CD from Reactive.

Snoopy is hard to follow up. The same brilliant musicality is lavished on Orange — a combination of unmistakably original, skittering drum programming, startlingly fresh instrumental interjections, creepily invocatory voices, and dubwise treatments — giddily imbued with the dark arts of ritual and seance. But Orange is more gripping, focussed and urgent, more intense and ambitious. Next level.

Its first quarter presents a trio of forays in suspense.
Bassline squares up like an epic psych-funk grinder, with a moody guitar line traversed by ticking drum patterns and faint electric crackle. In no time the guitar is staggering and stammering under the duress of echo and distortion, and over-run with percussive electronics and the first of the voices massing in the music’s head. The mood has quickly become more trepidatious. We’re deeper underground; it’s gloomier, wetter.
Shred propulsively ratchets up the tension and menace. Glazily tentative xylophone is played against slashing, nervy cello. The voices are more strangulated and sick now. Flutes and chimes evoke the same kind of beautiful, contaminated efflorescence which is pictured on the LP’s front cover.
Voice Of The Spider makes easier progress across this cavernous, shadowy, dripping terrain, with funky pads and Nasty, eighties, No Wave electric bass; woozy chimes, non-plussed keys, singing-in-tongues.

Pink Mist marks an arrival, or unbottling, with annunciatory church-organ and choral voices from the off, and a newly relaxed, head-nodding kosmische rhythm.

Mandarin is a short, beat-less and voice-free interlude for piano and bass. It’s reflective and nostalgic, ambivalent and inconclusive, with a lovely snatch of melody. A bridge half-way.

Would You Like A Vampire is a triumphant, mesmerizing go at New Folk, with strummed acoustic guitar, descant song, and jazzily restless drum programming (including a tasty bass-bin trembler). Amazingly, Conrad Standish is joined at the mic by none other than Bridget St John. Together they sing ‘Earth is Paradise’ so repeatedly and tremulously — and the song is cut off so abruptly at the end — it seems as if the verb is teetering on the past tense, and hymn fading into valediction and catastrophe.

In the same line of thought, Storm Rips Banana Tree begins idyllically enough, with a CS-&-Kreme-style raga… before something like an immense, obliterative drill starts up. Harpsichord and organ — by James Rushford — and flutes, and clapping, distant chanting and insectile percussion steadily leaven the dread, till finally all that is left is lapping water.
It’s an epic, deeply immersive, compelling, thought-provoking, twenty-minute finale… the coup de grâce.

Dreamy percussion exotica by a group of fourteen-year-old students (ten girls, including Evelyn Glennie, and one boy) in Aberdeen, 1978.

Jarvis Cocker’s thrilled to bits — ‘Here, at last, is the the soundtrack to maybe THE underground film of all time in all its crazy daisy glory’. A mental cut & paste of Czech orchestras, folk, jazz and experimental sounds.

‘In another life David Edren aka DSR Lines is surely a visionary biologist or chemist. In this new sound adventure, he stages anatomical and cellular symphonies, invisible biochemical processes, painting the micro-dimensional flows of the body, or imaginary geographies of hidden micro-bodies. His signature organic-electronic sound is enriched here with the influences of non-European music, especially Chinese and Japanese music (stick and chimes percussion). The mood is intimate and twilit, poised between exotic ambience and cinematic gesture: a miniaturist description of liquid currents, labyrinthine veins, weaving streams, molecules and particles in multi-orbital dances, muscular chords, drowning bubbles, light waves; all within a confident compositional overview that is unique and fascinating.’

‘Experimental jazz, chanson, bluesy folk and various strains of outsider music permeate a rich layering of music boxes, walkie-talkies and plastic straws, plucked charrango and banjo, kazoos, flutes and snake-charming ocarina, accordion and melodica, found percussion and traditional tuned drums. The moods switch from child-like and epiphanic (Tarzan en Tasmanie, Madrigal for Lola) to babbling (Pocarina), mysterious and dark (Septième Ciel, Rugit Le Coeur) to tender and simple (Rainbow de Nuit, Chevalier Gambette); from murky, suspenseful melancholy (Levy Attend, Eno Ennio) to pensive psychedelia (Un Cercueil à Deux Places). A world of echoes. A tale of tales. You’ll be whistling and humming along on first listen.’

