“I came, I heard, and I fucking owned.” July: Exoterm, Jesca Hoop, Georgia Anne Muldrow, Isata Kanneh-Mason, Biosphere, and Holst’s Planets.

Exoterm – Exits Into A Corridor

Many know of the secret track at the end of Nirvana’s blockbuster Nevermind that, ironically for a “secret” song, picked up the name, “Endless, Nameless”. It’s the track where the band drops all pop sensibilities and, basically, fucks your face with sound. It’s raw emotion. It’s sonic rage. And if you imagine this track done all jazz styles, with waves and build ups and played for around 30 minutes, then you have a good idea how this sounds. It’s fucking incredible. After this finished, I played it again. It’s rare to hear such sophistication scream in your face, spit on the floor, and then flip off God. To many this will sound like noise with the occasional sonic landscape. But to those stranger audiophiliacs out there that happen to like punk, jazz, and electronic music, this is the fucking shit.

Kristoffer Berre Alberts: saxophones
Nels Cline: guitar
Rune Nergaard: bass
Jim Black: drums and electronics

Jesca Hoop – Stonechild

There’s a stripped down darkness on this album that’s bare and rarely shown. It’s full of moments where listening to it feels invasive, like reading through a lost journal you found on the train. Not to say that this album is tame. Hells to the fuck no. Tracks like “Red and Black” are written in protest of the recent popularity of white supremacist ideals. “Old Fear of Father” tells the story of a mother feeding into patriarchal ideals by trusting her sons more than her daughters. These songs are heartfelt and honest as fuck. They deal with modern problems yet are sung and arranged in a way that sounds folkloric. The effect? A bird eye’s view on this sociopolitical shit pile. And without the stinging eyes and nausea-inducing smell, it suddenly becomes clear what this is and how to fix it. Now that’s a fucking folk album.

Georgia Anne Muldrow – VWETO II

This is Georgia Anne’s 18th album. Get that? It’s very likely that her album count has doubled the number of sexual partners you’ll ever have (according to a survey done by The Jounral of Sex Research the average is 6.9 for the Dutch, 7 for the Brits, and 7.2 for those slutty Americans [Nicely done! Also, really?!]) This lady is a musical fucking juggernaut. And her aim isn’t to please, but to elevate. On this album, Georgia Anne goes back to what she does best by slowly sauntering and pimp-walking through those afrofuturistic, funkadelic, and defiant sci-fi melodies. But, with one foot in avant-garde electronica and the other knee-deep in soul, this album launches afrofuturism back out into space where it belongs. Funk was never supposed to be some basic bitch. This album proves that if you’ve got the right captain piloting the ship, it never fucking will be.

Isata Kanneh-Mason – Romance: The Piano Music of Clara Schumann

The Osmonds, the Bee Gees, The Jackson Five, The Beach Boys, Oasis, Kings of Leon, and at the top of that list, the Kanneh-Masons. Isata’s family has seven brothers and sisters that all play classical music like bosses. They are an annoyingly talented family. So when rumours spread of Isata releasing her debut, people in the classical game perked right up. Instead of throwing down classical’s greatest hits for a majorly annoying hour, which is incredibly common for a debut, Isata decided to show her female comradery by performing the works of Clara Schumann and sporting an all-female line-up. Just goes to show that it doesn’t take balls to have courage. The performances here are perfect. Isata’s first impression to the world proves that that she’s unwavering, proficient, and a force to be fucking reckoned with. Hear me roar, motherfuckers.

Biosphere – The Senja Recordings

Geir Jenssen is an ambient music god that’s been dropping calm since back in the ’90s. For his most recent albums, location is hugely important. From 2015 to 2018, Geir was recording sounds in the arctic fucking circle. Hells ya. The first track on this album is made of sounds recorded in arctic waters. You can hear the ice freeze and snap in laser-like bolts. From there Geir continues down this arctic theme. Lots of tracks are mellow drones, others beep and pop, and some are simple field recordings of the arctic. The effect is an incredibly calming and relaxing album that could subdue the most roided-out polar bear. Like most Biosphere albums, this shit is hugely transportive. Want to go to the arctic but hate the cold and can’t afford the airfare? Close your eyes, press play, and you’ll fucking be there.

