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dustedmagazine · 3 months

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Dusted Mid-Year 2024, Part I (Oren Ambarchi to Loma)

Oren Ambarchi and crew

Half the year is gone already, and how did that happen? At Dusted, we’ve spent six months listening to good records and bad. We’ve picked our very favorites, the top two from this year’s pile. And now, in an annual tradition, we turn them on our fellow writers. Hah, take that!

Some of our Mid-Year switcheroos have been highly contentious. We may have lost a writer or two in the aftermath. Others have been remarkably collegial and full of positive discovery. This one falls more or less in the middle. Only a couple of reviews are notably grumpy. A slightly larger (but still not large) number show evidence of newly awakened fandom. For the most part, we came out with the same favorites we brought with us, though perhaps a little wiser about the music that we’re missing.

For this reason, it is harder than ever to identify winners. There’s no universally admired album we can call “this year’s Heron Oblivion.” Rosali and Winged Wheel each got four votes, as close to a sweep as this year brought. Oren Ambarchi’s Ghosted II notched three. There were lots of lone pics—which is fine. More music to check out.

As always, we’re breaking the mid-year into three parts. This one covers the front of the alphabet, a second will deal with the back. The third, as always, provides longer lists from participating writers. We hope you enjoy it.

Oren Ambarchi / Johan Berthling / Andreas Werliin —Ghosted II (Drag City)

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Who recommended it? Bryon Hayes

Did we review it? Yes, Tim Clarke said, “They cleave closer to the meditative, exploratory grooves of The Necks, laying down intricately detailed and gradually evolving parts… Sublime.”

Bill Meyer’s take:

Count me among the Dusted writers who hold this trio in high esteem. Ghosted II strikes so precise a balance of texture, stillness and motion that it’s easy miss how fragile it is; one misplaced note or beat could bring it all down in a second, but the trio sustains each of the album’s four tracks for ten minutes or thereabouts. While it’s easy to appreciate the tidal flux of Oren Ambarchi’s guitar>>table of boxes>>Lesley speaker signal chain, and Johan Berthling’s immovable bass presence, if you are about to put this record on the hi-fi for the first time (PLEASE listen in stereo), consider focusing on the infinite mirror effect of Werliin’s percussion. Your third eye will thank you.

Olivia Block — The Mountains Pass (Black Truffle)

Who picked it? Bill Meyer

Did we review it? No

Ray Garraty’s take:

This has actually none of the pretentious stuff you expect to find in a work by somebody who has been dubbed a “media artist.” The second part of The Mountains Pass is especially stunning where ‘f2754’ has clearly a Giallo-esque feel to it, fast paced and a tad prog rock-ish. “Violet-Green,” perhaps the best composition on the album, brings in mind those creepy soundtracks, with synths and bells, which we usually hear on bad horror movies. And even when Olivia Block, on the same track, begins to sing, her voice is outlandish enough to think that she was abducted by the aliens.

Camera Obscura — Look to the East, Look to the West (Merge)

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Who Picked it? Andrew Forell

Did we review it? Yes, Andrew said, “Campbell writes movingly about memory and friendship. Looking at what was rather than regretting what might have been with an honesty that goes directly to the heart of things.”

Bryon’s take:

This record makes me realize that I should listen to more Camera Obscura. The Glaswegian indie pop group is a delight to take in, especially Tracyanne Campbell’s lovely voice. Look to the East, Look to the West is a comeback album, the band’s first since they went on hiatus following the death of keyboardist Carey Lander in 2015. The most striking aspect here is the use of pedal steel and organ, which lend the album a country and western flair. This seems to be a new development for Campbell and company, but they pull it off well and the new sounds really suit the band. Similarly effective are the digital drums that the band employ on tracks like “Liberty Print.” Camera Obscura have altered course slightly but retain the loveliness that lies within their core.

Chief Keef — Almighty So 2 (RBC)

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Who nominated it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? No.