Says Mississippi — ‘Some call them the thinking man’s AC/DC & some call them the working man’s Roky Erickson but really there is nothing that compares to Dead Moon. D.I.Y on every imaginable level, brilliant song writing, perfect elemental stripped down playing, honest & intense vocals. It’s all here.’

Originally released by Kuckuck in 1973, Princess Of Dawn ranges library-style from ceremonial, meditative mantra drones (Triad, Deep Sea, Gothic Velvet, Evening), through sun-worship (Tom Bombaddils Dance), to playful, pulsating forays in analog synth (Desert Rock, Synth Effect, Flea Dance, Laser), by way of the traditional music of the Middle East, India and Europe (Arabia, Reed, Phoenix).
Twenty-six fragments of electronica by the Krautrock mystic, like stepping stones between the phase of music-making which culminated in Aum the previous year, and his imminent departure for Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh’s ashram in Poona, home to key-works like Celebration, Haleakala, Ecstasy and Silence Is The Answer.

Astounding, deeply exploratory, previously unreleased work by the legendary Brazilian percussionist and composer.
A wild and unsettling collage, implacably original and startlingly intense — from the electroacoustic opener, which channels ancestral African inspirations into cosmogony, through the proto-mixtape Exemplo de Sintetizadores, which transitions from transcendental drones to astral cha-cha-chas, to a musical consideration of dripping water, in Suite Contagotas.
Djalma is best known for his studio work on benchmark albums, including numerous classics by Caetano Veloso, Gilberto Gil, and Jorge Ben, and for his own polyrhythmic opus Baiafro; and the finale here was first performed at the 1964 Nós, Por Exemplo concert, an event often cited as the inauguration of the Tropicalia movement. Djalma brings the electronics — medical oscillators, for example — to beef up his percussion. It’s eye-opening.
Corrêa called it ‘spontaneous music’; sonic adventures ranging audaciously across an array of genres, from jazz to deep funk to complete abstraction, all imbued with his signature DIY ethic.
Drawn from the original master-tapes, guided by Corrêa himself, just prior to his death.
Intriguing, immersive music. Dazzling, engrossing artwork, too.

“360 degrees of freedom is overwhelming in music, and you need not truly begin to find freedom until you put yourself under extremely narrow constraints.”
‘Slepian’s work draws equally from the harmonic terrain he explored while performing with a Javanese gamelan ensemble, as well as time spent building and modifying electronic audio equipment for studios and fellow musicians. Gravitating towards improvisation and experimentation, he built a breathtaking sound-world that stretched the briefest of moments into an eternity of detail and depth.’
In 1980, Slepian consolidated his vision with a series of cassette albums. His ‘New Music For Digital Orchestra’ was actually performed by instruments, tools and recording techniques which are entirely analogue, and captured live with no overdubs.

‘A new twist to the Don’t DJ sound. Leftfield tribalism at its best, with a pinch of Zoviet France fourth world voodoo for the 5am crew that wants to get hazy in the dance. A drum ritual of epic proportions.
‘Then Morgan Buckley — from the mighty Wah Wah Wino crew — takes up this deep and intense trip…  and goes ballistic. He peppers the original with some live Bodhran drumming to invoke the ancient Celtic spirits. If the essence of a remix is to keep the original vibe of the tune and add a different flavour to it, Morgan Buckley nailed it in a big way.’

You can hear their stage experience in ‘the sizzle and swing of the percussive highlights here, programmed with a serious depth and wriggle that reflect both an extension of and return to form. Considerations of the machine-human interface, neurological realities and physical probabilities dominate. But these tracks are economical and precise, glittering with emotional depth and cinematic effects. The album’s core, a three-act movement of symphonic uncertainty and revelation, marks one of the pair’s most evocative compositions in a career full of them.’