Charles Dutoit, Montreal Symphony Orchestra – Holst: The Planets

This seven-piece orchestral monster—each piece has been named after a planet and corresponds to its astrological character—has been performed to fucking death. John Williams used the “Mars” theme in Star Wars. “Neptune” has been featured in the closing credits of Mr. Robot. Many of these pieces have been played or ripped off by the likes of King Crimson, Frank Zappa, and Black Sabbath. As a whole, it’s been recorded around 100 times and performed way fucking more. Many avid classical fans have taken on the challenge of finding the recording, including yours fucking truly. You’ll find, more often than not, that everyone eventually ends up at this motherfucker. Why? Because the recording is kinda fucking perfect. The thickest and nerdiest of audiophiles use this to test out their newest and greatest speakers. Think your bass is dope? The organ on this motherfucker goes all the way down to 20 Hz (anything below this is beyond the human hearing range). The orchestra, choir, recording, and production on this are the stuff of legend. So, if you never heard it before and feel like taking on a challenge: find the greatest pair of speakers you can find, put on this album, turn off the lights, and turn it the fuck up. When done properly, this album acts as a marker: Your life before listening to it loud as fuck, and your life afterwards. And even if you’re not a huge fan of the tunes, it’s the perfect example of how a symphony should be recorded. It’s the example everything else has to set itself against. Now that’s a fucking recording.



What the Fuck is June?: Tunes To Become One With Heat

Moodie Black – MB I I I. V MICHOA

This shit is dirty, nasty, and grimy as a motherfucker. These beats could sneak up behind you and shank your ass with the sharpened end of a toothbrush. Moodie Black fits nicely in the genre of noise rap. It’s all about those distorted beats and fat basslines. This is perfect for that angry claustrophobic space that rap can do better than anyone else. If you want a thick nihilistic push while driving downtown in a crowded car with bass shaking so heavy that the smoke exhaled from that tightly wrapped joint dances and shifts to the sound waves, then this is your motherfucker. It lays it down thick without apology. This EP gets me excited for what’s to come.

Sanctuary Lakes – Sanctuary Lakes

If you like the bands Air or Tame Impala then you’ll like this shit. Tim Hoey of Cut Copy and Andy Szekeres of Midnight Juggernauts are two Australian fucks that decided to collaborate together to make this album/band. They make the kind of grooves that remind you of drinking out of a hose, jumping through the sprinkler, or closing your eyes while lying on the beach. Shit makes you max relax like a sociopath sitting in an outdoor bath amongst the aftermath of a bloodbathed warpath of half-wrath mechanized psychopaths. It’s electric, chill, and held together with a subtle tension created by a looming sense of evanescence. In other words, solid summer album.

Local Suicide – Leopard Gum

Ya, it’s an EP. Ya, it’s basically one song over and over again. But it’s also groovy as fuck. Local Suicide have released a series of EPs in this last year. I’ve been waiting for them to release an official album, but I don’t think that’s their style. This EP, like their many others, include good tunes for those late night drives. Their constant idiosyncratic beats have a tendency to keep your head in the clouds while your foot floors the gas. Fantastic jams.

His Name Is Alive – All the Mirrors In The House

This motherfucker has been kicking it hard ever since the ’90s. In certain groups and within certain strange minds, Warren Defever, the main member of this band, is a big fucking deal. He flipped out massive album after massive album like it wasn’t a thang. He changed the fucking game out of nowhere. This album is a collection of recordings that Warren made back in ’79—’86. Check it: Guy was born in ’69. Some of this shit was made when he was 10. Get that? Fucking 10. While others were horrified at their looming and roaring freshly budding genitals, Warren was recording awesomeness.


