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For the Uz. Lee's heartbreak opus.
Brobot.
Though he may not possess the same barbituric dexterity and unfettered invention of Syd Barrett, Finn is a fellow dark globe sage in an era of folkie sprites and gonzo longhairs. And much like Barrett’s two shambolic solo LPs – the seminal self-portrait-in-a- melting-mirror The Madcap Laughs and its follow-up, the overcompensating, quasi-narcoleptic Barrett – perhaps the definitive trait of Pass the Distance is its skeletal eccentricity. Songs lurch through psycho-ward strums accompanied by campfire third-eye improvisations. Even the two sides of the album’s cover – a lightly abstracted picture of a scrappy pair walking on a forest pathway headed to the horizon as seen from behind and its psychedelic flip-image with the two figures’ faces exploding in mask-like grimaces as the space around them flares with dreamstate hallucinations – suggests the slow crumble of liminal partitions.
Wizards, mermaids and the requisite metaphorical fauna may crop up in Finn’s lyrics, but his words mostly ring with vague bleakness made even more desperate by the singer’s absinthe-drunk channeling of Tim Buckley’s range. In near epileptic bursts Finn shatters his damaged serenading for phlegm-laden sturm und drang croaks and gasps, most notably in the album’s centerpiece – and dealmaker for Tibet – “Jerusalem.” A post-hippy mantra that swells from threadbare melancholy to caustic fervor with Finn incanting a “dropout”/”political revolutionary” Jesus who rode a lame donkey and lives on in the worship of “200 million hypocrites.” On this and the rest of Pass the Distance’s compositions, the scrawled hieroglyphic trim is provided by Paul Burwell’s ably fluid percussion and Toop’s loose dawdling on various instruments, many he was never trained on. The music-scribe-to-be’s scrapes, drones and various other freeform skiffle expertly preludes the dissections and mystical trawls that was to come from Nurse With Wound to the Jewelled Antler collective.
Mixed with maximum panning, as was de rigueur, and often warbling in an echoplexed ether, Pass the Distance is more than an unearthed relic from yesteryear’s endtimes. With the exception of the four “bonus” tracks tacked on to the CD – the shrill histrionics of “Children’s Eye” and soft-pedal pop of “Good Morning,” both sides of a projected 7”, along with solo takes on two unremarkable early Finn tunes – these 10 frayed yarns still merit study and genuflection." - Bernardo Roundeau
"Xinlisupreme are a duo from Japan, but they play some of the wildest surf-guitar instrumentals this side of 1960s USA. "Kyoro" kicks off with an incredibly raw drumbeat, pummeling you like countrymen High Rise at their worst. The guitar builds up sizzling feedback, then unleashes a firestorm as a blood-curdling scream tears from your speakers. It almost sounds like heavy metal, but the theatrics that follow pull the ripcord, decelerating into fun, anthemic riffage. The group manages to make low fidelity an almost religious virtue later on "Under a Clown", with electric surges careening around the rattling drums and the sudden appearance of an abused piano being pounded.
Hailing from Oita, Japan, Xinlisupreme's dreamy synth-pop comes as quite a surprise. Yasumi Okano and Takayuki Shouji conjure up dust from dance clubs of the 80s, evoking dirty, fog-cloaked backrooms. "All You Need is Love Was Not True" thumps through eight minutes of flat drum machine beats, the dull thud masking the half-mumbled attempts to sing that float through the mix. The patterns reassure, never boring, just guiding the body out onto the floor. Not so with the wavering synth-static of "Amaryllis", but the repetitive motif creates a ritualized aura, enhanced by the duo's strange chanting. The drama continues on "Fatal Sisters Opened Umbrella", which drives from a gothic groove straight into the heart of the cathedral itself, with insane blasts like pipe organs soaring upwards.
