Utterly killer stone-classic Detroit electro filth.

‘The opener is a statement of intent — frazzled, shuffling drums, ketamine oud, heavy sub bass — something like Wordsound’s Scarab zooming out of the 90s into the future. Tombaroli is a head nodder, with insistent percussion and banging pulse. A lysergic fever-dream, Bullet Holes dips into spooked psychedelia; No Minus sounds like a distant cousin of DJ Premier’s production Come Clean, for Jeru.
‘Channel 83 lands us back in the club for a rib-rattling stomp, weaving mystical soundsystem magic with its stunted horns and swirling voices. The grimy judder of Expect Excerpt slides proceedings down to a bleary-eyed half-speed, like a party which won’t let you leave. Mount Point is a welcome release, an early morning sunrise — rich, slow, and shimmering — before Landings Dub signals the end of the journey with a metallic elegy; both a summing up of the record, and the contemplation of your flipping it, and re-entering the world of Detraex Corp.’

The single LP via Rhino is in lovely mono.

The double LP is newly transferred from the master tapes, remastered, and cut at 45rpm, in an all-analogue process.
Presented in a gorgeous gatefold sleeve by Analogue Productions, as part of its Atlantic 75 audiophile series.

Electrifying extracts from a Sunday service in the last snake-handling church in the Appalachians: the trance-like rhythms of a demented kind of rockabilly punk, with duelling guitars, concussive trap drums, and possessed, howling vocals.

“I’d sworn to stay far away from the snakes at the service,” recalls the recording engineer, “but instead they were waved in my face as they coiled in the preachers’ hands, and I crouched down at the foot of the altar tending to the equipment. The pastor soon was bitten and blood splattered, pooling on the floor. The female parishioners hurriedly came to wipe up the mess, and it instantly became clear just what the rolls of paper towels stacked on the pulpit had been for. You can actually hear this moment transpire towards the end of the track ‘Don’t Worry It’s Just a Snakebite (What Has Happened to This Generation?)’. The congregation leapt to its feet and a mini mosh-pit formed. The tag-team preachers huffed handkerchiefs soaked in strychnine, as they circled like aggro frontmen and an elderly worshipper held the flame of a candle to her throat, closing her eyes and swaying. The church PA blew out from the screams as a bonnet-wearing senior whacked away at a trap kit that dwarfed her. It was the most metal thing I’d ever seen, rendering Slayer mere kids play.”

‘Earl is on another level. The way he deploys his skill, humor, and encyclopedic knowledge of hip-hop has made him one of the most effortlessly deep and cool rappers alive’ (Pitchfork).

From August 1965, pitched between the sessions for Song For My Father and Cape Verdean Blues. Both classic numbers are here, in scorching renditions. Twenty-year-old Woody Shaw announces himself in fine style on the helter-skelter opener Kicker. Joe Henderson plays a blinder in Silver’s shows around this time, gloriously cutting loose on the hits. You need this LP plus the Ezzthetics CD Live New York Revisited, which dovetails nicely. Hot stuff.

A gorgeous reissue of his first LP, from 1957; with Curtis Fuller, Hugh Lawson, Ernie Farrow, Louis Hayes, and Doug Watkins. Beefy, alive, and exploratory, with Lateef’s Eastern trajectory flagged already, in the thrilling argol introduction to the opener, Metaphor. On the flip, Morning is ravishing, unmissable Lateef.

A terrific haul of Studio One essays in soul and funk, from the close of the sixties, and early seventies; stuffed with gems and rarities.
The Gladiators, Zoot Simms, Cedric Brooks, Sound Dimension…  a killer lineup in sparkling renditions of Sly and The Family Stone, Diana Ross and The Supremes, Nina Simone, Gene Chandler, Tyrone Davis and co.

‘With Touch, the Tortoise bandmembers — Jeff Parker, Dan Bitney, Douglas McCombs, John Herndon, and John McEntire — harness their collectivist songwriting approach, a slightly anarchistic but resolutely egalitarian process where ideas triumph over ego towards an abstracted muscularity. While there are still excursions into the dusky, elegantly gnarled jazz ambience that flourished on landmark works like Millions Now Living Will Never Die and TNT, Touch is perhaps most remarkable for Tortoise’s unapologetic embrace of grand gesture. Aerodynamically re-engineered Krautrock, hand-cranked techno rave-ups, and pointillist spaghetti western fanfares are all imbued with Tortoise’s now-signature internal logic — equally alluring and confounding, a puzzle to be savored rather than solved.’