A Few Albums To Listen To When Tumours Are Being Mega Cunts

If you’ve been following along with this strange site, you’ll know I haven’t been as prolifically productive because cancerous tumours are mega cunts. Hear that? Total fucking assholes. Motherfuckers invented racism, traffic, and told Hitler that his art was shit after stealing his lunchbox. But even though I’m helping my pa recover after a mega-fucking surgery, doesn’t mean I’m not listening to tunes. Music is my drug. It’s been my guiding fucking light. I’m truly a fucking addict. So, until my shit gets back to a semblance of normalcy, I’m going throw up my selection of some nice, new, and gnarly tunes in the week instead of trying to lay down the daily. Cool? Cool.

Hayden Pedigo – Valley of the Sun

Got the feels for Fahey? Then you’re going to love this shit. It’s a perfect blend of fucked up, folk, and electronic. Hayden’s open-stringed guitar lays down the tracks as psychedelic effects add an extra depth to the already immersive tone and style. It’s some seriously transportive shit with a calm heart. It produces a similar effect to calmly fishing the ammonia rivers of Jupiter and catching pounds of nostalgia and heaps of days spend in bed next to a lover. This is both completely comforting and totally fucking out there.

David Allred – The Cell

Have you ever wished that motherfuckers like Nils Frahm and Peter Broderick played folk music? Wow! That’s such an ultra-specific desire! Great thing David Allred is that kinda jam. It’s easy to compare this album’s spaced out folky moments to early Bon Iver albums. But David takes these moments, hot boxes the motherfuckers until time no longer moves linearly, and builds them a cabin in the Rockies. There’s such a sense of an analgesic home on these tracks it’s like floating through space in a fetal position and covered with a comfort blanket.

Kinkajous – Hidden Lines

Goddamn it, I love when jazz does this shit right! Here’s another band to add to the pile of London motherfuckers killing the scene right now. Instead of focusing on that intimate feel though, this album goes expansive. It’s big. It’s synthy. It’s ’80s nostalgic cool. And even though it rides that boundary between slick and cheesy like it’s ice skating, I feel like the album falls on this side of Herbie Hancock and Sons of Kemet.

If you’re been reading closely, you’ll see a Jupiter/Space theme to each of these write-ups. One of the fucking songs on Kinkajous’s album is even called “Jupiter”. Before listening to these albums, you’ll be more likely to believe this shit’s a coincidence. But after listening to this shit and getting sonically high on the depths of Folk and Jazz, you’ll believe fucking Zeus himself originated this shit by raining a goddamn lightning bolts from Mount fucking Olympus.

Thanks for all your understanding at this time and for the continued support from all of you. You guys are fucking badass. I’ll be back when I can.

And, as always, keep listening.





Catching Up

What’s up my audiophiliac motherfuckers!
Sorry that I’ve been MIA recently. I’ve flown down to be with my pops after he got this giant cancerous tumour cut out of him because … well, I’m not an asshole. I’ve been putting in time taking care, catching up, helping that convalesce, and all that good shit, so I haven’t been able to keep up. I do promise I’m be back up and running when I get some down time.
Thanks for all your support and, as always, please, keep listening, you beautiful bastards.

Kate Tempest – The Book of Traps & Legends

KateIf you don’t know Rick Rubin or Kate Tempest, you really fucking should.

Rick’s the motherfucker that introduced Johnny Cash to the music of Nine Inch Nails and Run DMC to Aerosmith. He helped make the careers of such indie acts like LL Cool J, The Beastie Boys, System of a Down, Jay-Z, Public Enemy, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Queen. Hopefully, you recognize one of these small acts. He was the former co-prez of Columbia and is a co-founder of Def Jam Records. Love him or hate him, he is one of the most influential producers of all time. What you listen to, no matter what that fucking is, has been influenced by Rubin’s existence. He has single-handedly created and fights on one side of “the loudness wars”. The other side of this fight goes against over-compression and modern music becoming SO FUCKING LOUD. You know that moment after watching some chill show and the commercial hits you with a wall of sound like a missile launcher throwing out giant turds at Mach 27? That’s the sound of compression. It’s not actually louder, it’s just that all the highs and lows have been removed so now it hits with the force of a goddamn truck. Rubin hasn’t aced everything he has touched. Fuck no. He’s created some truly terrible albums. But when he throws down his talents alongside the English spoken word artist Kate Tempest, you’d better wake up and fucking listen.