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

Six years in the making and continually delayed—a fact the artist refers to several times during the run-time—Almighty So 2 is massive and ambitious, with operatic hooks and wall-shaking, body-pummeling beats. A mountainous swagger rocks, “Grape Trees,” the cut with Sexyy Red, a machine-gun ratatat thundering under brutal lyrics about gender relations. The politics are embedded in the subject matter, in the screaming sirens, the South Chicago gangland scenarios, the profanity, rage and cynicism. “Jesus Skit,” though, gets a little more explicit about it, positing a sliding reparations scheme that depends on skin color; light skinned rappers like Drake and Chance the Rapper lose out big time, while darker ones, like Sosa, get millions. The violence comes in the shattering beats, as in “1,2,3,” a slow-motion eruption. Here the artist sketches the bleak world that made (and continues to make) him, chanting, “I always believed I was gon' get paid/When I got to hustlin' up in sixth grade/You ain't givin' off that nigga, you won't get laid/Sleep for the weak, I been up for six days.” The track, like the rest of Almighty So 2, is gritty and nihilistic and undeniably powerful. So glad I got to hear this, non-expert though I am.

Cindy Lee — Diamond Jubilee (Realistik Studios)

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Who nominated it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? Nope (and shame on us…)

Jonathan Shaw’s take:

Diamond Jubilee commences with three dazzling songs: the title track, “Glitz” and “Baby Blue.” Even if the rest of the record weren’t so excellent (it is, and at over two hours, there’s a lot of it), the strength of those three songs would propel it into frequent rotation, on my various devices and in my head, and likely onto the year-end list I will eventually compose. “Baby Blue” is the crucial track: it’s one of those songs (along with Warren Zevon’s “The French Inhaler,” Townes Van Zandt’s “For the Sake of the Song” and a few others) that is so ruthlessly fine in its execution and so suited to some of the least comfortable angles in the emotional furniture in my head that it requires a kind of commitment to listen to. Beyond that irretrievably subjective response, Diamond Jubilee commits, as well: to gorgeous melody, without entirely smoothing out the sharp edges that distinguished Lee’s What’s Tonight to Eternity (2020); to the reverb-saturated aesthetic of fading girl-group harmonies, clubland at 3 am, spangled cocktail dresses of motheaten satin and the pleasures of the last cigarette in the pack when there’s no money for another; and, it seems, to love, in social conditions that make love nearly as unthinkable as it is completely necessary. The surreal, in its modernist avant-garde iteration, emerged in similarly extreme social conditions, after the slaughter of the Great War and amid fascism’s rise. Those forces were enough to distort human relations into monstrous shapes nigh irrevocable. Lee’s music has strong relations to the dreamlike quality of the surreal, and we have our own terrors now: climate’s awful and furious change, social media’s psycho-social poisons and fascism, once again. Those terrors’ spectral presences are audible all over Diamond Jubilee, but they can’t blunt the sharpness of human longing in songs like “All I Want Is You” or “Don’t Tell Me I’m Wrong” or “Government Cheque.” Love’s intensities may not be sustainable, or even particularly livable, but they won’t be denied. Cindy Lee captures that set of truths with that aforementioned dazzle, and with depth.

DIIV — Frog In Boiling Water (Fantasy)

Who picked it? Tim Clarke

Did we review it? Yes. Tim Clarke said: “Despite the music’s dense layering and the overall feeling of frustration and confusion, Frog In Boiling Water thankfully leaves the listener with a feeling of hope and eventual redemption.”

Ray Garraty’s take:

If I were given this with no title and artist’s name I’d say this was written by a no name indie band circa 2016. It’s the same shoegazy guitars and sweet and melancholy vocals we’ve been hearing since when, 1994? The songs like “Reflected” got things moving but it’s far from boiling temperatures, merely lukewarm. It’s been written somewhere that the DIIV’s album is about “coping with capitalism,” yet it’s evident that it’s feeding the same capitalism, giving the fans the same thing over and over. And that is how capitalism works.

Nomi Epstein — shades (Another Timbre)

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Who picked it? Christian Carey

Did we write about it? Yes, Christian said, "Epstein’s music is unfailingly attractive and elegantly paced. Shades is an excellent introduction to her work."

Bill Meyer’s take:

Since Nomi Epstein leads the Chicago-based new music ensemble a.pe.ri.od.ic, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to hear her guide performances of other people’s music. But shades is only the second album devoted to hers. Its three long pieces are, like the Wandelweiser and minimalist composers that a.pe.ri.od.ic has often supported, sparely arranged and deliberately paced. She puts intriguing sounds — some prepared piano notes, or a barely-there vocal tone — just far enough inside the frameworks of the music to invite one to listen in. Once your consciousness is inside the music, the slow movement of what surrounds you mesmerizes. Music this reserved and respectful is a welcome respite in a world where reality smacks you upside the head every day and even that influencer babbling on the phone belong to the person sitting next to you on the train insists on staring you in the eye.

