Story Archive (Page 165 of 202)

Aber genau das haben Sie doch getan, werter Rezensent! Zumindest haben Sie die Ohren auf Durchzug gestellt. Sonst hätten Sie bestimmt etwas mehr zu dieser Scheibe sagen können.

Man hätte einfach ein paar der Kritiken gelesen, überwiegend Protokolle persönlicher Enttäuschung, hätte sich über die hohen Erwartungen gewundert und über Ihre Nichterfüllung gefreut...

Also andere Kritiken haben Sie auch noch vor der Verfassung Ihrer Eigenen gelesen, werter Kritikaster. Das scheint mir aber nicht die richtige Herangehensweise an ein neues Stück Musik. Zumindest macht es nicht unbedingt unvoreingenommener.

...ist "100th Window" weniger das Dokument einer künstlerischen Stagnation als der gescheiterte Versuch der Weiterentwicklung.

Starker Tobak. Was Kritiker in ihrem Übermut so von sich geben. Wünschen wir zumindest unserem wackeren Rezensenten Glück bei der Weiterentwicklung seiner Kritik.

Selbst Gastsängerin Sinead O'Connor kann nicht verhindern, daß es diesmal die Platte selbst ist, die sich auflöst:

Jetzt sind wir aber mal gespannt, wie das vor sich gehen soll. Hat da jemand mit Salzsäure rumgespielt oder was?

Man kann sie sich fünfmal hintereinander anhören, ohne sich großartig zu langweilen. Aber auch nach dem zehnten Mal wird man sich an keines der Stücke erinnern.

Also das glaube ich Ihnen jetzt nicht, Herr Kritikaster. Zehnmal hintereinander dieselbe Platte zu hören und sich an keines der Stücke zu erinnern, so geistesschwach können doch selbst Sie nicht sein. Aber unverschämt ist das dann schon. Von Ihrer Gehirninsuffizienz auf unsere zu schließen. Pfui Deibel.

Schon "Mezzanine" war das Requiem auf den Trip-Hop. Noch einmal konnte die Band hier ihren Sog entwickeln, düster und melancholisch, und daß darauf mit "Teardrop" der vielleicht ergreifendste Song des Genres zu finden ist, lag auch damals schon an der Stimme von Beth Gibbons.

Halt. Stop. Wieso Beth Gibbons? Ach das ist eine Doppelbesprechung. Von der neuen Massive Attack und der neuen Beth Gibbons. Aber trotzdem. Hier handelt es sich um eine Verwechslung. Auf Teardrop singt die ätherische Elfe der Cocteau Twins. Und die heißt immer noch Liz Fraser. Alzheimer haben Sie also auch noch, Herr Kritikaki. Ihren Namen muss ich mir jetzt unbedingt merken. Um nicht noch einmal meine kostbare Zeit mit derartigem geistigem Dünnschiss zu verlieren: HARALD STAUN. Angesichts solch geballter Inkompetenz kann man wirklich nur noch staunen. Schreibt in der Frankfurter Allgemeinen (hier Sonntagszeitung) wie Kenner unschwer an den vielen "daß" erkennen konnten.

Und à propos 100th Window von Massive Attack. Das ist ein Meisterwerk. Sehr dicht. Sehr bedrückend. Sehr hypnotisierend. Die Weiterentwicklung von Radiohead's Amnesiac mit anderen Mitteln. Eine Platte wie unsere Zeit. Die trügerische Ruhe vor dem Sturm.

Interested in some intelligent reflections on the record? Check out what Tim Finney from Australia wrote here at ILM.

The opener of the wonderfully titled first album Every Time the Bell Rings an Angel Gets His Wings of the Swedish band. I am listening to the live mp3 from the Emmabodafestivalen 8/8/2002.

A song which renders me completely defenseless. It is like a soft stab into the heart. Maybe like shooting Heroine. Yes I think it is as intense. Like when someone tells me a secret he hasn't told anyone before. I am pure emotion afterwards. Touched to the bone. I literally melt. You must know that I am an iceberg. Always have been.

It starts very slowly and fragile with the tuning of the guitar and a piano. Speedwise this could be Low. The singer pronounces some words which are rather difficult to understand. After one minute the bass guitar enters and slows down the music even more. Long sustained tones. After another 30 seconds the song opens up into full blossom. The drums arrive. The guitars sound almost like pedal steel. A warm country feel. Wide open space. And there is almost a small crescendo like in Godspeed YBE tracks. At the end things get calmer again, the singer mumbles some more. The mood of the song is pretty close to the depressive tunefulness of Idaho.

If you approach it in the right frame of mind, Draft 7.30 is the sort of album that will take you to other universes. Keep an open mind.

Either I gradually learned to hear the world the way Sun Ra heard it, or he was hearing it the way I do, but I love the way his best music clanks and stumbles along, the weird and realistic way it meanders between grace and gracelessness; the way it mimicked the stutter-stepping, bursts of noise and silence, and general caterwauling of my consciousness.

