don't think he ever played one. It gives it a very different flavour to his sound, which was cellos, drum machines, trombone. Louis: This whole EP is really good, actually. It demonstrates Arthur wasn't just a sonic innovator, etc etc, but also a really great, understated songwriter. Kick: Steve Albini said in a post on a poker forum that he admires the way Verity can think through complex musical forms.

Stevie: Very unhurried, I guess because she's singing about things that can't be hurried. Scheduled to play an underage festival, which seems a brave booking decision unless it's a youth detainment facility. Louis: Or Daft Punk stripped down to 4-bit. Frances: Dead behind the eyes, like the people in Liquid Sky.

It's a good look. Louis: So apparently the guy plays a keyboard fitted with a chip from an Atari console. Frances:Andthegirl hasa chipfrom an Atari console fitted in her brain. Kick:Their fanbase wants them to be as scuzzy and fast as poss, so this is kind of apolitefuck-you Louis: Really desperately sad feeling. Frances: I like the sedated quality. Stevie: It's weird how people record these ersatz pieces, recreating every part of an era's sound - limitations, glitches - are they to be heard a 'undiscovered nuggets' from that era?

Or a further generation of it? I guess it's a question you could ask of all retro music. Frances: Painkillers. Stevie:The thing I like about Comanechi is their heavy stuff reminds me of Scout Niblett when she gets very sludge Sabbath - it slows down, the tempo is loose, there's a chaos. Frances: Did she just say, "Fucking retard"! Kick: Not cool.

Stevie: Akiko used to be in a band with Emma Niblett. Kick: She's a compulsive collaborator. Stevie: I wouldn't want to exist in a non- Sonic Youth world. Kick:This churns like gastroenteritis. Justice remix the B-side, to give you some context; the company our nameless freaks oh, OK, Tiga and Zombie Nation, secretly keep.

Frances: So, this is the 'original Munich version'. What happens in Munich? Kick: Lots of public sulking, by the sound of this. Louis:That's a very scary sound. Like the devil farting. Stevie: It's one soul clap away from being the intra to 'CarWash'. Franceds: I like the filters on this. Frances: Yeah, it's Josh Wink experiencing entropy. Kick: Lower and lower, and slower and slower and slower. Frances: Entropy is what's shaping all this snooze-disco that's around at the moment. Kick:This is what card-cloning sounds like.

People in Munich dance facing the wall. Louis: If you went to a club that played this and Crystal Castles, you would emerge missing an important piece of your sanity. Frances: I dunno, I think you'd survive. Louis: By eating bugs and things. Kick: But you'd lose the ability to tell the difference between killing insects and people. I've decided. Kick: It's a bit aimless, though, isn't it? Frances: It fits my mood of negativity.

And confusion. And apocalypticness. Stevie: It really won't die. It is like a cockroach. Animal Collective and Black Dice have elements of it. Kick: Really well-judged histrionics, there. It's totally Hitchcockian, this record. Louis: I really like the beat to this.

It's quite wonky and bits seem to come in late. I like this a lot. Stevie: It's like analog MIA. Kick: I like how it has 'movements' within it, too. It has a whole series of alleyways and plateaus. Frances: Cue lots of hipsters trying to belly-dance. Kick: Oh God, please no. Kick: It would be awesome if Middle Eastern music got hip. Frances: It has the weird linear quality of 'real' Middle Eastern pop. Like it could go on a long time, without choruses.

Stevie: Yeah, song cycles - stories told in song. Discovered by one of the Frank And Walters. Describe themselves as "highly-motivated couch potatoes". Cursory research taught us there are lots of Jake Summers on the internet. Kick: Intro's a bit. Frances: You wait til it gets going, the lyrics are cool. Kick: A montage of indie moods. Stevie: I like it more now she's shouting. Frances: I like the drums. And the way the singer just doesn't stop, just keeps going on one note.

