missive 172
02-10-2008
Singled Out
Missive 172

For Kelly and Mark

Singled Out - groovy f*ckers of the world unite.

Sincere apologies that this missive finds you slightly late and truncated, not you the missive that is but we’ve had a week and a half to forget wherein we’ve seemingly suffered the modern equivalent of the biblical plagues having fallen to the dreaded toothache syndrome. Is there anything more painful than toothache we wonder. Well yes. Earache and backache if you must know both of whom swiftly visited our embattled persona in quick pursuit. In between all this we’ve had digs issues - hell so many stories here that aside being able to ramble at length for pages upon pages will simultaneously have you weeping in the aisles whilst wondering exactly what medication our landlord is on - rat poison and arsenic if I had my way. Add to that the builders who our landlord decided to get in to lay a floor - obviously the first time they’d come across laminate floors and hammers we suspect - a pleasant chap it has to be said with a rather annoying penchant for snarling and coughing up bits of his lung in between bouts of shouting at his mobile phone. Oh yea - and the decorators. Hell I wish I’d have videotaped it - it would have won the Cannes short film comedy award.

Also its probably worth pointing out that I’ll be packing the dreaded weed next week sometime - there will be a hysterically dull diary updated via www.myspace.com/thesundayexperience - bet you can’t wait……eh?

Crystal Antlers ‘EP’ (Touch ‘n’ Go). We don’t mind admitting that we’ve been well smitten by this release, the minute it hit our turntable we were utterly transfixed by the freewheeling crystalline melodies spiralling within. Originally self released from their loved up sonic bunker deep in Long Beach, California (where no doubt with the aid of copious intakes of acid variety smarties these dudes have tripped back in time for a snifter or two of late 60’s and early 70’s essences) this EP gets a long overdue full release via new label masters Touch ’n’ Go in a few weeks time and hell you space cadet psyche loving mind expanding droogs out there will do well to have this high on your wants list because this 6 track babe sublimely cuts wig flipping shapes like there’s no tomorrow. Combining a myriad of related sound sub species principally psyche / garage and progressive rock, easily the best thing we’ve heard in our gaff since the Crystal Sun’s criminally overlooked debut full length from earlier this year and chartering vaguely similar waters to the Wooden Shjips, this quintet craft an insurgent sound that’s made all the more crucial by the fact that rather than simply and effectively aiming replicate or tune into the spirit of a bygone era like so many bands plundering the same pissing pool so ably do, instead the Crystal Antlers artistry is one that carves out hulking slabs of mercurial shape shifting soul stirred epics that freeform, dissolve and evolve through a warping haze of kaleidoscopic hues, tripping dream states and out there twisted grind happy blues collages. This of course is all deftly wrapped and dispatched in an authentic vintage sheen shrouded with dissipating lysergic mirages that kicks as good as it enthrals. ‘Until the sun dies’ opens the set initially sounding like a freakish psychotropic crossfire fusion of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky Mick and Tich’s ’legend of Xanadu’ and Zager and Evans’ ’in the year 2525’ before abruptly dissolving momentarily into softly mellowing glazes of West Coast blissfulness before unhinging itself and driving towards a fractured and furious squall of 60’s styled hotly wired overloading to meltdown grooves. ’Vexation’ - an unruly and punishing titan it has to be said is blessed with some sterling shards of scalding sax and lashed with a frantic garage grind that takes its reference markers principally from Arthur Lee’s ’7+7 is’ while the sets best moment by some distance ’a thousand eyes’ is a glorious free flowing beauty adopting elements of the Misunderstood to its matrix which veers with incredulous aplomb through moments of breathlessly majestic prog grandeur the type of which the Porcupine Tree would literally die for while succulently threading its tailored tapestry with some striking moments of 70’s styled retro MOR as though the Band were shimmying with Cheap Tricks while recalling very much the Eskimos diamond cut ’something must be transmitted somehow’ from a few years back for the tell me later imprint, the trick is repeated to a lesser extent on the following cut ’owl’ indelibly wrapped as it is with a reclining shade wearing psyche prog aura. Which leaves the gnarled garage semantics of the fractured ‘arcturus‘ to even up the equation with a spot of rampant cranial caning grind that unless our ears do deceive had us smarting in a way that only records bearing the name the Nomads ever leave us feeling. The aptly titled freebasing ‘parting song for the sky’ wraps up the set - a mooching drugged up psychedelic freak-out replete with hallucinogenic halos of sky kissing woozy wah wah effects and oodles of feedback fuzz - need we ask for more. Ridiculously essential stuff. www.touchandgorecords.com

