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March 9-15, 2006
cover story
Home RecordsMusic by the last people to sit there before you did.
Paul Edwards (aka Djpe) spent over a year arranging these heavenly downtempo heartthrobbers, which fall somewhere between world music, Brazilica and IDM. Fit for morning listening at the homestead or filling the air at a hipster coffee shop, International Sounds of the Future is a dreamy mesh of Indian ragas, samba, Chinese poetry, folk and nu-jazz atop airy guitars and slow breakbeat rhythms. Each tune features guest vocalists (among them: Orlando Fiol, Helena Espvall and Patricio Acevedo) singing or chanting in various languages. Kick back and relax as Paul Edwards' soothing worldly electronic sounds gently pull you through a refreshing journey around the globe and into the future all at the same time.
Some things should remain indelibly English, like piss-warm pints, crooked yellow teeth and drizzly desserts that go by the name of spotted dick. The same cannot be said about the streets-is-alive subgenre of grime -- an unlikely sparring match between hardcore rap and woozy synth lines that sputter and slice like bullets from Scarface's "little friend." Oh sure, most of these songs speed by like Dizzee Rascal on bathtub crank, but that's the appeal. Evoking the raucous Get IN party (hosted by Dev79 and Slit Jockey/Seclusiasis crew cohort Starkey) at every dubplate drop, wailing siren and spastic riddim, this mix is pure party-hard music -- drink now, puke or fuck later jams that'll get you banging your head faster than Black Sabbath. Considering it's a mere $5 for a CD or hi-def MP3 version (256 Kbps rips for the techies out there), there really isn't a more suitable, shot- to-the-heart introduction to Stateside grime out there.
You gotta appreciate the rumble and dig the roar, but at some point you'll wish there was something more. The debut record from local metal/hardcore quintet One Dead Three Wounded (reissued here with bonus tracks and a stencil slipcase for spraying your own graffiti tags across the city) burns with vocal shreds and boxing-match beats reminiscent of revered regional acts Hot Cross and the late, great Knives Out. The energy is undeniable. Shredding riffs and harmonics give way to clean tone, deep bass arpeggios reminiscent of Pantera and Slayer. Triple-time thrash beats fall apart into Cave-In style breakdowns. Problem is, for all the driving force behind it, the disc moves in like a destructive whirlwind, assaulting the listener so brazenly they're not sure what just passed them by. In other words, good sound, good execution, but nothing stands out. Very few cuts on Paint the Town are allowed to settle in long enough to leave a lasting impression, as they simply zip by in a torrent and evoke a blurred mood on the way to their next target.
The long-awaited full-length from Philadelphia's Buried Beds features an expansion and revision of their sound from their 2003 EP Po Tolo. The mournful, beautiful, orchestral arrangements are reminiscent of the chamber pop outfit Hem, but slightly sadder and more haunting. The centerpiece of Empty Rooms is a redesigned version of the sultry love song "Camellia," which has been slowed down and rearranged from earlier incarnations. Eliza Hardy's lonely, lovely singing intertwines with Brandon Beaver's aching vocals on other standouts, including "Anchor and Sea" and "Perfect Skyline," while tracks like "Great Divide" begin with a spare intimacy and grow into lush and fully realized soundscapes. On "Forever in You," Hardy sings, "Daybreak, roll out of bed, feel the earth shake, wondering if I'll ever be awake." Empty Rooms evokes that same nebulous dreamworld between sleep and consciousness.
Talk about some certified jams for the aging Doc Marten set. You know who you are, ye olde ink-encased dudes and bleached-black Suicide gals who were weaned on the back catalogue of Fat Wreck Chords and the Philly punk family tree of Kid Dynamite, Lifetime and Paint It Black (forces that converge here, with former Paint It Black guitarist/Kid Dynamite merch man Dave Hause on the frontline and former Kid Dynamite bassist Michael "Spider" Cotterman on the low end). Everything you'd expect from the above parties is provided with a sneer here: A keen sense of melody, short and slightly sweet songs, and enough chunks of rock salt rolling around Hause's throat to keep matters unkempt. And as a curve ball, "Sickening" totally starts off as a variation of The Jesus and Mary Chain's "Just Like Honey" (also known as that Lost in Translation song).
--Andrew Parks
Sun., March 12, 7:30 p.m., $8, with Armalite, None More Black and Pink Razors, First Unitarian Church, 22nd and Chestnut sts., 866-468-7619, www.r5productions.com.
It is not unusual that a classically trained musician, let alone a member of the Philadelphia Orchestra, might indulge in alternate forms of music (as documented in the recent film about the orchestra Music From the Inside Out). When these cats do venture afield, it is often toward music that benefits from their instrumental virtuosity, such as jazz and bluegrass. But where do you go with a French horn? Adam Unsworth, a member of the Philadelphia Orchestra horn section, is not exactly the first horn player to play jazz, but he is certainly in a rarified world. For his first album, Unsworth has assembled a crackerjack ensemble of local musicians with similarly eclectic interests; Diane Monroe on violin, woodwinds from Les Thimmig, Tony Miceli on vibes, bassist Ranaan Meyer and Cornell Rochester on drums. When they all play Unsworth's compositions, there is a sweet, swinging, easygoing sound. His facile and exuberant playing, in contrast to the usual long, glowing lines heard in orchestral repertoire, makes his horn sound like a whiskey-soaked trombone. This album also includes a healthy dollop of Unsworth in a solo mode, in music that is not strictly classifiable (hooray for that), but which comes across as heartfelt and eloquent. "Halfway There," an extraordinary solo that Unsworth has also played live for the Network for New Music, has jazz elements, a kind of classical rondo form, and an engrossing, experimental approach to the voice of his instrument. This is probably not what you think a French horn should sound like, but it sounds good nevertheless.