This album’s not something to ignore. It’s huge. If Rubin’s the gun, Kate’s words at the bullets. Spoken word put through the Rubin compression will drill into your brain faster than a hummingbird can blink. So what does Kate do with this magnificent platform? She focuses her attention on Britain, social media, isolation, social anxiety, and a broken system more interested in watching someone fall than helping someone up. She focuses her attention on this and takes fucking aim. This album is a goddamn poetic masterpiece. Shit is a testament to the sad and lonely without being sad and lonely. Sure, it’s sappy at times. But it’s poetry: what the fuck do you expect? I had to pause this motherfucker a few times in order to take a breather. That doesn’t mean it’s bad. It just means that it’s got heft to it. Motherfucker’s got weight. With the stark instrumentation, crisp production, and Kate’s voice begging the audience to listen to a series of critiques about themselves, of course, this shit isn’t going to be feathery and light. But Kate isn’t trying to be cool or aloof. Because that’s not a poet’s fucking job.

If this was a piece of spoken word, I would critique it for being too heavy. But it’s not. There’s a reason this shit comes a pause button. When you feel your mind drift, when it’s taken on too much: press pause, take a breather, and reflect. Let those thoughts and feelings settle. It’s what Kate and Rubin fucking intended. Because you’ve got one of the greatest poets of this generation spreading thick fucking lines about the world at large alongside one of the greatest, and loudest, producers of all time. This shit will be claustrophobic. It will make you sweat. At times, you will be uncomfortable. That’s the fucking point. And it’s not a bad thing. Because stark truths are often uncomfortable. Coming face to face with how you contribute to the mass of emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual garbage this modern world spews in torrents of cynical anger dressed as noble tweets and clicked dislikes, shit’s not going to be radio-friendly. But you’d better believe it’s going to be some great fucking art.



Gunter Herbig – Ex Oriente: Music by G.I. Gurdjieff


George Ivanovich (G.I.) Gurdjieff was a strange motherfucker. Dude was obsessed with those big questions like “where are we”, “why are we”, and “why are we here”. You see I didn’t say he was “interested”. I said obsessed and I fucking meant it. Back in the early 1900s, G.I. travelled through Asia, Iran, Russia, India, Tibet, and Rome looking for answers to those big fucking questions by studying the ways of the fakir, monk, and yogi. Well, he probably did these things, but who the fuck really knows? See G.I.’s life isn’t exactly black and white. The multiple biographies, autobiographies, and novels about the dude have more holes in them than a moth’s old wool socks. Some say he supported himself by taking on odd jobs. Others say he was a con man. One of these cons, was that he caught live birds, dying them shits yellow, and sold them off as canaries for some fucking reason. And, yet another account says he was a hypnotherapist/political diplomat that cured people of addictions while simultaneously helping the partnership between Russia and the British Empire. I wouldn’t be surprised if all these stories were entirely true or false. That’s just the kind of guy G.I. was. But somewhere in this crazy story of a life, G.I. came up with a teaching called The Fourth Way. Basically, The Fourth Way says that most people live in a state of “waking sleep” and if we actively study and practice this super duper combo of fakirs, monks, and yogis we can achieve our full human potential, get us some unified fucking consciousness, and elevate ourselves like Elisha on a hot air balloon after taking fucktons of acid. Now why am I ranting on about G.I. and all this crazy shit? Well, the dude also played a mad guitar.

Picture this: Crazy thinker, mystic, and self proclaimed holy man sits cross-legged with a guitar, closes his eyes, and plays whatever comes to mind. The pianist, Thomas de Hartmann, sits beside him and transcribes that shit into notes on a page. It’s a beautiful scene. It’s the kind of shit you expect to find in a Coelho, Kundera, or Harlequin novel. But that’s actually how this shit came into being. It’s how this music was fucking made. Keith Jarret even threw down a solo album of this work called “Gurdjieff: Sacred Hymns” back in 1980.