The Lovely Eggs ‘have you ever heard the Lovely Eggs?’ (Cherryade). Determined not to let this out of our sight following our near catastrophic and ridiculously lame and laughable cock up in the ‘where the buggering hell did that CD go’ department in which not only did we manage to mislay the label promo of their last outing (a sold out split with Sexual Hot Bitches) kindly sent over by those cute and well heeled purveyors of wholesomely crooked indie pop Filthy Little Angels, but to add insult and more insults (along with the nominal injury quota) we went and blotted our copy book in the finest of styles when Holly and David (they being the Lovely Eggs) sent us their own personal promo copy along with a rather tasty egg sandwich accompanied by a hand written note and a drawing (now framed). The mere fact that we actually managed to find, nail and review said record is to say the least a minor miracle (see missive 165). ‘Have you ever heard the Lovely Eggs?‘ sees the duo get their official debut release via the ever dependable Manchester based imprint Cherryade - the label that has so far engaged these listening spaces with some nicely trimmed Christmas compilations featuring oodles of on the rise underground talent as well as providing a home to the likes of the Kabeedies, Ste McCabe (whose current album has been causing a degree of pink hued rumbles here), Steveless, Tall Pony and the very excellent Listen with Sarah. Pressed on limited quantities of yolk yellow vinyl the EP clocking in at a slender 12 minutes features five brand spanking new cuts. One of life’s great sorrows is the fact the ‘Eggs never got played by the late and much missed John Peel, we’d like to think they’d be up to double figures in sessions by now and lauded by the great man as some kind of renaissance movement. Like we’ve said on previous occasions, while the rest of the nation have had their heads turned by the heaping of praise pressed upon the likes of the Ting Tings et al, the Lovely Eggs have been squirreling away in their own little playground doodling and impishly cobbling together crookedly cute pop paint bombs, happily unperturbed by the big bad world outside they craft away a kind of Early Learning Centre styled appreciation to pop courted by the use of household objects and toy instruments (check the bike pedals on ’oh weird heart’ and the precociously childlike charms of the typically trademark kooky and wonky, chirpy and light ’I collect snails’) that betrays a sweetly addictive though naive aura to their melodies that are brought to the fore by Holly’s delectable head in the clouds willowy-ness. The disturbingly catchy ’have you ever heard a digital accordion?’ opens proceedings - so good we could kiss it, name checks to writer Richard Brautigan and ’Back to the future’ fly amid a haze of nursery rhyme like repetitive semantics all lovingly detailed upon a firm and persistent acoustic strum which unless we’ve taken a serious bang to the head sounds like a more appealing version of those folky tree huggers who used to terrify the crap out 70’s kids TV with their hopeless ‘Handful of Songs’ show doing a sterling take of some would be face off action between the Modern Lovers and early career Hefner which at its finale veers up superbly to erupt into some well tasty Pixies like carnage. The rampantly incessant and dare we say agit-baiting rapid fire ‘I want to be in your fire’ is in our humbled opinion the sets best moment and has Holly going hell for leather in the butter wouldn’t melt annoying brat stakes while caned upon a furiously bolted down blisteringly frenzied hardcore grind which leaves the delectably twinkling and introspective lullaby love note ‘weird heart’ to craftily pack you off and bid farewell - think upon it as a disarming nursery school romance between a shy eyed Velvets and Kimya Dawson. Utterly gorgeous - great things await. www.cherryademusic.co.uk


From TV Cream - Handful of Songs -
TOMMY STEELE theme song heralded less-than-welcome appearance of Carpenters-style singing/acoustic guitar duo KEITH FIELD and MARIA MORGAN (who replaced KATHY JONES in 1975), who professed to sing any song requested by children if they sent in an appropriate drawing. However evidently limited repertoire gave the lie to this ruse; kids would write in asking for Hurry Up Harry and S-S-S-Single Bed, but invariably got Yellow Submarine, Kum-Ba-Yah and A Windmill In Old Amsterdam for the tenth fucking time.