Kick: It's OK. Find it difficult to go further than that. Stevie: I like it but I can see the influences very clearly, and they don't quite obscure them enough. She's very Karen - some identical tics an' ting. Louis: It goes between sweet and savage very nicely, I think. Frances: I like the teen angst, because I am getting old. First up, the young prince of the scene drops one for the Sounds Of The Universe massive. They must be running out ofthings Stevie: It makes me want to skip rope.

Louis: I sense we're only getting about 1 per cent of the bass through the office speakers. Kick: Yes. But we can use our imaginations. Louis: There are really only whispers of actual dub melody, it's practically all bass and drums. Kick: I imagine a polar bear with an erection. Sorry, but I do.

Like a pink popsicle. Stevie: I like the distant piano. Kick: Plan S— for music lovers andzoophiles. Louis: When the bass goes it's like a massive weight has been lifted. Frances: Speechless Kick: I feel bad, 'cause I do quite like it.

In a non-sexual way. Louis: It's pretty heavy stuff. Kick: Skream seems pretty good in not letting sci-fi gimmicks take over his sound. Stevie: Yeah -flab free. Still book their own shows, and a lot of them. Stevie: I like the lead guitar playing all over the mulch, very sonixyoof. It wouldn'tsound as good on CD, you know. Swampy, innit? Stevie: Sounds like it was taped in a muggy rehearsal room, bad heads and heavy hands.

Frances: And the smell of drummers. The singer reminds me a bit of. Vi Subversa from Posion Girls. That's a huge compliment. Louis:The breakdown is like even in the band except the bassist died, and he decided to mourn theirpassing Kick: Nice melancholic Sixties kids TV interlude.

Louis: And ends with weird Forties jazz. Arrived with a 'covering letter', because " Press releases are lame". Kind of liked them already, at this point. Quoting Emma Goldman instead of giving band refs "Also lame" compelled us to play the thing. Frances: Don't know what to say about this. Kick: Party dress, handstands, sick. Frances:The best thing about it is the momentum, the speed and the crazy bass. The bassist is really good. Stevie: Probably a monster at guitar hero.

Kick: Dolls house falling down the stairs. Stevie: Sounds a bit Erase Errata - like that clipped tautness. I will buy them better cymbals of course I won't really. Cymbals aren't cheap. Stevie: I remember people saying he was a groundbreaker when his debut came out. Frances: It's very slick. Kick:This sounded pretty good when the MC was setting the pace, but the slightly mob rule neo-soul chorus lets it down a notch.

Louis: What is his drug of choice? Louis: It's almost the sort of thing Outkast would do, this chorus. He used to shoot crack, but now he shoots tunes. And apparently keeps other MCs on detox. Frances: How do you shoot Tunes? Melt them? Kick: Snort an mp3. Lick speakers. Frances: I shoot Lockets. Kick: Hmm. My drug of choice is. Well known for nastiness on stage. It is currently unclear why they have black I ips, but we suspect the worst. Kick: Have they changed between albums? Stevie: Not much.

It's a bit less lo-fi. There's a lot of sick psych in there too. Frances: Heavy Trash kick their little cute asses, it has to be said. Men vs boys. Kick: It must be so weird to have a song written about you. Like, flattering, but so weird Frances: It's about the hurricane! Louis: What do the lyrics say? Try not to confuse with St Vincent and The Grenadines, since that's not a band at all, but Caribbean islands.

Stevie: I liked Sufjan, and then he just wouldn't stop putting records out, and it's devalued him in my eyes. Frances: Yeah, and I thought he came across like a bad man in that Danielson movie. Stevie: I like all the harmonics. Sounds like a scratched vinyl copy of Laurie Anderson's Mister Heartbreak.

Stevie: Yeah, definitely. Frances: Only with a warbly singer. Stevie: Yeah, she's the least interesting bit. Louis:The vocals are beautiful, though. Kick: I like the wrongness of it. Frances: Tears For Fears. It threw me. It's a name that I'd have required a qualifier "You know -the bloke who did Now, with getting on for 20 years of hindsight, I'm considering him one of the prime movers in a musical scene I wasn't even aware I was in at the time.

