#imagine two seagulls with no voice modulation

[neon-prison]

Skippy and FIG don't get along.

[thesunlounge]

Reviews 348: Expositions

I came to the music of Reuben Smith through Balearic Social Records, who included “Venezuela” on the Sola various artists EP back in 2017. Released under the name Calle Gravina, the song was a total revelation and saw tropical mallet instrumentation dancing alongside big bottomed synth basslines, beachside downbeats, and psychedelic wah licks while equatorial synthesizers fluttered on a seabreeze. And best off all, the track featured a truly jawdropping “Na Na Na” chorus that truly must be heard to be believed, for so powerful is its effect that words simply fail me. In the time since the release of “Venezuela,” I’ve often dreamed about more music from Reuben and finally, after three years of waiting, my patience has been rewarded in ways I couldn’t have imagined, for the artist is making a big splash in 2020 via a new project named Expositions. The first release from Expositions and the focus of this review is the Yellow Haze EP, which was recently put out by the ever-amazing Forest Jams, a label that never fails to blow me away and who I last checked in with via the California coastal psychedelia of Starving Daughters. Here, the pairing between label and artist couldn’t be more sympathetic, for across the EP’s four tracks, Reuben moves smoothly between sunset downtempo, island life dubfunk, slow motion boogie, and seaside fusion, as subsonic basslines slide sensually, synthesizers fall like a summer storm of gemstones, shakers and tambourines add touches of beachdance swing, solar space leads swim in stoner splendor, palm-muted echo riffs dance on sunbeams, and fat bottomed balearic beats guide the body through exotica bongo and conga tapestries. And in crucial moments of soulful pop euphoria, a vocalist named Hanna delivers delirium diva incantations awash in an Ibizan chill-out dreamhaze...her voice sometimes joining Reuben’s for dopamine hooks, while at other times floating off into the ether.

As well, I’d like to briefly discuss the second Expositions EP Nights at Casa Ana, which is already in the works via a Qrates crowdfunding campaign found here. I encourage readers of this blog to back the pressing if possible, as the release is truly special and deserves its place on wax. Moreover, Nights at Casa Ana sees the welcome return of the aforementioned Balearic Social Records, a favorite label of mine that has been lying low since 2018’s Nyala split EP between Bonnie & Klein and BlackBush Orchestra. Though Nights at Casa Ana still revels in familiar vibes of sunshine positivity and oceanic radiance, the EP sees Reuben moving slightly away from downtempo pop towards fever dream fantasies and drug-induced paradises, which is nowhere more apparent than on the near 15 minute “Energía Mística.” The track is a slowed seaside disco epic, featuring nimble funk basslines, kaleidoscopic guitar refractions, blissful fusion leads, layers of solar squelch, fourth world dub electronics, acid fuzz space solos, and snippets of spoken Spanish flowing in and out of birdsong…the whole thing comprising a journey in extended balearic jamming only rivaled by Max Essa’s “Panoramic Suite.” As for the other two tracks, we are treated to shorter, though no less expansive adventures, both featuring acid house bassline percolations and further trippy Spanish spoken word sampling. “Misteriosi” sets a filmic dancefloor gallop beneath jangling western guitars, sea-crystal melodies, mellotronic prog flutes, sci-fi synth leads, chanted breaths, and layers of extasy laughter while in “Tomate tu tiempo,” machine beats lock into a samba-esque swing, AOR guitars ride a warming summer wind, marimba fractals surround woodwind lullabies, soulful chords stoke vibes of 70s disco intoxication, and starbeam fusion solos dance through layers of seaspray while neon-hued acid tracers fire gently across the mind.