The Truth about Frank ‘a briefcase full of suspicion’ (LYF). One of the great many pleasures about doing these - how shall I refer to them - randomly collected words - that people commonly refer to as reviews is that aside getting all manner of records, cd’s, mp3’s and even tape cassettes sent gratis which to a music lover is akin to giving the keys of sweet shop to a sweet toothed kid and saying ‘there you go kid fill your boots’ - is that on the odd occasion we get sent a CD that’s so far removed from the rest of the pack that it demands unwarranted attention and scrutiny. The Truth about Frank are the sore thumb of a thriving Leeds scene still bathing in the bright light of the success bestowed upon the Kaiser Chiefs. A blot on the landscape. An unreachable itch. Anarchic diode Dadaists who refuse to kowtow to the script. Who instead rewire and service their own sonic landscape. Abiding by their own rules. Surveying the unpolluted landscapes of pop’s outsider wilderness. Information wise we know absolutely bugger all about The Truth about Frank other than the finite details revealed on their my space page and even then all that gives up is the fact that they are a duo going by the name Frank and - yep you guessed it - Frank. A strangely uneven release it has to be said and that is not meant to be viewed as a criticism in any way shape or form - far from it in fact rather more its their schizoid haphazard and warped mindset that makes the release such a treat. That said there does appear to be the existence of two uniquely contrasting sound camps at work, both the opening brace of ominously dark and eerie cuts ‘muri desu yo sonzai’ and ‘each time’ essentially operate amid a psychotropic electro dub framing, the reference points loosely inhaling various sized doses of Coil, Elemental, early Cabaret Voltaire, Play Dead, 70 Gwen Party and 1919 to their canvas. Bleak, desolate and decidedly macabre ’muri desu yo sonzai’ is unsettling not for what it is does do but for what it doesn’t do that being to settle into any recognisable solidified state instead the melodies appear, dissolve and fade like fractured disembodied apparitions. The dread shiver evoking ’Each time’ is certainly one for daylight viewing, sluggishly inert loops of menacingly dark communications from the other side or so it would seem prizing themselves through waves of controlled white noise hysteria sounding not unlike Joy Division being channelled at the wrong speed by a particularly prankster-ish feeling Clock DVA and UK Decay. Things lighten up with the arrival of the jittering ’you’ve grown insanity hooks (root canal)’ - a wired slice of skewed futuro funk that cleverly fuses together a flotation tank dragged hybrid arrangement of Detroit deep house and freakishly skewiff blip core which on closer inspection - unless of course our ears do deceive - sounds very much like at varying points Rick James and Sylvester being galloped up by some unwieldy and huge binary converter, not quite as fractured and unhinged as say Kid 606 but certainly having a hint of Aphex and Wagon Christ about its wares and admittedly disconcerting to hear the distant spectre of ’White Christmas’ being funnelled through the ether. ’first ask charming rat’ - really don’t bother asking - is one of those mind melting moments locomotive loop cycles whirr away with a clinically cold detached machinist vibe to recalibrate the effect of Chinese water torture - mind you after three minutes of the stuff you’re past caring as you’ve succumbed to some hypnotic bliss fuelled state - either that or the blighter has fried your head space. Darkly withering cosmically inclined psychotropic ambient collages are the order of the day for the eerily drone-scaping ’glass hour siren’ - think Philip Glass meets Silver Apples with the mysterious Porcupine Tree alter ego Bass Communion crookedly rewiring the mixing desk while ‘asimienta’ is just evil and really is like having an army of little technocrats lodging in your headspace incessantly tapping out morse code mantras. Which leaves us how we begun really with the creepy ambient chill of the ravaged and barren ‘feeding your demons’ wallowing grimly into the voids - hell I should have listened to my own advice and played this in the daylight. Abstractly awkward and awesome stuff. www.myspace.com/truthaboutfrank

