A bobbing, minimal groover from the Berlin corner, dug-in and funked-up over ten minutes; and icily original, top-dog work from Pev, tethered between a kind of arrested Highlife and a Detroit breakout.

What a great record. Soaring early-eighties soul from Bill Withers’ spar — original, loose-limbed and funky, full of emotional intelligence and good vibes. Includes Love’s Too Hot To Hide, two-step heaven.

Solo acoustic guitar renditions of nine Thelonious Monk tunes.
‘Baker will remind you through his playing that the idiosyncrasies of Monk’s composing are further dimensions of the Americana continuum (and source musics) that has been his turf for years. Especially in Monk’s centennial year, many will address Monk’s oeuvre, in fact hundreds will interpret the scores, but very few can inhabit this music in the way Duck Baker does here.’

Superlative solo acoustic guitar interpretations of the compositions of the brilliant, offbeat pianist. (Herbie’s two mid-fifties Blue Note LPs are unmissable; dazzlingly just a totter sideways of Monk. He co-wrote Lady Sings The Blues with Billie Holiday.)
Acoustic Guitar magazine called it ‘one of the best guitar records ever recorded — by anybody.’
“Nowadays a lot of people are giving Nichols’ music the attention it deserves, but only Duck Baker’s playing makes me feel Herbie in the room” (Roswell Rudd).
Warmly recommended.

Mats Gustafsson on alto, tenor, baritone, and bass saxophones, and flute, and Tony Lugo on drums and electronics… but playing separately from each other… then both of them devising a form of interactive exchange with a life of its own, as a third collaborator.
Mastered by Lasse Marhaug; artwork by Peter Brötzmann.
From a new Italian label to watch out for.
‘What the fuck is it?’, it wonders. ‘Interaction and FRICTION.’ ‘Play it loud.’

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.”

The sublime 2001 swansong of James Stinson, of Drexciya. ‘By turns luminous and melancholic, low-key and sensuous, wry and soulful’ (Pitchfork).