What else could you expect from a band whose site features links to Philly pre-op porn tranny Alyssa Sinclair, records from the freakiest femme noisemakers this side of L7 (like Scareho, whose "Cunt Like You" never leaves my iPod) and pictures of Richard Ramirez? You better believe Rich Hillen Jr. and The Julian Barrett write lively, no-fi psychobilly paeans to serial killers and screaming mad beasts. Rather than merely sensationalize camp savagery, songs like the "Route 66"-ish "Speck" and the gloomy-Sunday romancer "Something Blue" vividly document the weary disappointment and resigned disgust behind bloody crimes and their aftermath. And while the oom-pah-loompah-ing murder ballad "Ottis" uses its hillbilly accent to raise the stakes on discomfort, the wordy discourse that is "A Littany" is given heft through its spare strummed guitar lines. Look for TCAIII to be reissued in August with a new cover, bonus demos and alternate recordings. Killer.
Mon., March 20, 10 p.m., free, with Scareho, Bar Noir, 112 S. 18th St., 215-569-1160, www.barnoir215.com.
Tenorist Odean Pope's Saxophone Choir is aptly named. Though massive (the band Pope trucked up to Manhattan for these gigs numbers a dozen Philadelphians plus a few guests), the group doesn't operate like a conventional big band, with diverse elements working in counterpoint. Instead, Pope's charts treat his nine saxophonists like their vocal equivalent, combining together in unison to form one huge, multiphonic voice. He achieves a thrilling bop choir that alternates between swing ballads and blazing bop speedfreaks, all the better to spur guests Michael Brecker, Joe Lovano and James Carter to fiery solos. Brecker in particular tears off a fierce lung scorcher on the breakneck "Prince Lasha," making his current medical troubles all the more disheartening. Pope himself takes the lead on two tracks, proving that you can shout pretty loud even with a single voice.
Three leftover members of two regional bands pool their resources for a promising debut EP. The Southamption Collection leans heavily toward the trembling vocals and keyboard airs of singer Josh Ostrander and drummer Greg Lyons' defunct Laguardia (one lyric actually drops the title of the band's only album before getting eaten by the major label machine, Welcome to the Middle). Meanwhile Vern Zaborowski, exiled bassist from the bigshot hardcore-pop combo CKY, adds a rough rock sensibility to the sprinting pace. The bohemian groove cut "Gucci No. 3" is the prototypical synthesis of their respective styles -- genteel, yet driven -- while Denali/Bella Lea diva Maura Davis tenderly backs up the EP's only soft moment ("Hollywood"), putting all of them into foreign territory. Let's make that full-length, and try not to let the majors get in the way this time.
www.easternconferencechampions.com
If you think Mogwai's a bunch of kilt-wearing pussies for using drum machines and Daft Punk vocoders, this double record may offer the balance of rage and uncomfortable calm you need. Obvious comparisons to the greatest -sis bands in metal (Isis, Neurosis) come up within minutes of hearing Rosetta, but that's fine since the sheer ambition and execution of The Galilean Satellites far exceed the recent releases by its influences. On first listen, disc one is a down-tuned, gnarled ball of tension, peaking with the extreme jazz of "Absent" and the subsequent pretty-to-poisonous piano piece "Itinérant." Disc two is its foil, an extensive ambient exercise of sound manipulation, creepy, crackly drone tones and electronic EFX that wax and wane. Ah, but there's a catch. If you sync both sides, all Flaming Lips-like, you'll find the songs complement one another and create an entirely new, incredibly thick (we're talking pancake-batter-at-a-decent-diner thick) mix. Maybe smoking pot isn't so bad after all.
Whatever you do, don't get caught up in the argument over whether to call it jazz; genre is a limiting concept, after all, and useful only for record store clerks. Guitarist Matt Davis' lovely new independently released CD floats between categories with effortless grace. Attempts at fusing styles often end more in collision than fusion, but there is no tension, no clash in Davis' combination of string quartet with jazz musicians. The Metheny-ish chamber jazz of "These Are Whispers," which serves as a foundation for a limber and inventive Davis solo, suddenly becomes a slow blues shuffle for Jon Thompson's wistful soprano. "Song for Kate" kicks off as Appalachian bop before granting the strings some space for a solo dance, and finally halting for Thompson and Davis to flit around each other like butterflies. The keyword here is interaction, and the seemingly incongruous parts soon dissolve into a succession of fragile moments.
Sat., March 25, 9 p.m., with The Novenas, Indre Studios, 1418 S. Darien St., 215-463-3000, www.frogholler.com.
www.hightwo.com