The Green Kingdom ‘jasmine’ (smallfish). Indeed more essential ear gear we feel from those diode twiddling, sample ‘n’ beats lovin’ electronica fixated star gazing dudes over at Smallfish. This beauty has literally just feel through the mail box and in the wee time it takes to say ‘well bugger me if this isn’t good’ has thrown a dummy or two, a sly shimmy here and there and exacted a well place nutmeg on its way into our affections. The Green Kingdom you may well or indeed may well not recall us mentioning in a passing singled out (missive 148 - to be precise) when we stumbled upon the French based SEM imprint on whose small but perfectly formed label lies the Green Kingdom’s self titled debut full length. Three (we are assuming) brand new cuts feature here from the working bench of Michigan resident Michael Cottone (for it is he who is the Green Kingdom). ’Snow lotus garden’ opens the set and as you’d imagine from such a title there is a sweetly enchanting ornate Oriental charm about its wares. Frail and fragile and softly stirring, a cortege of bowed chimes and orbiting ambient murmurs caress this mesmerising slice of thoughtfully chilled introspection which to these ears sounds not unlike Stylus collaborating with Angus MacLaurin to craft out touchingly remote twinkling symphonies in some sort of frosted igloo hideaway. Lost in its own moment ‘jasmine haze’ is another lilting snow bound teaser that appears to freewheel in similar sedate climes as that of Inch Time, a beautifully executed use of space - noodling guitars and crunchy electronic textures bedded upon ice tipped glazes endow the surroundings with a sweetly serene stillness and an adorable glassy like spectral tinged rustic glow though for us it’s ’Sendak’ that provides the sets icing on the cake - a wonderfully executed slice of willowy sleepy headed ambience, a snow topped woodland lullaby that if truth be known sounds not unlike some long forgotten theme collage from a 60’s children’s TV show made up of snoozing figurines, orbiting serenades, music box motifs - a kind of affectionate lights out reprise for the Clangers. Strictly limited to just 100 copies all pressed on the now trademark 3 inch CD format and bound to shift faster than you can say ‘my word sir that does sound like a pretty thing’. www.smallfish.co.uk

Iris to Hypnos ‘Hypodermic’ (Static Caravan). We’re assuming that as we have a physical copy in our mits that this long touted release is finely available for public consumption. Limited to just 105 numbered copies - its one of the uber limited lathe type things which if your not careful have a nasty habit of flying from the pre sales list even before they’ve barely had a chance to venture to the record shelves of a local vinyl emporium near you. Happy to report that on this occasion it seems the Static lads have taken note of other labels dealing in lathe releases and have included a nifty 3 inch CD which replicates the vinyl tracks - so no more hops, skips and stutters on the turntable. Hoorah we say. Iris to Hypnos (named we assume not after a sleep deprivation symptom but rather more after the Immortals - the former the rainbow - messenger of the Gods - the latter the God of Sleep - see its not just records - its culture and stuff here you know). Anyhow as though you’d be surprised at such revelations we know absolutely diddly and squat about this ensemble if indeed they are an ensemble in which case the correct address would be he / she, the Static website doesn’t attempt to any great deal in shedding any additional light on matters simply describing the ensuing sounds as ’two slice of precise electronica somewhere between Autechre, Phelan / Sheppard and Mego’. Aah the dilemma of it all. But then its worth taking the time and effort in pursuing this gem because what unfolds amid the hushed strains of the unfolding minimalist textures within is something truly majestic, elegant and utterly divine especially on the flip side ‘Stele 31’ - make no mistake this is a disarming bespoke symphonic beauty, a bruised and crestfallen snow globed treasure blessed with the sweetest and most disturbingly affecting sparsely layered melodies that we’ve heard in yonks, a melody hauntingly familiar and yet sounding as though its been softly prized from some celestial haven and frankly possessing an unnerving silken like grandeur that both embraces and cuts with equal forthright precision. Lead track ‘hypodermic’ takes a while to settle preferring instead to scatter and skitter to create a curious noire like down tempo cinematic atmosphere, again sparse woven and minimal it mooches furtively with a nocturnal aspect much reminiscent of Gnac had he decided to shimmy up alongside Barry Adamson and Mick Harvey. The delicately dusted and smoked jazz lounge vibe electronics endowing a drizzle swept black and grey framing to the proceedings as though it were meant to herald the arrival to the cinema loving conscious a deeply flawed and embittered though ultimately good square jawed shadowy detective or public spirited vigilante. It all adds up to another must have Static release I’m afraid. www.staticcaravan.org

Future Static treats milling around on the distant horizon from Wrangler and Scanner, Yellow Moon Band, Circus Devils, Cave and Cheval Sombre - the latter two mentioned going something a little like this….