The middle portion of the record, featuring "Fool," "He War" and the riveting "Smashing Paper," is the strongest, giving us full bursts of the fight Marshall has in her. The trio of songs is so dramatically different from what we've heard before from Cat Power -- so aggressive, upbeat and catchy -- that it's disappointing to go back to the morose lullabies that occupy the last six tracks of the album.

Its as if the album is the story of the hills and valleys of a relationship that is, when at its best, the sweetest thing imaginable, but when at its worst, enough to tear a man apart.

Afterward, I was standing behind Mark at the bar and I spoke to him – he's the most approachable guy in the world. I told him how much I'd loved the show, and also "West," and this one song from it, but I couldn't remember the name of it. He was friendly, but he said he didn't remember the song. So I sang part of it into his ear – a few of the best lines. "I don't remember!" he yelled at me over the noise. "I don't remember any of the songs I write!"

The Go-Betweens' new album Bright Yellow, Bright Orange has been released in Germany on Monday. I just listened to some tracks on the radio and must admit that I am quite enchanted. Wonderful understated melodies played on acoustic guitars almost sound like a relic from another era nowadays. But they are balm for the soul. This is the kind of pop music I heart. The soft voices of Forster and McLennan are pleasant as always and the lyrics seem personal and interesting. Somehow I have never really understood the appeal of this band before. Though I didn't listen to them a lot. I only own a Best of and some demos. The new album seems a good place to start. After Massive Attack's haunting 100th Window already the second album which should have a fair chance to become album of the year in my small music universe.

THE SCENE OPENS ON A DOG. IN THE DISTANCE, WE SEE A WOMAN YELLING.

WOMAN: Bennet? Bennet, dinner.

THE DOG IS SMOKING. HE TAKES A DRAG.

THE DOG LOOKS AT THE CAMERA.

THE DOG COUGHS.

BENNET: Hey, I'm a dog, what's your excuse?

...

says letting loose with the leptard whom I just rediscovered in my referrers. You know I am just a short-sighted egosurfer who does not look further than his own navel...

That's an interesting statement which concerning my little blog I would have to change slightly into "I'd like this to be a music blog but I know this is rubbish as I don't know fuck all about music". That sentence is too long and therefore I won't use it as subtitle. Any complaints?

The leptard (I hope that shortening is not too impolite) has almost written a blog in a blog to explain the name of his blog. I couldn't read all of it but I liked the idea of inventing a word which sticks in your mind. The word leptard somehow makes me think of Def Leppard. I must admit though that I don't really know the music of the guy/band with said moniker. And I don't want to know it. I am a pretentious snob you know. At least concerning music.

Anyways I wanted to say thank you to the leptard for finding such nice words to describe my totally vain try to put words around music. I remember that I stumbled upon his blog when he wrote something about a Nick Drake tape where Nick Drake spoke about a party he attended if I remember well. Nick Drake was the sad hero of my youth. And I was thee person in the world who loved his music most. Nick Drake and me were one and the same (German false friend: eine und dieselbe) person for a year or two. Though I never learnt how to play the guitar. Enough of this now. I'll finish this futile post with a great quotation of the leptard concerning a Pere Ubu song.

I'll never forget the first time I heard 30 Seconds Over Tokyo on John Peel. It was giddy dangerous music that made most rock seem parochial and complacent. Listening to Ubu was like having one of those dreams where you're about to fall and then wake up, except... you don't wake up.

"Have you got a light?" used to be my favourite chat-up line. That courageous initiative usually was the end of the conversation.

No more walking out of a stupid meeting with a fellow addict to be part of something.

And not too far in the future there will be a day when I will crave for craving a cigarette.

I know I will have to pay for being too sure of myself in the last verse but let it be a roll-up, please.

'So death is having all these tries at me, is he? Let him, then! I had a try at him a long while ago myself.' 'When was this?' you'll say. Before I was born. Death is just not being. What that is like I know already. It will be the same after me as it was before me.

Seneca --Epistulae Morales

This is an album I got almost a year ago and never listened to up till today. It even inspired me to start a thread at I Love Music: CDs you bought but never listened to. Quoting myself:

I bought Autechre's Confield about a year ago and never listened to it. There must be more CDs but this one kind of haunts me. Somehow I am afraid to listen to it and somehow I am intrigued. I never felt like wanting to listen to it. Too abrasive, not enough melody was what I thought. I don't go to the dentist on my free will neither...

Autechre are nothing for people with short attention spans. It is hard to get into them. Their "music" is challenging. As I am a curious person concerning music I could not resist listening to the CD finally. At the end of the CD I felt like having experienced a hangover without having been drunk the night before. The most rewarding was that the hangover didn't last long. It was over after exactly 62 minutes and five seconds. The kind of hangover I have always been dreaming of.

