Magicistragic Mix for the Advent of Autumn

http://www.mediafire.com/?a8lhnyrtcwj1bwd

Time is tight here at my homestead, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a place for a serene soundtrack to make a moment feel like a mellow millennium. Yeah, fall seems a bit distant if you look at the calendar, but the temperature is dropping day by day and an orange tinge has tainted the trees in my neck of the woods if you look closely enough. Therefore, here is a haphazard collage of bruised and melancholy sounds to prepare you for your personal hibernation.

Julia Holter-Marienbad

The Magic Numbers-Mornings Eleven

Bridget St. John-Nice

Tony, Caro and John-The Snowden Song

Paul McCartney-Coming Up

Johnny Rivers-Midnight Special

Dadamah-Replicant Emotions

Bobby Jameson-Vietnam

The Ex-Caitkin

Wild Nothing-Nocturne

Here We Go Magic-Alone, but Moving

Pond-Sorry I Was Under the Sky

Leo Kottke-Vaseline Machine Gun

Goldfrapp-Eat Yourself

King Dude-Lucifer’s The Light of the World

Chrism-Mandoia

Lemma Demissew-Lezelalem Nuri

Epic Soundtracks-She Sleeps Alone/Love Fucks You Up

Hoapili-Home Grown, Hawaii’s Own

The Lilys-Kodiak (Reprise)

Royal Trux-Stop

 

Pumice-Pebbles

January 7, 2012

Pumice

Pebbles (Soft Abuse 2007)

http://www.mediafire.com/?eiz3xsd4wj0

New Zealand is such an unlikely place to spawn such an eclectic assemblage of post-punk pioneers, guitar abusers and folks with an innate knack for melancholy, chiming indie-pop masterpieces. However, I guess that the age of the internet has taught us dullards that the musical universe never revolved around the United States and England and that every nation harbored a cabal of unheralded geniuses, eccentric weirdos and impeccable tunesmiths. Most of us were just ignorant to its existence due to a lack of distribution or a fixation upon the effortlessly familiar. New Zealand was an exception to this rule since many of its flagship acts like the Clean, Chills, the Bats, Cakekitchen and Tall Dwarfs signed distribution deals with North American labels during the 80s. Therefore, folks took notice and dug deeper into its furrows to find that there was more than rainy-day reveries up its collective sleeve.

Although I adore the aforementioned bands in a particularly unhealthy way, there was something about the more damaged sounds of 80s and 90s New Zealand that resonated with me in a way that still moves me in a kind of transcendent way. Folks like Peter Jefferies and  Alastair Galbraith and and bands like This Kind of Punishment, Dadamah, Dead C, Gate, Plagal Grind and the Terminals mined a dark, brooding space peppered with fragile ballads that literally seemed to walk on eggshells as they teetered between nihilism and a skewed sense of melody. Most of these bands found a safe haven on the Xpressway label and forged a totally idiosyncratic sound unlike anything else I’ve heard since its collapse. I had given up the ghost long ago and surrendered to the fact that no one would resuscitate its vibe until I heard Pumice, a one man operation led by Stefan Neville.

To be honest, I think this album is probably better than anything ever released on Xpressway and that folks will revisit it years from now and finally give it its due. By no means is it an easy listen. Its seams and flaws are  fully on display and it only grips the listener after many late night strolls with it as your sole companion.  Pebbles is a schizophrenic listen that teases you with ecstatic riffs and a joyous spirit in the first two minutes only to drag you down into “Bold/Old”, a fragile meditation on the woes of life set to a woozy background of hazy, psychedelic guitar meanderings, distant piano plunkings, and the buzz of gentle hiss. You can’t understand a lick of what he mumbles, but it somehow reminds you of moments when life felt like a perpetual string of potholes until he lets loose a triumphant warbling that reminds you that smoother sailing awaits even the most troubled souls. There is such beauty amidst the gentle feedback, drones and deceptively ramshackle arrangements. “Spike/Spear” goes on for eleven minutes, but its droning, moaning and surging peaks coalesce into a true centerpiece for the album. It’s like a palate cleanser that wipes the slate clean with a long pause where you can empty your mind and get lost in the swirl of sound before embarking on a second half that is much harsher than the first. We get a short respite before he tears into “The Only Doosh Worth Giving”which conjures the spectre of the Clean’s “Point That Thing Somewhere Else” with a more punky, nihilistic streak. It shreds in a way alien to this planet. The rest is either haunting, sparse and mood destroying or swells and peaks of noise that are best suited for headphones and a grand tolerance for volume. Pebbles ain’t for everyone, but it sure feels like it speaks to me each and every time it flops onto my turntable.