Candice of Mystic Inane (New Orleans) delivers the one-two ready-or-not punk blast of the early 80’s underground Los Angeles scene. Pop and Hardcore forms merge to prove once again that this is a people culture, and not some speculative sonic experiment. Released by avant-hardcore weirdo label form Spain, La Vida Es Un Mus.
Very impressed by this French rapper whose voice pitch is in the perfect window between Jay-Z and Big Daddy Kane. At this point in time I won’t lend an ear to anyone above the Sadat-X octave. (Eminem, I’m not looking at you). I find rap voices need bass tones. Ichon has bass tones.
Ichon also has the overground producer sensation Myth Syzer on the boards, whose style is right in the pocket of current electro-influenced Timbaland-derived a-la-Drake R&B rap. Not always acceptable to purists but aspirations to pop are fine with me, specially when they seem secretly like self-sabotage. Ichon tries to be pop in a way Redman will never be, and never tried. The macho bravado is too grating to even gain consideration from corporate radio stations.
And that’s the strength here. Ichon can deliver verses with astounding acumen and athletic stamina. He wouldn’t be out of a place on a New York street corner where neighborhood thugs light blunts, taking turns to spit in a cypher. The problem is, he also wants to sing. The verdict is, it works sometimes.
But beyond technical prowess and limitations, Ichon displays the versatile humanity of a true artist. His music is relatable, emotional, and sincere precisely because he can balance his strengths and weaknesses. “Go” is a club anthem the way Jay-Z used to make them, with street energy inside the club (“Put Your Hands Up”, 1999 ).
“Backstage” is an atonal drill-like attempt at a beat, salvaged only by Ichon’s cartoonish flow and voice modulations (Loveni’s contribution is dismissable as usual, unless you want to wonder why meek voices attempt to rap).
The opener, “Tennessee”, sets the tone for what could be a conceptual album of Atlanta-derived sedated R&B trap music in French. Emulation is a good skill to have, and Ichon’s series of Future-inspired non-sequiturs reveal a surrealistic aesthetic, close to Outkast’s mid-career albums. It features a relatively unknown African rapper, Vent Chi, whose stutter, pause-and-go rap style gives the song mystical overtones.
The closer, “Pour De Vrai” is straight from the late 90’s Tribe Called Quest/Slum Village beat book. Ichon’s sing-along rap style works best precisely when it recalls the soulful a-la-Roots vibes of Mos Def (Umi Says, Travellin’ Man).
A solid release, labeled a mixtape, but plays like an album. I’ve had it on constant rotation since I received it, and would definitely take it for more spins as the year winds down. Ichon shows he can be reflective, careless, focused, and free, all at once, and that’s inspiring.
Video installations of Computer-Generated short animated films
Young, white, male characters in a state of desperation
Movie-trailer tropes, action-films camera movements (constant movement), musicals
Satirical look at substance abuse, emotional depletion, existential fear, in the context of consumerism
Walked into this exhibition after a night of heavy drinking. Could readily identify with the main characters, in various states of destitution, soul crumbling just like the architecture around them. Very funny use of Hollywood tropes to convey emotional despair.
However, showcasing digital-only work, on extremely large screens, is exactly the kind of invasive use of technology the exhibition appears to critique. The Brutalist coldness of the suspended screens, or the large blocks/walls acting as screens in the middle of the gallery space, evoke the very fascism that art is supposed to counter. The experience of watching remains alienating, and individualistic, and the only emotional catharsis is through self-identification, which is the tired Hollywood tactic. Guns, guts, gore, is a refrain we’ve all heard before.
“Animal” is a new recording of a song from their 2013 demo, before they added synth to their sound. It’s completely zany, KBD/Messthetics, and the addition of Alexandra Eastburn’s keys are droney/improv ambient synth. Reminds me of Urinals’ “I’m A Bug”, or Anorexia’s “Pets”, both “cult” releases proof of the unbridled playful creativity of punk’s beginnings.
“Blackout” is a new song. It appeared on the Live At Goner LP, but this here is a studio recording. The story is ominous, like it could be about alcohol, a lack of electricity, or a plain concussion. The emotional relief of screaming the word “Blackout!” follows other Nots anthems such as “Reactor!”, and “Decadence!”.
Limited to 300 copies, German import, purchase on Discogs, through Slowboy Records.
Purveyors of underground rock noise, Sediment Club, performed a rare show in Montreal, on July 16, for Rock Fest (lol generic name). The bill also included Virginia weird-hardcore Buck Gooter, and local heavy noise quartet, Gashrat.