This movement focuses around videogame music; specifically, that made for the Amiga and the PC. It lasted from '89, peaking between '91 and '93, crushed beneath the forward march of videogames tech by ' Note the period. There's a retro scene based around earlier videogame music- the C64 SI D-chip resonates through the minimalist aesthetic of anything chipcore.

Conversely, further into the Nineties, videogames were able to use pure CD sound. Games, like films, had soundtracks -one side decided to hire orchestras, the other to license anything popular in the clubs. It was no longervideogame music. It wasjust music. While previous chip-based music could abstractly play traditional music, the fidelity of the chips turned anything into parody. Classical music fired through a Spectrum is intrinsically hilarious.

The difference with the Amiga and ST's technology was that while it was incapable of making an exact copy, it was capable of implementing it in its own way, and in a way which would actually work. If the scene has a start, it's with Xenon 2: Megablast. While the artist provided the music, it was arranged for the game by a developer- in this case, game music veteran David Whittaker and later, Richard Joseph.

This made it, by necessity and design, a remix culture. How close could you get before running out of memory? This is the core of the scene. And, immediately, the results were inspiring. This was the first time in history that videogames felt in any way even vaguely approaching cool. Clearly, no one else in the world barthe players would know, but when you sat down and the brutal Speedball II: Brutal Deluxe slid out of the speakers like a dead-eyed shark, you felt as glacially perfect as when listening to Public Enemy.

You wanted to hurt people. Pretend people, but people nevertheless. The PC's is a laughable piece of kitsch. The Amiga's -while one of the lesser remixes that graced the Bitmap's games -at least captures a little of the real kitsch charm of Miss Boo's second- finest hour. While the in-game music was often less elaborate than the introductions, the in-game tracks integrated with the music to create a soundscape which you moved through as you played.

It was best shown in Joseph's Chaos Engine -the Bitmap's game for which he wrote as well as arranged the music -which turned its steampunk glory into almost a club environment, aesthetic effects bombarding you as you move through it. Internally, the state of grace that hits a gamer when riding the crest of game is close to dance in terms of perfectly integrating your virtual body with a work of art.

The scene was doomed. It was born of imperfect reaching -both in music and in videogame techniques, and its charm was its glorious hubris, its failure to quite achieve what it set out to. Due to that, its footmark in retro culture is relatively small, like most transitional periods. But it matters to we who remember. Which is the secret, and what we all did. To men like Richard Joseph's work, we all sang along with our controllers, a crowd dispersed across half a million bedrooms nationwide.

Besides what the words are about, I like just messing with words themselves and the American language - both as far as the American language as a whole and in terms of regional dialects. Well, thinking back over it, I think a lot of the songs are either about parties or travelling. I think that's because that's how I spend most of my time - I'm either at a show or I'm travelling to get there. Our bass-player at the time told me not to use so many words in such a small space because he didn't think it sounded pro.

Or something. I'm regularly validated. They make connections and references lhadn'tthoughtof. But that's constantly people's reaction to it. I can't imagine having the lyrics and telling someone to make music for the lyrics.

But heck, maybe that means I should try it The hour long special had been carefully edited down to appeal to the sensibilities of C4's core audience. It toned down the laddish, sexist elements of his act and talked up the admittedly brilliant attacks on the Gulf War and the rise of the Christian right. Due Each badly packaged CD and crappily subbed book makes wilder claims for him than the last to a trick of presentation he became a figure who effortlessly straddled the nascent new lad scene and the still strong culture of political correctness.

But what would make anyone outright hate Hicks? Well, for me it wasn't the fact he was a pothead and in thrall to imbecilic conspiracy theories. At the end of Revelations check how he gets 'shot' by an assassin because his truth was, y'know, too heavy for the government It wasn't the latent paedophilia he aspired to, no doubt inspired by his heroes from the world of Seventies rock. I'm going to turn you over and spread your cheeks.