And it was indeed a day for the hanging out of the bunting, not withstanding the arrivals of goodies from both Static Caravan and Smallfish (and ahem - a pretty smart compilation from Catskills to celebrate their 11th birthday) but it was sight of those two eagerly awaited releases from Trensmat that had us whooping like bad ‘uns in the aisles. First up……

Cheval Sombre ‘I sleep’ (Trensmat). Should be no stranger to regular readers of these musings unless of course you’ve been either nodding off at the back or else bunking off in which case see me afterwards. Already having blown us away with two excellent releases for Static Caravan (one a sold out limited lathe - the other due imminently and featuring an absolute diamond cover of the Supremes’ ‘where did our love go’) Cheval Sombre is the cosmic alter ego of interstellar foot soldier Christopher Porpora a New York based poet. ’I sleep’ continues his ongoing exploratory voyage into the hazy voids of acid tipped narco-kaleidoscopic pop, as with previous Trensmat releases its ultra limited in quantity terms, pressed on green vinyl (which incidentally features the ’alpha’ and ’delta’ wave versions of ’I sleep’) and accompanied by a further 22 minute three track CD featuring the full blown bliss driven ’I sleep’ along with the Sonic Boom produced ’Strangest thought’ and a Britta Philips (Dean and Britta, Luna fame) recalibrating ’troubled mind’. The spaced out and velveteen love note ’I sleep’ is a mind frying slice of chilled out there lunar pop, a succulent somnambulant babe sparse and minimalist in texture dappled delicately by the merest of lazily woven repetitive acoustic strums set across hypno-orbiting trance like drone swirls that draw its reference points from the hazily glazed latter career work of the Spacemen 3 or perhaps a valium overdosing Jesus and Mary Chain reduced to a bare murmur, all at once softly shimmering and utterly spellbinding this pristinely ethereal wig flipping cutie is an aural high without the side effects. ‘strangest thought (holy mix)’ - oh yes this has been setting our radar a jangle since it came into view - can’t better the description of the accompanying press release which simply notes ‘…a delta blues broadcast from out of space’ - they aren’t kidding, chief space cadet Sonic Boom heads up the control decks of this hymnal like backward looping transmission that despite its obviously intended hallucinogenic charms sounds to these ears like a dusty and dusky spiritual cosmic campfire jam. Last and by no means least - in fact between you and me - the best thing he’s committed to tape to date - the seductively comatose ’troubled mind’ is a willowy snake charming gem, all lullaby twinkles and the fade of sun scorched days reclining coolly into nightly drifts, softly dusted psyche blues that imagines a laid back and casual porch lit get together between the Walker Brothers, the Velvets, Brian Jones, John Fahey and Joe Meek - smoked, disarming and utterly essential.

Cave ‘butt hash’ (trensmat). Not to be outdone and figuring on the second featured released from the ever crucial Trensmat stable comes Chicago’s Cave who incidentally have been wooed by the Static Caravan crew and should see their as yet unnamed seven inch seeing the light of day very shortly. Again pressed up on 7 inches of green vinyl and accompanied by the now trademark CD which finds the two wax cuts bolstered by an additional brace of beauties and a quick time video for ‘butt hash‘. We’d like to think that - if they aren’t already that is - these dudes will, come the end of the year, be adorning bedroom walls and stoking up the vibes via the in tuned hi-fi’s of the underground cognoscenti. Cave hail from Chicago and ’butthash’ marks the start of a busy release schedule that should see the aforementioned Static release, a split 10 inch for the newly augmented Permanent imprint and a debut full length for Important all ready and doing business in a local record emporium near you before the year end. These cats cook up a slyly funk and gridlocked brew of mind warping woozy krautrock that to these ears comes across like some mid galactic highway service station stop situated between the orbital aural zones of Mugstar, Circle and Fly (the latter being especially referenced on the grittily terra-forming throb of the head wiring cosmic jazz jam ‘machines and muscles’ with its sumptuous drill of smoked 60’s styled lounge dialects). ’Butthash’ is a coolly grooved slab of hypnotic flashbacks from an early 70’s scene populated by Tangerine Dream and Amon Duul II, spliced with head swirling repetitive loops that at times come across like a strangely skewiff Devo doing Kraut. Better still is the ’tour version’ of ‘machines and muscles’ - a space gliding star glazed cruise controlled lunatic instrumental replete with swirling BBC Radiophonic meets early career Add N to X analogue electronics that subtly take their cue from the Tornadoes ‘telstar’ - think upon it as a huge hulking ice cream van like fairground Waltzer hurtling through space like a kaleidoscopic spinning top. Nuff said. Best of the set in our book is the parting ‘high, I am’ - even despite the fact that its more an afterthought being only 80 seconds long it does in its brief firefly like lifespan offer up a furious and schizoid slice of mind expanding psychotropic goo to which to pack you happily off in search of further Cave vinyl explorations. More please and quick about it.