Fuera de Sektor — Juegos Prohibidos (La Vida Es Un Mus Discos)

Who nominated it? Jonathan Shaw

Did we review it? Yes, Jonathan wrote, “It’s a singular sound, by turns compelling and bewitching—like the beautiful face you can just about discern across a dim and crowded room, a set of lines and textures briefly lit up by occasional drags on a cigarette. Not quite (or not just) postpunk, pop or dance music, the songs on Juegos Prohibitos itch at your hips and scratch into your brain.”

Christian Carey’s take:

Barcelona band Fuera de Sektor released a demo in 2022, but Juegos Prohibidos is their first full length recording. No Wave is a significant influence, particularly in the fiercely intense sing-shout vocals from Andrea Jarale. If you visit the band’s Instagram, it includes an amateur video that is an homage to Richard Hell, replicating a 1970s comic from NY Punk Magazine in which he starred. But there are many more reference points. The guitars channel the chops and soloing of eighties New Wave, and the rhythm section provides relentless uptempo playing. The defiant demeanor of the songs themselves depicts an unstoppable wall of intensity.

Daryl Groetsch — Above the Shore (self-released)

Who picked it? Andrew Forell

Did we review it? Yes, Andrew called it “a 75-minute floating symphony that insinuates its way into your subconscious with almost imperceptible stealth.”

Ian Mathers’ take:

Whether approvingly or not, works like this 75-minute composition/album are often described as if they were very static in nature; as if even when there are changes they happen in rigid, predictable ways. It may be that if you poke around under the hood of Above the Clouds enough you might be able to diagram out the way elements meld, progress, and separate again, and possibly under that light the whole thing looks regular. But in terms of the way it feels when you listen to it, there’s something quite different going on with Groetsch’s work. The whole thing does feel quite immersive, almost environmental. But as opposed to any number of ground-level or even underwater vistas that come to mind with similar works, here I feel suspended in the air, very far above any shore indeed. The listening experience feels akin to endlessly falling, eventually not so much above as through softly glowing clouds. It’s somehow soothingly vertiginous, and more captivating (and attention-rewarding) than most of its peers.

Icewear Vezzo — Live From the 6 (Quality Control Music)

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Who picked it? Ray Garraty

Did we review it? No.

Patrick Masterson’s take:

Chivez Smith has been a familiar name to anyone keeping an eye on Detroit rap for the last decade — longer than you might think and long enough, now, to make him an elder statesman among the city’s spitters. What better time, then, to take a step back and assess not just how far you’ve come, but what all that hustling has amounted to? So goes Live From the 6 (not a Drake reference, in case you were momentarily confused; Vezzo’s from 6 Mile on McNichols north of Hamtramck), which isn’t quite a career retrospective but carries the themes of one. Vezzo’s in a reflective mood over the course of these 13 songs, his slightly frayed vocals forever unhurried and his beat selection consistently nodding to the high West Coast era; you could put Ice Cube or Snoop (or, for that matter, YG or Nipsey) over most of these productions and it wouldn’t throw you off. It’s not totally insular bars-wise, either; a questionable DaBaby feature aside — his double-time admission that he sees a therapist is heartening given how deservedly he got shunned by the establishment just as he was fixing to peak — Memphis artist YTB Fatt also shows up. Fellow Motor City emcees Babyface Ray and Chuckie CEO provide the remaining color, but end to end, this is Vezzo’s show and he shows up. There’s no lack of entry points to Icewear Vezzo’s discography by now, but if you were hesitant before, Live From the 6 is merely the latest display of his acumen. Hear why he’s the one.

Loma — How Will I Live Without A Body? (Sub Pop)

Who picked it? Tim Clarke

Did we review it? Yes, Tim wrote, “Yes, this is a heavy album, but luxuriously so. It’s music that stares death in the face and instead of running, hunkers down and gets comfortable.”