It's like a pink, quivering rabbit nostril. It's not that he was a disgusting hippy, the worst kind: a free-marketeering American hippy. Meaning the angry desire was there for him to protect his right to do whatever he wanted to do whenever he wanted, whether it be smoking cigarettes, taking drugs, having access to hardcore pornography and violent movies or anything else his venality craved.

All of this was to be at the expense of children, old people and parents if necessary and. I must have missed his sketches about union rights for immigrant workers. It's not that he was a drivelling thunder cunt. There is no such thing as death, life is only a dream and we are the imagination of ourselves.

It's not the rampant misogyny. Actually, even though it kicks a hole in what I'm saying, it is the rampant misogyny. The sketch where he summoned the ghost of Hendrix up to rape Debbie Gibson to death for making pop- phony music for girls- is a prime example. It's not the untrammelled misanthropy. He was just an underachieves " Oh stop it Oscar, you're killing me.

No, the trouble with Bill Hicks is he's become the Diana Spencer of stand up comedy, and each badly packaged CD and crappily subbed book makes wilder claims for him than the last. The canonisation has taken a good comedian who was slightly ahead of the curve and tried to make something religous out of him.

The trouble with that, however, is that if you look to a comedian for humour, you get laughs; look to one for moral, spiritual and political guidance and you get a fucking joke. He was right about people who work in advertising and marketing though. Together, these Magnolia Electric Co. Mostly on account of the whole feyness factor. That and the fact that the World Wide Web's made it possible for even the most casual observer to find stuff that, like it or not, is now public.

So how the fuck do you redact an entire tour? How do you write about what really happened without eternally imperiling your ability to bullshit people about your general level of sanity like you must do to even get the basest and barely functioning level job?

I don't know and it seems shameful to think, like a hooker friend of mine once said to me, that you're "All about the money", butgoddamnit, if these tours paid enough, if WRITING about these tours paid ANYTHING, then we could all pen works of deathless genius about what exactly the fuck happened. Stick to the music. Stay away from the drugs, illicit sex, murder for hire that usually populates your planet of prose and just talk about the music.

For not a single pence either. I guess it's just me. Or maybe it's just me and the narcotics I have taped to my scrotum as I climb aboard a plane that I'm assured will plunge me to my death. You know, in the course of any given week I will see maybe one or two fans of the Islamic religion in my comings and goings, riding hither and yon and doing whatever I do on PLANET OXBOW, which seems to largely be about buying gasoline petrol to youse , groceries and trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

However, on the plane I'm about to get on? About 98 per cent of the people riding it seem to be wearing headscarves and carrying Korans. Yes, yes, yes, I know that I, especially ME, a BLACK man, should be sensitive to judging books by their goddamned covers and I know not all Muslims are terrorists, however, I can't get around the other shoe-dropping part of all the terrorists being Muslims.

Leastways it seems no Anabaptists have tried to kill me lately. So I'm sweating in my suit of protective colouration, a grey Kenneth Cole number, the glassine envelope holding the narcotics is digging into my scrotum potential employers: this part is mere hyperbole. And then I start sobbing. I hadn't intended to sob, but the book I am reading, Cormac McCarthy's The Road, a post-apocalyptic journey of cannibalism, rape and grim-faced murder has struck me as being a sensitive roman a clef and I find its raw lyrical beauty somehow touching.

I'm also now extremely, extremely high, reasoning as I have on the way over that if I get caught with the scrotal narcotics the less I have the better off I'll be and sooooo. After the sobbing, the plane landing and a breeze through customs I walk into the waiting area where my ride, a man named Ike who I fully expect to not be there, is actually NOT there.

I catch a train into Birmingham, walk the few blocks to the hotel, check in and proceed to take a crap. At which point I sayto myself, "Boy, it certainly is good to have those drugs out from under my scrotum". At which point I say to myself, "I don't remember taking them off, do you?