Future Trensmat tastiness is promised courtesy of a Hawkwind covers project spread across three 7 inch releases - the (frankly awesome) assembled crowd dutifully paying homage being Mugstar, Mudhoney, Kinski, Acid Mothers Temple, White Hills and Bardo Pond - better get your orders in now as these are bound to be snapped up on pre release. www.trensmat.com

http://www.myspace.com/thecostellomusic - five fresh faced lads hailing from Swindon going by the name the Costellos, sadly only one track posted so far but hell what a track. Having already picked up airplay courtesy of Radio 1’s Steve Lamacq the trumpet saturated instrumental ’hello costello’ is just the kind of track to bury deep into your headspace, claim squatters rights and proceed to party hard into the wee small hours of the night, an exotically brewed sultry vista that’s all at once criminally skewiff, ridiculously catchy and craftily crooked that in our mind had us recalling the much missed L’Augmentation in some sort of dust bowled gun-slinging Leone inspired death duel replete with Morricone workouts though strangely finding itself relocated to Marrakesh. A demo lurks - we want it.

We Rock like Girls don’t ‘violence’ (distort). I swear we’ve featured this lot in previous missive dispatches but I’ll be buggered if I can google a citation and lets be fair checking through the CD’s is a hopeless non starter that’s not even up for consideration let alone discussion - I mean we can’t even find cd’s sent here last week let alone several months ago - a filing system built around chaos has - I’m afraid - its limitations. Anyhow London based trio We Rock like Girls Don’t have a self titled debut full length currently leashed up and growling menacingly in the shadows and due for parole in January, for now as a brief teaser ’Violence’ gets its sub three minute spell in the spot light, a brooding bastard of a cut that wires itself into the jarring
g fractured mindset of ‘Sliver’ era Nirvana albeit as envisaged by a seriously fucked up Katastrophy Wife, a bone shaking fuzz laced paint bomb ravaged by squalling lights out punching potent riffs all head locked within a thick sickly puss ridden swamp like groove that spits and struts with menacing intent underneath whose raw and frenzied garage grunge squalid hood lurks a deceptive and splintered soulful grind a la PJ Harvey that’s literally being choked to within an inch of its life. Brutal stuff and an essential addition to any well ordered record collection. www.myspace.com/werocklikegirlsdont

Mia Vigar ‘I dare you’ (Hungry Audio). Literally just popping through the letter box and immediately sidling up to our hi-fi and in to our affections is this damn cute and dinky thing from Mia Vigar who apparently has been wooing all and sundry in recent times under the guise of Luma Lane and True Adventures finding home for her crooked concoctions on such esteemed imprints as Twisted Nerve and Cherryade (whose latest outing features elsewhere in these pages courtesy of those loveable imps The Lovely Eggs). Prized from her forthcoming debut ‘true adventures happen inside your head’ which features guest contributions from members of Sennen (whose debut full length has to be up there as one of our favourites of the year) and David Brewis of Field Music and man who it seems who can’t pass a recording studio without the overwhelming desire to pop in, jog in to whatever is going on at the time given his regular cameo roles on other people’s work during his main charges sabbatical. Anyhow ‘I dare you’ is devilishly catchy and kooky, assuming a child like playground naivety this brightly precocious and tangy tasting babe is tenderly coated with a toe tapping and wonky candy pop vibe serviced by impeccably impish skewiff 50’s bubblegum wraps all befuddled and dreamily powder puffed in the kind of crafty dizziness that you’d imagine the meeting of the Shaggs and the Waitresses would result in had they ever formed a best friends alliance in their secret den at the bottom of the garden. Flip le disc for the markedly far superior ’Seaside’ - a sublimely fading lesson in deftly crushed melcho-pop, fractured with an introspective glaze and delicately wrapped in a beautifully hollowed sparse classical framing this humbled slice of bruised beauty sounds to these ears not unlike the beguiling charms of Shortwave Set being tethered, teased and tearfully torn by Broadcast. Perfect stuff. www.hungryaudio.co.uk