I like the idea of this stuff. In theory I am a fan. In practice I am not there yet. The music itself is naked. No melody, few harmonies, hardly a constant beat, no voices. The listener has to clothe the music himself. He has to make it up in his head. It is his work. It is not shoved in his ears. But there are endless possibilities. The music gives the listener almost total freedom. But he has to be imaginative. He needs to have his own ideas, otherwise it won't mean anything to him. Everyone will hear different things in this record. The music is like an empty house. You have to furnish it yourself. First you paint the ceiling, then you paste the wallpaper on to the walls, then you lay the floor coverings, finally you put up the furniture. I haven't made Confield my home yet. I hear lots of different noises but altogether it doesn't make sense yet. I am still connecting the sounds to create pictures and stories. Some impressions of the first four tracks:

In a way Confield is to conventional music what the internet is to television. The user is not only a consumer anymore. He is participating. It is not enough to just open the ears and eyes. There is an interaction which goes beyond passive perception.

1. Zen Buddhist monks are engaged in a spiritual performance. Together, they turn the impossibly tight-sealed lids of various jars and metal containers. The monks slowly begin taking heavy breaths, the slightest low-pitched hum of their voices can be heard. Songful spirits of trees and rivers are drawn to them and begin surrounding them. The spirits gradually trail into the priests and are released upon the exhalings. The breaths grow deeper, the inhalations become extended, yet everything remains utterly calm.

In another galaxy, this would be a traditional rural farm song. Percussionists keep the swaying rhythm alive to boost morale for the humble workers. Under a purple-yellow haze and the heat of 2 suns, baskets are filled with some sort of glowing alien coal. Everybody mines, gleans, and gathers in the same back-and-forth motions set by the drums. Later, you can hear the shearing of crops and dust evaporating in the humid atmosphere.
A relentless meteor shower upon a cactus-infested plain where scorpion-like things surface every now and then to warble about. Everything is dangerously spiny, acute and in abrasive conflict its surroundings. The sky is shrouded in clouds and brutal sandstorms flurry upon the twilight ranges. Eventually, a few distant stars are able to shimmer through the havoc quite brilliantly. However, this vague sign of consolation is ultimately lost in the pelting assault.
A 2-legged machine rhythmically pounds the floor in a cave of bats. It sends out horrifying growling frequencies to instigate hysteria throughout them. Wings flap and the bats all begin grinding their teeth in tension. The machine strikes the ground more forcefully, shaking the more distant creatures off of their stalactite bound areas of slumber. The rumbling mechanical howl grows more intense, the collective grinding of teeth forms a claustrophobic chatter, the pounding grows more and more erratic. The bats begin to drop to the ground, a couple can be faintly heard screeching in pain. As the last fall, the machine sends out one final moan before shutting off.
A large beetle chomping and snorting away at a pool of tinier insects. Every bite it takes is performed with a systematic double-slurp followed by a sharp snapping of the jaw. A mysterious shaman plays a strange and foreign metallic instrument to keep the beetle hypnotized through this ritualistic devouring practice. The beetle's consumption becomes more frantic, more violent. The hooded apprentices of the shaman silently pray beside the beetle's arena. The beetle's eyes redden as a dark omen begins to take shape.
You awaken to find yourself upon the tongue of a gargantuan beast. The beast roars as you are forcefully tossed around in bubbling gurgling saliva. Skeletons of past meals and other barely alive unidentifiable animals are trapped with you. Undigested bones crumble and crunch rapidly as the beast writhes around in attempts to swallow you. Suddenly, the mouth closes and it all fades out in an instant.
Uh oh, somebody left the drum machine on and today the kids are going to be at the shop for a music-education field trip. As they arrive, the steady beat compels the rambunctious rascals to slam around on a bunch of keyboards all set to "Harpsichord 2". A couple children try to sing a nonsense little melody around the cacophony (let's say the kids have all gotten their hands on broken vocoder-filter-masks as well). One even discovers how to switch her keyboard to "Acid Pad". But enough is enough... the chaos of the noise causes one young boy to cry and soon enough... everybody is crying.. the drum machine obliviously runs on. Where'd the teacher go?
3 frogs. Like the Budweiser frogs, they alternate noises... the first 2 emit little croaks while the third puffs out with a deep boom. The moon shines peacefully, a cluster of fireflies encircles the pond. However, this tranquility is all about to change. Little did the first 2 frogs know, they were seated upon powerful fountain streams. The water-cannons begin their spray, sending the 2 frogs high in the sky. The frogs are startled and let off distressed cries, at times with water in their mouths so that a gargle is all that can be heard. They consistently land with a splash precisely where they once sat, only to be thrown up in the air over and over again. The whole time the 3rd frog persists indifferently with its burping bass.
An argument between a metronome and a dysfunctional ill-tempered computer. The animosity steadily increases and the mood swings so that mild tension boils into rage. As a result, the agitation culminates into a full-blown melee. The metronome really loses its cool and aggressively lunges at the computer, sending both of them down a long, rocky, arduous incline. Down, down, down they tumble, no longer engaged in battle, but lost and confused in the tangle of thorns and steep terrain. Major injuries to both.

This is what always ends up happening when I listen to Autechre's Confield. It's just how I react. Is this enjoyable? Good music?