Expositions - Yellow Haze (Forest Jams, 2020) Shakers and sonar sequencers set the stage in “Get With You” before cutting away to slinky bass guitar riffage and a slow motion balearic breakbeat, with touches of boom bap kissing the rhythmic flow. Static textures swoosh around smooth Rhodes riffs as the basslines hit ever heavier and high in the sky, synthesizers radiate Italo fusion lullabies and new age starscapes amidst cooing vocal accents. After a drum fill eruption, we drop into paradise pop intoxication, with Reuben’s and Hanna’s hazy vocal hooks trailed by soulful Rhodes chord flourishes…the whole thing like a supremely stoned out _Moon Safari-_era Air cut. Underneath, tapped rides shake out golden glitter, snares crack on the beat, and basslines execute funky octave walks while later, after a brief cut into dreamhouse pianos and slow motion disco drums, a run down the ivories ushers in a symphonic paradise climax awash in pads that breath like celestial ether. Then, following another delirium chorus accented by tambourine jangles and liquid wah wah gurgles that flutter outwards in every direction, the track ends with synth solo dazzlement, as laserlight runs ascend on ocean-filtered sunbeams amidst mechanized ride bells, swinging shaker hypnotics, crashing cymbals, and Hanna’s ethereal vocal shadowspells. “Rollerskates” follows with its spaceage harpsichord/steel pan synths layering a rainfall of percussive ocean crystal over shakers and robotic slapbass weirdness. As the groove drops in, we find ourselves in a broken beat dub out, with hi-hats spitting fire on a skanking riddim, lofi snares popping off the beat, and layers of angel starlight and nacreous vocal chaos swirling all around. It’s a doped out boogie beat groover in the style of A Vision of Panorama, wherein crystalline keyboard chords and Carribean steel leads swim through rainbow gases, low down vocal drones filter into cut-up trance euphoria, and meditative whistle tones ensnare the mind. After a quick drop, snare fills bring back the jam, which now seems to squiggle and shimmer with an almost nervous sense of energy, and as the rhythms continue pulling in and out, pianos scat out blues-tinged reggae riffs amidst gaseous bodies of choral star magic. And as the futuristic harpsichords and synthetic island idiophones continue bouncing alongside the dubwise boogie rhythms, one can easily imagine a boardwalk scene where myriad skaters glide graciously beneath a shining sun.

In “Sun Shine Down,” galactic pads swirl amidst crashing waves as hand drums hint at a blossoming beat. Then comes the groove proper, wherein distorted basslines generate huge wavesfronts of subsonic romance, tick-tock cymbals move around pounding kicks and cracking snares, and Hanna sings spells of shadowy wonderment…her lyrical phrases and wordless extasy reveries calling to mind Cathy Battistessa’s work with balearic masters such as Afterlife and Blank & Jones. At certain moments, feedback synths evoking both seagulls and diamond sparkles melt over the mix while piano chords hit like neon liquid. Elsewhere, during understated climaxes, these amazing polysynth melodies start descending…as if discretized pulses of psychedelic starlight are dancing across a sunset sky. All throughout, massive basslines slide with a fluid grace, bongos blow in on a coastal breeze, and hissing cymbals open up into heatwave blasts, with heady rhythmic drop stoking vibes of anticipation. And as the the track ends, a blazing fusion synth solo works into the stereo field…slow and sensual…with trippy modulation wiggles interspersing the paradise glide. Yellow Haze ends with “Holding On,” which drops into a bottom heavy heroin groove seeing palm-muted echo guitars moving lackadaisically over a dubfunk pulse. Basslines hit low before sliding high, shakers and cymbals guide the body, and tropical hand percussions spread out as Hanna executes dazzling soul diva reveries, with her voice occasionally trailed by coral-colored synth harmonizations. A towering tom fill cuts the groove down to tapped rides, spitting hats, and pooling bodies of liquid synthesis while later, as the kick, snare, and bass synths slam the body into oblivion, wah wah electronics spread outwards into a ghostly sea haze while e-pianos communicate with dolphins and whales. During a magnificent synthesizer solo, bluesy fusion leads filter and bend as the basslines move in tandem with the beats…the vibe bleary eyed and stoned out before reducing to a Floydian pulse, one overplayed by strange bell-tone cacophonies. Building back, tambourines jangle and guitars generate psychosonic dub lick and echo-morphing funk riffs beneath a cascade of vocal starlight before the downtempo body groove finally slams back in, with the stereo field now overflowing with wavering webs of crystallized vibrato while Italo-style squelch leads seek out the sun.