Jackie of Urochromes fame is also part of Sediment Club (with his childhood friends), and it was cool chatting about the underground scene for a short while. New Urochromes 7″ is out, it’s called Night Bully, and it’s terrifying noise, with a surprisingly New Wave remix on the flipside.
MRR Coordinator, extraordinaire curator, DIY activist, punk archivist, Grace Ambrose, has a new band called Neon. It’s a perfect mish-mash of 80’s post-punk and hardcore forms. The vocals are equally aggressive and playful, exuding timeless and eternal excitement mixed with desperation. In the same vein as UK’s Frau, with the ramshackle sound of Indiana’s CCTV. A really devolved Good Throb with no frills. Could be interesting to hear more recordings, or even a long-form LP.
If you ever happen to chance upon Montreal’s The Submissives, you will notice something is definitely off in their music. The longing and heartbreak sounds medicated, if not sedated. It’s indie-pop at a degree removed from conventional. Most important is the mood it evokes. Not quite country, not quite folk, guitars that sound like they are dying, and a basic rhythmic pulse that almost doesn’t hold things together.
Their concept is also visual. Dressed in white, they make their entrance sometimes with male ushers, one by one, with two lead singers, reciting fragments of love letters, and handing out invitations like a mock-wedding.
When the stars align, their choice of venue is unusual and splendid. Snack N’ Blues, the old mainstay in the Mile-End neighborhood of Montreal, before it went hipster, was one of the only venues who refused to enforce the no-smoking ban a few years after it came into effect. The old man working the door, is also the owner, and he hands out free candy (and cigarettes) to patrons, decorates the walls with blues and jazz icons, and maintains a pool table in the back for the old guard who doesn’t care about the music. There is hardly any space for a band to play. In the realm of minimal and off-kilter, Snack N’ Blues is it!
The band setup their gear right by the entrance, as if arranging a window display. The place filled up fast and care had to be taken to not trip over the musicians. A new guitarist was premiering that night (member of Guy Madonna), and quite frankly, it was a success! Hits such as “Betty Told Me” and “Do You Really Love Me?” along with new songs, carried everyone into the atmosphere of an old Southern bar in Memphis. Blues, country, folk, with a psychedelic tinge. It was a sweaty affair, especially with the suit I was wearing, and I made my way out into the cool night immediately after their set.
Tara, drummer for Mr. Airplane Man, approached me to ask if I was at their previous show the year before. I said “No, this is my first time seeing you live” I posted a picture of their soundcheck and suddenly the notifications started pouring in. Chris from KLYAM asked “Say hi to Tara for me!” So I walked up to Tara and told her we had a mutual friend.
When the opening act, Gravel Route, performed their brand of classic blues rock tunes, I was dancing next to Tara who was similarly entranced moving to the beat, stomping her feet, howling and hollering. When the time came for her to get on stage and perform, she took me to the side and told me what she really thought about me. “You are awesome. Your energy is great. Thank you for coming.”
I couldn’t have asked for a better compliment, given by someone I truly admire. It made everything worth it, the long nights blasting “Red Light” till dawn, the cravings and longing for love, the hangover depression bouts, and even missing all the other shows in the city that night. I felt like I belonged in front of that stage, wilding out to the fuzzed out garage tunes of Margaret and Tara. Sorry for all the yelling but I was drunk, and happy.
It’s already been four years since Nots stumbled out the gate into an unsuspecting garage/lo-fi/indie underground music scene. From podcasts to radio, bar basements to festival stages, and the much coveted Opening Ceremonies at Gonerfest 2016 (exclusive footage coming soon), they haven’t changed one iota, and their sound is still as raw and surprising.
While most bands are content writing songs about gobbling down fast food items (ahem, Burger Records), Nots’ latest offering is a direct indictment of our political reality, but without the trends of juvenile identity politics (ahem, Downtown Boys). “Violence” is like an anthem of Bush-era military spending that Michael Moore forgot to include in his “Fahrenheit 9/11” documentary. Sounding equally distant (the dystopia-world of Derek Jarman’s “Jubilee”) and unmistakably current (I hear the word Syria), it temporarily forgoes electric guitar for an eerie synth-organ loop that recalls Southern church services and nuclear alarm sirens in equal measure.
Nots’ lyrics have constantly explored the dichotomy of the personal and the social. It’s a subtle achievement to have remained so consistently original in a market saturated with apolitical face-value superficial music. Nots reinstate artistry in a culture that has been secretly on life support for decades. Let’s hope the shock revives it.