Resipiscent - New Releases

Incantations rise on smoke from an impact crater. Out of the wreckage, three humanoids emerge under mask and spell bearing organ, trombone, sax, synth, guitar and drums. Countless wormholes blink and fizz in their wake. Moira Scar’s monster-wave death-glam sound has arrived, timeless and just in time, to defy the soul-death machine. Prepare for a music that explodes from its core; but don’t brace yourself, there’s nothing to lose but the manacles of your mind. Moira Scar Scarred for Life	What is the voltage of static electricity that courses over your skin standing each of five million hairs straight on end? Can the answer be derived quantitatively from the waveforms cascading against malleus, anvil and stapes to trigger follicle surge? Or is math itself lost in the abstraction to qualitative, perceptual, and metaphysical sense? Such shortcuts to madness can’t be taken casually. They’re best explored through complexities of minimal materialism, an exquisite example of which appears now before you: vibrating strings, membranes, simple particles of sound sculpted by Antimatter, the solo project of Xopher Davidson. Obsolete analogue signal generators and processors (e.g. Comdyna GP-6) were used to form clouds of frequencies well below and above the audible range. Davidson spent ten years to build the test circuit used to make this recording. Welcome to a world of abyssal listening. Antimatter Reset	If the toys aren’t broken, you’re not really playing yet. Fat Worm’s ninth release unstitches pop itself and expertly drapes it in drool. From common instruments: guitar, drum, vocal, and bass comes a crowd of unlabored sounds, surging on burnt Bambi legs, a melting forest of crisscross gone limp, crashing over and again into perfect place. It’d be dumb luck, except it never quits. Singing, which ruins so many a band, is for Fat Worm the insane face atop the hulking freak. It belongs there, blurting in sardonic falsetto that careens high then higher into dentist drill register. Drums get up in the way of ten flailing limbs, guitar buzzsaws timbres stirring up a magnetic dust that seems to steer itself. Grab on! A forty-five minute surge of Fat Worm is about to wash in and drown your eyes dead. CD in gatefold sleeve with lyrics sheet. Fat Worm of Error Ambivalence and the Beaker	Nerfbau are wrestling foam-choked streams and sunless oil-slicked oceans back into cataracts of blinding consciousness. Theorems are laid forth herein as "Error Swarms” and proofs conducted using custom sequencers, laryngopharynx, reprocessed wind instruments, guitars, sound-object graphical processors and Dow Chemical's styrenefoam modified with Cyanoacrylate. Upon Nerfbau's first public actions, crowd violence and clawing typically dispersed pustules onto backsides of hairdo’s, lungs, and pleats. Recognizing a porthole window in the ass-to-mouth logic of late capitalism, they have urgently developed a calculus of postindustrial aftermath, an anti-prophylaxis to malleus hybrid technology, directed at generating an endless domino effect of Error Swarms. Nerfbau Error Swarms
"What obscure, overlooked master playing in some slashing, raw-yet-virtuosic manner is this?" asked Nels Cline. In this, her solo debut, guitarist Ava Mendoza starts from old melodies already tattooed on your brain, then applies sufficient heat to peel that paint leaving you re-pinked and wondering what's next. What's next are original compositions, heavy, gorgeous, oddly reverby, layers that build, blister and flake away to alight indelibly on your mind. Just as Mendoza reprises those traditional tunes, you discover she's walked you far into a lost countryside. How, or whether, to get back will be your own business. Gatefold package with artwork by Suzanne Shaffer, mastered by Jake Rodriguez, and liner notes from Nels Cline. Ava Mendoza Shadow Stories	Liz Allbee's second full length solo unwinds a cozily misanthropic sonic cloth with hidden barbs sure to draw blood. Each track treads further into unnerving terrain: sonar-pings dizzy the ears, unknown nursery rhymes warble from an abandoned tongue, and a blur of wings beating in phase consumes all perception until a flat drum summons resplendent horns. Allbee's balance of melody and madness is not to be missed. Fasten yourself to a thread, but dare to step inside "Theseus vs." Limited edition of 350, packaged in a handmade silk screened box. Liz Allbee Theseus vs.	Four minds writhe in poisonous hisses then align, feather, and float across a cathedral, water dripping audibly from its ceiling, transforming the space to wild banshee dionysian proportions counterpointed with sounds austere and mechanical. Kenta Nagai raises a Shamisan, Hichiriki and his throat together with the far voice and violoncello of Audrey Chen as Miya Masaoka conjures Koto with electronics and Hans Grüsel, rummaging in a suitcase of blippoo box and bugbrand weevil08, douses for… then detonates waveforms. If at first you perceived four directions, find yourself now surrounded in one. Masaoka, Chen, Grüsel, Nagai s-t	Chain-draped kalimba played with the soft speed of Texas banjo, fiddle and accordion master Ralph White, its acoustic distortions convoluted through a range of materials (rigged to transducers) in Horaflora's custom-built sound system, yield a crumbling wet firmament of timbres. The songs by which the sounds were discovered are transfixing, psychedelic, transporting; in fact, they invite site-specific listening: Binaural methods make track one best suited to headphones, track two must be heard outdoors, and track three includes unadulterated Weddell seals and is best heard underwater. Lose your map, this is music uncharted. Ralph White and the Horaflora Sound System s-t
Loachfillet dwells on the lakebed of a lifelong musical vision where analogue synth, beaten bass, tape loops and aging electronics pour forth sound too crushingly deep to escape. From a funneling eddy at the start of track one, down you go, descending his bubble column to a booming bass guitar wreck shimmering with algae. You plunge deeper still, down ten expansive tracks to the finale, titled Hell, with waves so heavy they'd buckle prettier heads; but, you’re here to stay, lungs full at last. Loachfillet Electric Pond: Solar Solution	Nothing rattles windows or sinks stomachs like analogue synth. Here, fourteen fanatics of the Serge Modular system contribute their best tracks: Benge joyrides in a 1972 Serge, Hans Grusel “quarantines” time in his labyrinth of Serge circuits, Carlos Giffoni paints a diorama of one unfortunate Winter in the Caribbean, Jan-Hinnerk Helm perfects eight seconds of human voice, and John DuVal (his “Fist of God” Serge among the largest ever built) sounds a plangent “distress call” from 40's sci-fi hell, plus nine more artists pitching volt heat! V/A Serge Modular Users 2009	-- SOLD OUT -- Drawing current and breath through metal... it’s hard to picture just how either is possible, but Schnüffler plumbs the backwaters of both aural miracles in an engrossing, if pageless, storybook entitled "Rauschbereich." The name of Gino Robair and Liz Allbee's hyper-attuned duo, Schnüffler, is a colloquialism meaning someone who huffs substances. "Huffing" is equal parts curiosity and consuming obsession, and as any huffer knows substance has a way of vanishing. So hork up yours before this handbuilt edition of just 56 copies, end-pages beautifully illustrated by Allbee herself, is gone for good. Schnüffler Rauschbereich	-- SOLD OUT -- Warm, fuzzy, rabid in the way a soft muzzle tickles your neck then turns frenetic with the nibbling insistence of long teeth beneath lippy velvet. No one conjures sanguine madness like Liz Allbee on this her long-anticipated solo release. One side is titled “Outside Inside” the other “Inside Inside”. Drawn from recordings at Marin Headlands Center for the Arts, it includes two entire takes of a single mental composition overlaid to reveal how timing/structure speaks to itself. The edition is limited by the number of keys on a piano once the instrument has been nibbled apart into pairs of hammers between which are nestled spools of magnetic tape, soft, shiny, ready to slip like warm marrow into your palm. Liz Allbee Warm Marrow
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