(images from my personal copy)

[lepus-arcticus]

17.

Gibson Praise is small for twelve. He has poor eyesight and a juiced up God module, the jaded fatigue of those burdened with a gift. This listless little boy, a sublime specimen at the fringe of human understanding. This child without a childhood. Scully wants to take a Stryker to his brainpan, harvest a slice of that magnificent temporal lobe. She wants to take him to get soft serve at the beach, let him throw pebbles at the seagulls. She wants to murder anyone who would attempt to harm him. And just to complicate things further, Mulder's magnanimous warmth with this boy, with any child, really, sets her bones to singing that artless old song. Are you two the parents? 

Diana Fowley slinks up from the mire, with her soft voice and doleful eyes, her belief and her wonder, the red slash of her slanted mouth. Despite Mulder's oblique avoidance, Scully senses there is something old and true between them. Something with scar tissue. She spies them in a sentimental moment, their hands clasped, smiling like lovers, and an unexpected jolt of pain sends her running. 

What else has he kept from her? His closet might as well be an ossuary. Diana bleeds out onto the hard motel carpet, and the boy is stolen away. The powers that be at the Justice Department, thoroughly pissed, put through an order for reassignment. And the basement office burns. Mulder is still unresponsive by the time she gets him back to his apartment. He sinks into the couch, head in his hands, his breathing ragged and shallow. Scully squeezes his shoulder and feeds the mollies, watching their gaping, translucent mouths lip at the mosaic surface of the tankwater. Struck by her own uselessness, she makes coffee in his sparse little bachelor's kitchen, meditating on his unused Japanese knives, his wooden spoons. The breakfast nook is obscured by scraps of newsprint, scrawled notes, a water-warped back issue of Fortean Times. The percolator babbles. She fishes out two dirty mugs from the hoard in the sink and rinses them clean. Mulder doesn't move when she sets a steaming cup for him on the coffee table. She eases herself down beside him, as cautious as she'd be approaching an injured moose. Her thigh against his thigh, her palm flat along his vertebrae. At her touch, he finally begins to thaw, and she leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder, inhaling campfire and burning plastic, bitter coffee, warm male. "If she dies..." he says, a small, furious sob interrupting him. Scully nuzzles her nose into the crook of his neck, somehow unable to find any words of comfort. "She was there when I discovered the X-Files." "I know," Scully says. "Frohike told me." The memory stings. Mulder sucks in a breath, lets it drift back out. "I owe... so much to her, Scully. She was instrumental in their reopening. She was the first person to believe in the work, to fight alongside me. We were partners." A stone drops in Scully's stomach. Part of her had always assumed that before her, Mulder had been solitary in his quest - that she'd been his only witness, his only ally. That this magical, horrific world was theirs alone. "We were married." She stiffens, mind blazing with the image of the ring on her bedside table. Mulder pulls back, the hint of a smile on his lips. He looks awful. "She left me." Has he ever bent Diana over his desk? Did she edit his case reports? Bring him bottled iced tea on stakeouts? Did he ever wake her at 2:30 in the morning with questions about quasars? Before she can stop herself, she imagines him caressing Diana's face, tucking an untidy lock of sable hair behind her ear, rubbing a thumb along her cheekbone. So Diana chose him. Diana chose the X-Files. And she was merely assigned. A spy. Mulder leans his forehead against hers, his eyes fluttering closed. "But you won't leave me," he says. "You'd never leave me." Anger sparks. How would you know what I'm capable of, Mulder? He's sliding a dry hand underneath the hem of her sweater, his fingers lingering over where he knows her tattoo is, the spot on her lower back that he's touched thousands of times, in anger, in passion, in protection, in affection, in familiarity. Where did he love to touch Diana? Was it the same place? And then he's pushing her back, pushing her down, his tongue pushing into her mouth. He's half hard, pressing into her hip. How did he fuck Diana on their wedding night? Did Diana ever touch that ring? Scully pulls back in a fresh swell of outrage. Mulder's expression is momentarily one of terror and guilt, and then of desperation. He grips her hard, blinks slowly. "I... think I just need some time," she manages to choke out. He looks at her for a long moment, that one outlandish pupil of his widening. "Stay with me, Scully," he whispers. "Please." And despite everything, she finds she can't deny him. The couch is small, and Mulder is large and hot and clings like a sloth. But she manages to doze in his arms, burnt out from the roil of emotions within her. In the morning, she slips out from under him, swallows a mouthful of the cold, untouched coffee on the table, and leaves before she changes her mind. Her phone rings in the hall. "Hi, this is Janet calling from Dr. Parenti's office, I'm looking for Dana?" "... This is she." Scully crushes the cold metal teeth of her keys into her palm, punches the down button on the elevator panel with knuckle. She can't seem to breathe. "Great - Dana, we have the results back for the specimens you submitted for testing. It's good news, so don't you worry! But we'd like you to come in as soon as you're available to discuss your options and how you'd like to proceed. We have an opening tomorrow at 9:30, will that work for you?" The elevator door opens. Scully can't move. "... Dana?" She swallows several times, and forces herself to speak. "Um. Yes. Yes, tomorrow is fine. Thank you." She rides the elevator down in a trance, walks across the frost-crisp lawn to her car. The morning sky is the colour of a robin’s egg.  (A/N: Many well-marbled beefsteaks to Flor @defnotmeyo​ for her sage counsel regarding the arcs to come.)   (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16)