Think you've heard it all? Xinlisupreme make you hear it all at once. This mad twosome from the Far East cuts some of the nastiest noise-rock since the Birthday Party. "You Died in the Sea" begins with Einstürzende beat-boxing, like anvils clanging on cold metal. Without warning, the guitars snarl, shredding the song open in a vortex of distortion and drones. The group isn't all hard edges, though; "Suzu", in particular, with its hazy mesh of soundwaves, will have you thumbing through your shoegazer glossary for acronyms like 'FSA' and 'MBV'. Likewise, "I Drew a Picture of Myself" paints perfect balance between shimmering airiness and barbed aggression, and features some of the grungiest basslines since Gish.
Forget titles like 'power electronics' or 'sonic terrorism'-- Xinlisupreme rain down slabs of pure noise from on high. Keep countrymen Merzbow and Masonna in mind, but also think of Unit Records beatmongers Gridlock and Dryft. "Goodbye for All" matches the snowy grainscapes of the former with the latter's electronic percussion, resulting in a cyclone of pulsing stabs and shrieking pitchshifts. Like most masters of the extreme, the duo show mercy, thankfully, and the piece relents with an ambient midsection that calms before the storm ensues again. Though the sketch only lasts two minutes, "Symmetry" remains particularly unsettling as it builds into a thicket of piercing nettles, reminding more of the phantasmagoric clouds conjured by Ah Cama-Sotz.
It should be obvious by now, but I'll say it outright: Xinlisupreme are all these things. It's become a cliché these days to describe a band from Japan as 'wild' or 'crazy', but the evidence is right up in your face, kicking your teeth in. Don't think about genre-hopping trend-setters-- Okano and Shouji blend these styles together with demented glee. What you get is an hour's worth of helter-skelter sonic invention, lacking any coherent center. This mania is their virtue, making for one of the year's most unpredictable albums, and a damn fine debut. It's also their weakness. Am I being too critical? Imagine the Boredoms ten years back, and where they've come since. Xinlisupreme are only beginning to rock." - Christopher Dare
Ikebana"Evolved from early-'80s Chicago-to-New York transplants the Bag People (whose one undistributed 45 was seemingly pressed solely for the jukebox at their local Brooklyn bar), guitarist Carolyn Master reassembled Of Cabbages and Kings in 1985 from parts scattered to Swans, Foetus, Glenn Branca, etc. Playing only sporadically due to their outside commitments, they gradually coalesced into a focused unit, although Ted Parsons bailed out after the second record (for his fulltime group Prong) to be replaced by ex-Live Skull/Ruin drummer Rich Hutchins (also now departed); Diane Wlezien, still a Chi-based blues chanteuse, remains a cameo vocalist both live and on record. Effectively, the core of OCAK is the duo of Master and bassist/singer Algis Kizys (a Swan and sometime Branca associate) plus a drummer.
Decidedly unprolific and rare to perform, OCAK's highly visceral attack is founded on a vivid technical mastery owing little to the commonly revered tenets of speed and/or flash, instead conjuring a brutal, primal power and intensity virtually unmatched in modern music, with Kizys' bone-rattling semi-chorded playing rendering most contemporary rhythms effete, even as Master's guitar shards swirl about the edges like razors in a tornado.
Of Cabbages and Kings delivers a dizzying panorama of dark surrealistic desire and fear — both in sound and lyric — the latter including a soundtracked snippet of Baudelaire. The seven-song Face delves deeper into the group's grueling, obsessive world, stretching the music into less predictable shapes and ingesting piano and accordion while reintroducing Master as a vocalist. Comparatively quiet in spots but no less redolent of dis/unease, it (like the first record) includes radical updates of Bag People material, reinterpreted in Cabbage style as paranoid introspection, more like the ruminations of a self-loathing rape victim than the simpleminded lurid voyeurism so common in deathmetal and elsewhere. Two of the eight songs on Basic Pain Basic Pleasure were previously issued on a 45 and a compilation; what the album lacks in length it more than makes up in breadth, offering the band's crispest (if not most physically imposing) production and arrangements, as well as increased variety of approach. Hutchins is neither as creative nor as aggressively captivating a drummer as Parsons, but songs like the moody, guitarless "Crawl Again" illustrate yet more facets of a band too facilely dismissed as "mere" New York noisemongers." - Art Black