By Hanna
Fox is one of the few bands that have truly crossed over from junkshop glam into mainstream glam rock over the past decade or so. They always had people—notably Steve Wright—lobbying for them, but it wasn’t until Cherry Red started re-issuing the albums and YouTube allowed them to be rediscovered that they took their proper place in the genre. That initial wave of interest has only become stronger, and with this compilation most of their known music is now available. The three albums (Fox, Tails of Illusion, and Blue Hotel) were previously re-issued by Cherry Red, and there have been a number of compilations by various companies, but none as comprehensive as this one.
Fans of horror movies from the 1980s know that half the fun of those flicks was the crazy synthesizer-heavy soundtracks they all seemed to have. Haunting melodies, strange electronic sounds, and spatial effects only served to accentuate the atmosphere, making the blood and guts more shocking.
It’s a weird groove to fall into, being a fan of music like that. You start bringing up musicians like Claudio Simonetti, Fabio Frizzi, Riz Ortolani, or Alan Howarth and most people stare at you like you’ve lost your mind. Then you start bringing up the movies those people have scored. Have you not seen Zombi? The Beyond? Buio Omega? How about The Fog? The original Dawn of the Dead, for cryin’ out loud?
You get a lot of blank looks and sympathetic nods, lots of people silently blessing your heart.
Never a band to do things in a conventional way, The Dandy Warhols have released a live version of their seminal album Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia recorded in its entirety at The Wonder Ballroom in their hometown of Portland, Oregon. Thirteen Tales is a damn near masterpiece of smart pop sensibilities, great hooks, and the occasional space rock excursion, and represents the Dandys at the height of their powers. It’s hard to believe it was 13 years ago.
For another perspective on Soak, check out Julie Finley’s review from December 2013.
“I can’t control the wind and rain, but I control the thermostat.”
—From “Kamikaze”
The newest Foetus release, Soak, is a companion album to a previous release, in this case, 2011’s Hide (review). (Calling it Seek would have been way too obvious for a guy like JG Thirlwell. You have to work for it.) And like 2006’s Damp (itself a companion to the previous year’s Love), it’s something of a Foetus sampler and not a straightforward “album” in Foetus terms. It’s also the first Foetus release in a long time that I didn’t love immediately. This is not to say that it’s a bad album—far from it—but it takes a bit more time to sink in. Despite being so obviously a Thirlwell production (could he be mistaken for anyone else ever?) the songs are all quite varied in sound and scope with the connections between them slowly revealing themselves to be sly and subtle.
Suzanne Vega is one of the few survivors of the Great Folk Uprising of the Eighties. Her career hit its heights with her single, “Luka,” which was later covered by The Lemonheads. The British producing team, BNA, turned her a capella tune, “Tom’s Diner,” into an international dance hit. You know. “Doo do doo DO doo do-doo DO.” That one.
As it happens with some artists, as Vega matured as a performer and songwriter, her presence on the music charts decreased. Some of her best works went practically unnoticed (why people never caught onto her album Songs in Red and Gray is one of the great mysteries of our time).
After a seven-year break, Vega is back with Tales from the Realm of the Queen of Pentacles, a fascinating mix of bitterness and release, spirituality and despair.
The earth is scorched and jagged, and at night the wolves come. The Christian gods have come to battle the Elder gods for supremacy, but that war has yet to be won. Every move could be your last, for the land is beset with traps. This is a land of magick and superstition. This is where the arcane is commonplace. This is a land filled with thieves and sorcerers, warriors and demons. This is the 1970s.
This is the strange world of Warfaring Strangers: Darkscorch Canticles, a collection of 16 rock and roll songs, plucked from the dank dungeons of obscurity by record label Numero Group. Every song is based in a quasi-Tolkienesque fantasy world, easily recognizable to anyone familiar with Dungeons & Dragons or other such tabletop games. In fact, the double vinyl edition comes with its own RPG called “Cities of Darkscorch.”
As the leader of the Squirrel Nut Zippers, Jimbo Mathus trafficked in swing, Delta blues, klezmer, and Dixieland jazz, blending them to make something not easily defined, but easily identified. On his own, Mathus makes music that draws upon his rich musical knowledge and is deeply rooted in the South.
They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but you can often judge a record by its cover art. Dark Night Of The Soul sports a photo of Mathus in full pagan swamp god regalia, complete with horns and feathers in his hair. The album sounds like that, and that’s really a very good thing.
In its fourth season, Game of Thrones has become an all-conquering behemoth, awaited with baited breath by millions around the world ready to tune into HBO or cheekily pirate it shortly after it airs in order to ravenously devour the sumptuous look, dense plotting, and layered characters.
Most of these millions are, however, Caucasian, with HBO estimating over 75 percent of the show’s viewers being White. There is clearly a market to still be tapped into, despite the runaway success of the program. Hence we now have the latest in a series of pre-season hype-making mix tapes, Catch The Throne. Whilst previous season-priming mixtapes were mixed by the likes of The National or Wilco—shoegazing White indie—this time, HBO has enlisted none other than Big Boi, better known as one half of Outkast, in a blatant attempt to attract Black and Latino viewers with a combination of hip-hop, samples, and quotations from the show.
The result is sporadically brilliant, funny, clever, trivial, and idiotic in equal measure.
By Cait Brennan
The great Memphis folk blues legend Sid Selvidge, who we lost last year, left us so much treasure that it almost seems criminal to try to lay the “great lost masterpiece” idea on him. While he surely didn’t get all the recognition he deserved in his lifetime, most everything he brought us was its own masterpiece. But The Cold Of The Morning, his long-unavailable 1976 album, just might be his finest.
It takes a certain amount of balls to name your band Doomsquad. It sets up myriad expectations. What kind of music do you expect when you hear that name? Totalitarian anthems, denouncing self and praising the Motherland? Some heavy-handed comic book villainy? Angry Norsemen with long hair and corpse paint?
Wrong. Try again.