[thesunlounge]

Reviews 091: Kuniyuki Takahashi

In many ways, 2018 has been the year of Kuniyuki. Studio Mule is cruising at full steam, shining a light on hidden corners of the Japanese soul, funk, and disco underground. And then there was his remix of “Song With No Words” on that incredible Archeo Yawn Yawn Yawn reissue, an ambient stand out amidst a whole lot of magic. For me though, the biggest revelations have been the Early Tape Works (1986 - 1993) volumes on Music from Memory. Saturated in magnetic hiss and nostalgic memories, these primitive synth, drum, and sample explorations are spellbinding experimental snapshots that reveal Kuniyuki’s early mastery of downtempo melancholia, free jazz kosmische, and neoclassical ambient.

Kuniyuki Takahashi - Early Tape Works (1986 - 1993) Vol. 1 (Music from Memory, 2018) With “Night at the Seaside,” ghostly strings, voices, and bass electronics swirl like ink in water, backgrounded by whale song drones and feedback trails that morph into streaks of distortion. There is an ethereal melodrama to the methodical progressions, accentuated by swelling tidal waves of white noise that fade away like vapor. This is a cold and lonely night, the sea grey and silent, as a dreamscape of mermaid chords and sea floor symphonies bubbles up from the depths. “Day Dreams” follows with loops of bowed bass strings overlaid by muddy piano and romantic fretless bass noodling. The mix is heavily smothered in tape noise…a comforting bed of sound from which high pitched lasers pierce the mind. Orchestrations refuse to coalesce and move towards shrieking horror film ambiance, as all the elements of the piece circle around each other in a drunken dance. The A-side of Vol. 1 concludes with “Drawing Seeds” and its abstract jazz tappings and rapid percussive sequences. Spritely string melodies repeat alongside cosmic harpsichords, while synthetic cello and contrabass float in subaquatic wonder. Sometimes the disjointed layers come together for breathtaking moments of ambient spiritualism, yet at other times everything floats untethered, like particles of some gas spreading through space.

