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.

The Estonian pianist Kristjan Randalu — ‘dazzling’, says Herbie — alongside US guitarist Ben Monder and Finnish drummer Markku Ounaskari for his ECM debut, combining a jazzy lyricism with a classical sense of form.

The post bop masters with pianist Lawrence Fields, bassist Linda May Han Oh, and drummer Joey Baron. Two Shorter classics — Fee Fi Fo Fum and Juju — in amongst their originals.

The Upsetter’s imperious do-over of the almighty Skylarking rhythm, featuring himself alongside Winston Blake at the microphone, berating people for having fun in public. (‘Sylvester the jesterer from Manchester’, you know who you are.)
Contrastingly backed with Jimmy Riley in a sombre mood, c&w soul style, over a bare-bones reworking of the People Funny Boy rhythm.
Unmissable, obviously.

Captivatingly decentred, ghostly dubscapes, unhurriedly rolling out elements of jazz, reggae and — yep — Estonian folk music, with suspenseful toms, groovy double bass and punky-reggae guitar, and some lovely xylophone and accordion playing. Have a listen.

Washed between industrial and devotional fronts, eight pluviophile excursions by Giuseppe Ielasi & Giovanni Civitenga, steeped in the manifold evocativeness of rainfall — how it orchestrates some of our deepest memories and fantasies. 

‘Yesterday it started to rain…
‘The smell of damp tarmac rising up through open windows from a suburban pavement, a school playground, a basketball court…
‘The rain cut through a band of low pressure that had been lying over the city for days, pinging rhythmically off metal, causing rolling tyres to hiss and spit.
‘Its soundtrack is the debut full length from Rain Text, run through with build-ups of low-end pressure relieved by the fizz and clatter of metallic rhythms…
‘Static… discord… release…’

A follower of the celebrated Cheikh El Afrite, young Raoul taught himself oud, and sang solo for his local synagogue choir — also drawing inspiration from the munchid singing of Sulamia, the largest Sufi brotherhood in Tunisia. In 1934, aged twenty-three, his first album was a smash. Maghreb audiences revered him for his fidelity to his own national traditions, undistracted by more fashionable Lebanese and Egyptian styles.
Ya Samra hymns a prettily-tattooed, blushing, date-flavoured brunette; in Aala Khadek the dirty rascal fancies himself to be a bee, closing in on the delicious nectar secreted in the beauty spot of his beloved.

Red vinyl.