Universal You ‘your sin city’ (joe soap). Met in Kazakhstan, named after a Cult record, ’your sin city’ is the debut release from, Scottish based trio Universal You. Anything else you need to know, well lead singer Gulzhan Ibraveya has the kind of vocal pipes that could probably trace their bloodline all the way back to Jefferson’s Grace Slick and Curved Air’s Sonja Kristina while the opening guitar intro to ‘your sin city’ nods ever so slightly in the general direction of the Pixies ‘bone machine’ before sparking up into searing soulful 60’s spanker that swaggers and struts with an assured confidence and the kind of deft application to simmering to the boil intensity inclined pop rudimentaries as is usually more commonly associated with Richard Green’s Somatics. More please. www.universalyou.co.uk

http://www.myspace.com/giantpaw - it goes without saying that we do love our little forays into my space world I get tirelessly pissed off with certain magazines pulling it up and mocking the efforts of bands and individuals alike - what no advertising revenue for you top sniff out. I’ve said it before that there are some nuggets to be found here, for a music lover its akin to panning for gold - free from press release jargon, hype a lot of the stuff here just appears offering you little peeks into other people’s creative universes. That said on this occasion we didn’t even have to go trawling. Coming via a friend request Giant Paw are one of those rare finds, quite what their universe is like we can only worry for their world is weird, unstable and boundless. A schism in the great pop firmament they storm the breaches with their curiously absorbing evo-pop, sounding like so many and sounding like no one in particular Giant Paw are a freewheeling musical tapestry all at once wired (’Silence‘), oddball (‘mosquito’) and deeply unsettling (’tea on the lawn’). Named after a mythical giant paw said to have been hacked off from a she devil and passed on through generations and ultimately finding itself an Occultist prize, the collective have to date released four ultra limited greeting card / trading card sets housing CD’s - the first three of which have already annoyingly sold out. Giant Paw to their credit avoid the usual pigeon hole trappings with the six cuts showcased here providing anything from psyche, rampant head pummelling gridlocked blues (as on the ‘goo’ era Sonic Youth meets Killing Joke mash up ’Silence’) and some seriously smoking mojo humping primitive cow punk electro (as on ’early riser’ - which to these ears sounds not unlike Alien Sex Fiends ’Ignore the Machine’ being put through the blender by the Gun Club with RL Burnside in the shadows twiddling the all to crucial mixing desk nobs). Here you’ll be treated to ’tortoise’ - frankly a Lynch-ian slice of skin prickling creepiness for those that remember that Elemental debut on Creeping Bent from a few years back while ’mosquito’ - a tale about a poor mosquito who had never learned to bite initially appears ominously draped in all manner of vivid kaleidoscopic hues of English Psychedelia a la the much missed Murmurs of Irma before undergoing some warped and skittish transformation wherein it assumes a curious bourbon swilled jamboree styled campfire free for all like vibe - a bit like a less gloomily threatening Brecht-ian obsessed Sex Gang Children crossing swords with Wall of Voodoo all the time impishly invaded throughout by what sound like escapees from the Gremlins. Very strange and worrying becoming. It’s ‘tea on the lawn’ though that proves to be the best track here by some distance - wiring itself into the fractured mindset of the late Syd Barrett it provides a positive cornucopia of 60’s references such as Donovan, the Purple Gang, Traffic et al - sandwiched between evil ’Jackanory’ styled kids reading time samples this out there and wandering in some sort of hallucinogenic landscape, this oddly daydream affair imagines early career Of Arrowe Hill shimmying up to the recently re-activated Psychic TV to craft out tripping mind warping lysergic mantras whose purpose it seems is to disorientate the listener with their disturbed dissipating Arabesque montages whilst simultaneously weaving into the subtly fried dream coat the sultry intonations of far out and gone slices of mesmerising jazz fade outs.

And that’s it for a few days - as per usual thanks and wishes to all the usual suspects - email mark@losingtoday.com - snail mail for now - 105 shaldon drive, morden, surrey, sm4 4bq, uk and updaters via www.myspace.com/thesundayexperience

Take care of yourselves…

Mark
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