“You Should Believe” is the centerpiece here, all modulating kosmische sequencing, pillowy bass pulses, and percolating echo work in that Pinhas/Heldon mold. Desperate and sensual moans fly through the humid air, alternating with hypnotic spoken sermons, erotic and up close. And all the while the bubbling arps and echo pads continue building in strength, taking on an evil glow once jungle hand drums enter. Eventually floating cymbal work and crashing free jazz rhythms flow onto the mix like a storm of percussive wind and rain, roiling and churning alongside the heady sequencing and wailing voices. Continuing the rhythmic bent, “Signifie” is some sort of mutant industrial electro with an intoxicating hip-hop swagger to the fried beats. The vibing synthbass is textured like liquid velcro and strange voice samples float all around the stereo field alongside clanging metals and clouds of noise. Then tribal toms bong the beat out even further underneath howling ghost sirens and panning static, the terrifying wall of noise made all the more paranoid by freaked out oscillations and laser blasts. We conclude Vol. 1 with “Zero to One” and shimmering minimalist patterns moving around harsh reverb kick drums. Acidic fx intertwine with leads that evoke faraway dreamlands, sitting somewhere at the intersection of kosmische, industrial, and new age, especially when those haunted flutes enter towards the end.

Kuniyuki Takahashi - Early Tape Works (1986 - 1993) Vol. 2 (Music from Memory, 2018) The samples that introduce “Island” are hard to distinguish, like some haze of seagulls, waves, and crowd noise. Moody pads wash over a panning drum throb generated by cavernous reverb toms and tinny cymbals, while drops of ambient starlight rain down and mellow strings harmonize in soft hues of teal and aquamarine. At the other end of the A-side is “Echoes of the Past,” with mesmeric downtempo jazz beats led by kick, rimshot, and jangling bells. Bending synth solos ooze twilight romance over smeared house pads and these sparse noir guitar licks grow into full on swooning post-rock with shimmering arpeggios and fuzz and sax solos reaching to the heavens. In between these two pieces sit “Your Home” and “Asia”, the former of which pairs cold synthesizers from the depths of space with a soft Twin Peaks/David Lynch dreamscape. The result is some sort of plodding heroin jazz, heavy on noir vibes and an irresistible sense of nostalgia only bolstered by dreamtime harp arpeggios glistening alongside underwater angels. Then comes “Asia,” which develops into a futuristic electronic lullaby, with hypnotizing music boxes and gentle Berlin school sequences. Strings like fog horns repetitively blare over the mix with wavering and woozy melodies and are rained down upon by cosmic new age electronics and smooth flutey pads.

The centerpiece of the B-side is “Sakura No Mizu.” The song begins on harp tones that generate huge walls of resonant droning. Kuniyuki overlays this with meditative piano, while hisses and rustles and pitter-patters add some semblance of a rhythm. Orchestral samples are transmuted into somber streaks while spectral oboes and violins generate sickly feedback arcs. Halfway through, everything drops away for a passage of rapid thematic changes, moving through harp explorations, gloomy string fantasias, and then to the peaceful sounds of a river accompanied by exotic arpeggios and mystical woodwinds. We move from this soundtrack for zen gardens into unsettling aquatic noise walls and mournful string dirges before dissolving into a coda of some gorgeous folk instrument weaving fantasy spells. Coming before this epic is “Ai Iro,” with menacing synthbass pulses that fully envelop you in their interstellar flow. The recording is full of warm noise, but the vibe is frigid and desolate, with multiple layers of strings swaying in dark delirium. Haunted leads swim through the air, sometimes completely isolated over the heartbeat rhythms, like terror in the depths of space, surround by enigmatic and vaguely sinister glowing lights. The final piece is “Imagination,” which alternates between two main themes, both underlaid by a ceremonial drum ritual. One theme sees claustrophobic drones smoldering beneath pianos that cascade like some enchanted waterfall, while the other is a heavenly hymn covered in the dust of memory, one that lifts you into the great blue expanse on wings of angels.

(images from my personal copies)