Gunter Herbig is the guitarist playing G.I.’s work. He chose to play these pieces on the electric guitar. And when you hear it this way, it’s hard to picture it played any other. It’s fucking perfect. Gunter was born in Brazil, grew up in both Portugal and Germany, and currently lives in New Zealand. Along the way he also visited South America, Central America, Europe, and the rest of the fucking world. With each step, he picked up an influence, style, or technique for playing the guitar. His playing is truly cosmopolitan, just like the fucking composer. In his playing there are twangs of the psychedelic, hints of blues, stretches of the sitar, phrasings of Frisell, fucktons of Fahey, buckets of Cooder, lumps of Loren Connors, and traces of modern classical and the shit feels seamless.

As I listened to these tracks it was easy to believe that there is a Fourth Way of doing shit, a way to achieve universal consciousness, and a way to achieve our full human potential. But I didn’t think it had anything to do with studying texts, fasting, or stretching till something strange popped. While listening to this music the Fourth Way seemed obvious. It’s listening to the music of a spiritual teacher and mystic played by a Brazilian/Portuguese/German currently living in New Zealand on the electric guitar and spacing the fuck out while doing so until the entire world looks so small that you realize that, from a far enough away, we aren’t billions spread across a grand expanse but a single fucking drop in an ocean of heartless entropic chaotic fucking blackness and we desperately need to take care of this shit, and each other, right fucking pronto because it’s all we fucking have! Or, you know, maybe the tunes just got to me.




Jörg Piringer – Darkvoice

darkvoiceFor thousands of years, and in endless debates by learned minds throughout all fucking history, humans have tried to define what “art” is. And, I’m sure you’ll agree, these debates are one of the most annoying aspects of existence. Goddamn, it’s some irksome shit. I’d rather get crotch-kicked by some long-legged child in rain boots than engage in these conversations. Few things can sink me into that particular blend of existential dread, ennui, and despair like being surrounded by people trying to define art. It’s some seriously contentious shit. Ain’t nobody going to define the motherfucker in a single inebriated conversation. It’s now become one of those conversation topics cerebral fucks tend to whip out when they want to show off their goods. It’s the equivalent of a beefy gym nut taking out a pair of barbells during dinner and doing arm curls over your rigatoni. But at least with rigatoni arm curls, one of the top contenders won’t be some ridiculously high motherfucker ceaselessly repeating, “It’s all relative, man”. In debates about art? It happens all the fucking time.

Jörg Piringer’s is one of these types that get you thinking about what art is without making it a pissing contest. And he’s created an album that ticks off all the boxes. First off, without knowing a single thing about this album, it’s simply fucking enjoyable. It starts off with a handful of people groaning like zombies until, after a minute or so, a strange and captivating beat drops. It’s odd. It’s compelling. It’s a wonky little bitch that feels good to nod your head along to. An easy comparison to this album would be those strange and mellow tracks from Aphex Twin’s Come To Daddy period. The motherfuckers that blurred the line between electric and organic. This album is glitchy, fun, and organically strange.

But wait, there’s more!

Dude didn’t just drop sweet sounds and call it a day. There’s meaning behind these motherfuckers. Jörg made this album with a fuckton of manipulated voices, which is what gives each track its organic feel. And the album is a musical homage to the code talkers of WWII. Jörg decided to emulate the sounds of a coded language through his electronic means, like the sounds an infant makes to emulate its parents, and made music with this shit. He calls the language “Darkvoice”.

Without throwing on too much flex, when a product is enjoyable, the concept behind it is intriguing, and it seems beneficial overall, I throw it into the “art” pile. If you’ve happened to read through Kant’s cunty definition of “beauty” in that cunty Critique of Judgment of his, you’ll recognize this same basic concept. But before you go taking a huge hoot and giving me that “it’s all relative” bullshit, just know I’m not debating shit. It’s not worth it. Let the piss measuring rigatoni arm curling cerebral fucks slap fight over it. When I press play and hear some dope ass shit, I don’t need to debate what it is in any language. Because if something barks like a duck, looks like a duck, acts like a duck, shits like a duck, and smells like a duck? It’s a fucking duck.