So after I fish the baggie out of the toilet and set it into the ashtray to dry I go about getting ready for Supersonic. Niko Wenner and I are doing a special deal. We call it Oxbow presents Love's Holiday: our acoustic rendering of Oxbow songs and soon to be the launching pad for songs that are not Oxbow songs and that are not written or recorded with full-blown electrification. We've done enough of this acoustic duo thing to have figured out that it's not shit and that it stands on its own, but at this show, given the vast profusion of amazing musicians, we've decided to go one better: a celebrity space jam with Dave Cochrane, Justin Broadrickand Stephen O'Malley as well as Chipper from Crippled Black Phoenix on a song in the key of A called 'You Pay First'.

It's the last song and ample reward for those that sat through our Simon And Garfunkel-esque ravaging of the Oxbow song catalogue, as well as liberal lifts from our grand new record The Narcotic Story. On my way into the venue Ike, he of the non-ride from the airport, walks up to me and hands me two 10 pound notes: "Here," he says. Gimme the money. I'll talk to her. I'll talk to her up close and personal-like.

The venue is slick and the vibe is cool and I have absolutely no idea who anyone is. We chit chat, you know, about singer things, like hair and makeup, and we do an interview for the BBC and some other TV thing. The woman interviewing us, an Australian, I ask to sit on my lap while she interviews me on the grounds that I am very tense and it might make me more comfortable.

She declines. Suit, set list and we discover much to our chagrin that Qui play at the same time as us and so we are now convinced we will have 1 1 people in attendance. But when we hit the stage the club is packed. Remembering the BBC guy saying to me, as he does a little breathlessly, "Everybody's talking about Oxbow tonight," I don't believe him until the opening notes of the first song from The Narcotic Story, 'The Geometry Of Business' and the crowd bursts into a roar of recognition.

We play. I confess to masturbating on my previous Birmingham host's throw pillows and the Love's Holiday Orchestra strides out and the people who've suffered through 35 minutes of Oxbow Presents Love's Holiday go nuts when they recognise that Oxbow, Sunn O and Jesu are going to do a song together, and we do.

And it's every bit as fucking gripping as it sounds and yeah, I was there and I'M fucking saying it, but sometimes a tornado is just a tornado and this was indeed that. Fantastic and shimmering. And when it's done I leave the stage and this big fella comes over and gives me a great big bear hug and then he says, "I loved it I can see and hear but I can't move. The big guy whose fall was cushioned by MY fall picks me up and takes me out to the bar where he buys me a drink as the cobwebs clear.

And this ends with his mouth bloody, him on his back and us being lifelong friends, as I now love him like a brother despite his attempt to Harry Houdini me. In any case I remember very little after that. And what I do remember is disturbingly fragmented but I do know this: it had nothing to do with semen. Elegant and druggy, this elegiac track remixed by the great Midnight Mike is a one-way trip to the dark side of the moon. He left us few and obscure albums but all are essential for lovers of the melancholic side of the Sixties.

Kraftwerk Autobahn In Ralf and Florian still had long hair. One day they took their Volkswagen for a trip on the German motorway. On arrival, they had short hair and big, big ideas. It is incredible to hear that this minute long celebration of the road was a huge hit at the time. What to say else?

The text is a translation of the famous message of the chief Seattle to the US government in 1 It will not be on our next compilation but it is an avantgout of his colour: a rainbow over the country of the guillotine. Klaus Schulze Freeze Schulze composed this sumptuous electronic ballad for the movie Angst.

Anxious but weightless, a perfect beginning for a DJ set on an iceberg. We also discovered an incredible band produced by Klaus Schulze: Clara Mondshine. Will be the year of the rehabilitation of this electronic pioneer? A rainbow over the country of the guillotine Turzi Afghanistan RomainTurzi is a French musician who likes Krautrock, psychedelic sounds and Italian shoes.