Alex Johnson’s take:

Listening to How Will I Live Without a Body? is like eavesdropping on a collage of someone else’s thoughts. Contemplation or confusion or a eureka one moment to the next. It’s theatrical, passionate music that, to me, shares a heavy sensibility with the operatic post-rock on Portishead’s Third. Like an unsettling daydream, the lyrics blur the mundane and existential. In “Affinity,” the narrator stares “into the dark,” finding herself multiplied but disconnected – “my shadows move/with and without me.” In “I Swallowed a Stone,” a“kettle boil[s] forever” and she “can’t live this feeling anymore.” Given the song’s tense, foreboding percussion and muted guitar “can’t” sounds like “might have to.”

Might, but not necessarily will. Despite the doses of dread, How Will I Live Without a Body? never feels resigned. You’re treated to interjections of sound, instrumental and otherwise — flashes of illumination, portals to enter. “Unbraiding” fits sheets of strings, bird song, and burning punches of guitar fuzz around a simple, repeated piano, illustrating the line “bring somewhere out of nowhere.” Loma is working with a robust sonic palette here, but the album’s ethos seems grounded in a DIY curiosity. That “Broken Doorbell” features what sound like actual broken doorbells and then ends with waves hitting a shore is emblematic. It’s a lovely, if perhaps temporary, moment of arrival, having followed the shadows wherever they led.

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dustedmagazine · 3 months

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Loma — How Will I Live Without A Body? (Sub Pop)

The title of Loma’s third album immediately demarcates the emotional terrain the trio are exploring, situating the music within a liminal space. The mystery of mortality is summed up in a single question: How Will I Live Without A Body? It’s unsurprising to learn that Loma vocalist Emily Cross works as a death doula, and that this music stemmed from the frustrations and existential crises of the COVID pandemic. Yes, this is a heavy album, but luxuriously so. It’s music that stares death in the face and instead of running, hunkers down and gets comfortable.

This gesture of directly confronting the inevitable is writ large in the title and ragged demeanor of opening cut, “Please, Come In.” While Loma’s last album, Don’t Shy Away, dabbled in synthy art-pop, How Will I Live…? immediately keeps things more closely aligned with the aesthetics of the band’s stunning self-titled debut. Given one of their members, Dan Duszynski, is a seasoned producer, it’s no surprise that this album sounds amazing, with a rich low-end filled out with bass guitar and piano, peppered with rhythmic details and Jonathan Meiburg’s quicksilver electric guitar playing. And then there’s Cross’s voice, which is always gorgeous but feels especially at home among these simultaneously mournful yet graceful songs. Essentially, Loma are tapping into their inherent tendencies toward the immense, glorious, slowcore sound of a band like Low.

After “Please, Come In” has blown off the dust, “Arrhythmia” is a much more lithe, sinuous creature. It simmers over with shaker and whining feedback, while the propulsive rhythm section keeps everything on the rails, Cross singing sweetly of a mind in freefall: “Can I trust how I feel every day? Is the world what I think it to be?” “Unbraiding” packs a scalp-scything wallop of fuzz guitar into its seductive scene of nocturnal reverie, before the weighty trudge of “I Swallowed A Stone” throws its curveball of an image right up front: “I drowned my darlings and I stepped to the road.’ (Way to start a song with a vivid noir vibe...) Single “How It Starts” feels like the emotional heart of the record, Cross’s voice ascending free of the gravity of the song’s piano-and-drum-driven backing. On an emotionally intense album, Loma wisely sequence a brief instrumental interlude, “Dark Trio,” at the midway point, and “Pink Sky” lightens Side B with its comparatively breezy tune, reminiscent of “Ghost Town” by The Specials.

“Broken Doorbell” is the album’s home-stretch epic, running to nearly eight minutes. The brooding piano, insistent kick drum and multiple vocal tracks set up an eerie scene, before the full kit enters with a wonderful sense of catharsis. (Loma know how to build and release tension without it becoming predictable quiet-loud tedium.) The song’s refrain, “So come on in!” comes across like the album’s apex, an elevated view affording a feeling of acceptance. But Loma save a moment of quiet revelation for last. With the sound of the ocean washing against a stony Cornish beach, and little more than a nylon-string guitar, Cross’s voice, and a sad distant violin, the hopeful folk-tinged refrain of “Turnaround” suggests we’re not just moving from one state into the next, but rather becoming the next link in the chain of eternal return.

Tim Clarke

#loma #how will I live without a body #sub pop #tim clarke #albumreview #dusted magazine #emily cross #jonathan meiberg #Dan Duszynski #slowcore #low

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