Dark and lovely. Heavy, noisy, psychedelic and epic. Dirty Sound System maintain a blog plus extras at www. Their Dirty Space Disco compilation is out nowonTigersushi plan b 1 25 What do you dance in yr bedroom to? The Blow. And please keep in mind that English doubles are American singles, so a prolonged, heavy-dose of Techno would probably have me ordering quadruples. Jack and coke, thanks for asking. Lots of times it's like 50 Cent says: 'The same two-step with a little twist'.

I've heard I do the Elvis, below the waist, thing when playing guitar. On drums it's more of the Keith Moon twirl. Since I usually have an instrument on when I'm playing, there's a little less jumping but a little more clapping. I think it's magical but no one seems to get it.

The band has pretty much forbidden me from playing this before the show anymore. I also really like Annie. Treating a band as a joke when they're for real hello, Andrew WK! Thankfully, Eats Tapes are the latter. They're currently schlepping around Europe to promote their second Tigerbeat6 album Dos Mutantes; a mishmash of influences and sounds that's billed as, "A multimedia onslaught of spazzy techno bangers that straddle club, psychedelic noise, and art rock scenes".

Greg says that they, "Try to make sure to wear clothes when we play", although sometimes they're, "Too tight, and then you get a stomach ache and can't remember your parts". Marijke usually doesn't wearshoes when she plays because, "Her feet get hot from feeling the groove. Living in a store front and throwing free shows, they changed the name to Eats Tapes because, "We thought the name Boom de la Boom was a bit narrow.

Eats Tapes had more of an undefined sound to it. One minute Eats Tapes could be playing a rave, the next minute leading a drum machine circle in a parking lot. We love to play in a variety of different situations, from art squats in Europe, to techno clubs, to galleries, to crusty free parties in the park.

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Verified purchase: Yes Condition: Pre-owned. Fantastic collection of brilliant blues songs. Verified purchase: Yes Condition: New. Skip to main content. About this product. Stock photo. Brand new: Lowest price The lowest-priced, brand-new, unused, unopened, undamaged item in its original packaging where packaging is applicable. Read full description. See all 3 brand new listings. Buy it now. Add to basket. Sold by swampytim Condition: Any condition Any condition.

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Many Die -hard Blues Enthusiasts will dig this I suspect. One thing the 's generation brought about was a revolution in both creative approaches to music combined with welcome advances in musical equipment technology to bring about better and , hahaha higher-fidelity.

Oh yeah, electrifying the guitar didn't hurt either, but that actually occurred in the 50's Frank Frost is from that latter time period but l find his approach to Blues more revolutionary and creative not just for that era but even for today and the phonics are there too. What bothers me about both these discs is altho it may introduce younger folks to a more audio-digestible did I just say that?!?! The creativity of the 60's sorry, my youthful era has been re- hashed so much that those influences LSD, not withstanding ever since, have grow staid with repeated listenings.

That perhaps is why, even being a avid music lover for thus number of years I even like the Ink Spots, but even their formulatic sound grows thin and is a perfect example of BY Jonathan Still. One person found this helpful. This is some of the very best of blues born out of real life experience from either side of The Pond. A treasured favorite in my collection since I first bought the vinyl in , I was elated to discover it is available on CD! This is like finding GOLD. One of my favorites is Steve Rye's amazing rendition of Elevator Woman.

This really raised the bar for blues harp performance. Very exciting to listen to - a great voice and wonderfully skillful note-bending mastery of the blues harp. If you love the blues, you must own this one! Varied performers playing classic blues -- What's not to like?

This is a great blues cd. The only problem is the two cds are labled wrong. The Me and the devil cd is labled as I asked for water,she gave me gasoline, and vice versa. I dont know if theres any others like this,just a heads up. Love it regardless. See all reviews. Top reviews from other countries. Translate all reviews to English. Report abuse. This is a good double CD with fine examples of early 60's British blues.

Me and the devil is a particularly good CD. Delivered promptly and accurately described. Great blues albums. Report abuse Translate review to English. Your recently viewed items and featured recommendations. Back to top. Get to Know Us. Make Money with Us. Amazon Payment Products. Let Us Help You.

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