The day was Tuesday, the foremost lackluster day of the week. Tuesday was always the day that football refused to play. Tuesday was the day that even Monday wouldn't call a friend. Tuesday was the day where the local nightclubs would try out their new bands and guage the reactions of the sparse evening crowds. Accordantly, it was no surpise that the amount of enthusiam I had as my eyes opened that morning was matched by every other grimace that was born from the an uncomfortably ringing alarm clock. The sun streaming through the window at an angle mocked me, and seemed to smile the way my mother used to when I was a kid right before she realized that I was not making any effort to get out of bed. Some things never change, I guess. But despite the world trying to cheer me up about this lull in the cycle of time, I maintained my course. I was ready for some sort of symbiotic darkness in my morning. I NEEDED that dark tone so I could grab my bearings and transition into work mode. No, I wasn't going to grow fangs and howl at the moon. I was not pledging my undying soul to Baphomet. I needed some appropriate theme music to match my mood. Something familiar and comfortable, so as my mind flipped through its rolodex it became increasingly more apparent that this was a a day for the kings: Black Sabbath.
I was originally elated to hear that Ozzy was back singing with Black Sabbath. In fact, I was ecstatic. By this time, I had combed every inch of the new album, 13, like a school nurse looking for lice. Every nook and cranny was illuminated. Every fold and crease was examined with the utmost care, over and over again as if it was to be installed into my chest to replace my own heart. I thought to myself, "Man, I hope Ozzy doesn't mumble through the songs." Moreover, the legacy of Black Sabbath had been reinforced over the past few years as I rediscovered stoner rock and doom metal acts that nearly all cite Black Sabbath as influences. From legendary bands like St. Vitus and Kyuss to main stays of the genres such as Goatsnake and Fu Manchu , you can always seem to find a little Sabbath in there somewhere.
13 starts off with the throwback track End of the Beginning, an eight-minute prologue beginning with the Tommy Iommi's infamously gorgeous fat sound stomping on your skull like the gigantic feet of Frankenstein's monster. As I hold my eyes tightly closed waiting for the Ozzy's incoherent mumbling, all is forgotten with the first note characteristic of the Ozzy that I grew up with and love. End of the Beginning ceratainly sets the tone (pun intendeed) for the entire album, and iconjures visions of earlier recordings - most partcularly the song Black Sabbath from their first and self-titled album in 1970. With a quick flick of the wrist and change of the tempo, it becomes completely apparent that this is not your father's Black Sabbath but rather this incarnation is actually more like Frankenstein's monster that originally once thought. At 2:40 End of the Beginning switches from Black Sabbath to a cadence similar to Children of the Grave. Then after 5:04 of blissful anachronisms, we are transported to Ozzy's No More Tears style of songwriting.
Following up the train ride that is End of the Beginning, Ozzy and Tommy lay us down with familiar crunchy tone from Iommi's signature custom Gibson SG with nearly nine minutes of God is Dead? . But it isn't until 5:48 that we see that familiar Black Sabbath feel again, choosing to emerge from Ozzy's solo career in the 1990's like a zombie from a fresh grave. As the first single from 13 , nine minutes seems unfortunately long and tedious until the tempo change. But there is relief with the close of God is Dead? and the introduction of the album's third song, Loner. Loner starts with a good, honest rhythm resembling famous hooks like Sweet Leaf from Black Sabbath's Master of Reality in 1971. After a brief show-off of Brad Wilk's skill as a drummer, Iommi comes in with an equally brief solo to bring us back to the catchy main rhythm. But it isn't long before Iommi asserts himself with his own exercise of talent to end the song.
The fourth song on 13, Zeitgeist, comes as a bit of a surprise as its mellow acoustic tones accompany an effects laden voice from Ozzy reminsicent of his solo career once again. Suddenly, my mind drifts back to Zakk Wylde and Mama, I'm Coming Home. The addtion of bongos behind Iommi's low acoustic tone, however, is a nice change from the usual Sabbath demeanor, and shows a certain versatility that's hard to find in modern manufactured acts. But as much of a familiarity as Zeitgeist seems to be, the dreamy solo work on Zeitgeist is certainly one of the shining moments of the album, exuding a tasteful deviation from the classic Sabbath sound. Likewise, Age of Reason makes its appearance in the fifth position on the album, and is also what I would consider to be one of the shining moments of 13 as well. Sporting a dash of War Pigs, Age of Reason seemingly hands the keys to the kingdom to Tommy Iommi and sets him free in the wild. Age of Reason's driving rhythm is but a mere ruse under which hides a two-minute journey of awesomesauce disguised as an outro solo and outpouring by Iommi. The entire end of Age Reason is almot a ballad unto itself, pouring note after note of some darkly fantastic and heroic hymn onto the ears of devoted followers of the faith.
With the realization of the sixth song, Living Forever, the hard cold reality of all that is a Tuesday hits me square in the face. While Living Forever is not a bad song, per se, it's a very lackluster song with barely three rhythms. This is what we would typically call a filler song, and something that would otherwise not have a home if it weren't for this album. Living Forever carries no particular hook or catch, and is otherwise barely rememberable. We are, however, saved immediately after 4:47 of bathroom time by a gem by the name of Damaged Soul hich sits firmly on this album in seventh place. That familiar Black Sabbath attitude returns with a slow saunter, and belts out an occasional harp similar to what one might find in The Wizard from their debt album, Black Sabbath. Overtaking Ozzy's harmonica work is a taste of what's to come from Iommi as we witness what can only be described as an attempt to "pull off" a land speed record with his plectrum and three fingers. But Iommi is patient, and he continues to give glimpses and forewarnings throughout the song in the form of small eccentric riffs here and there, but then hits the ground running at about 6:39.
Following Damaged Soul is what could be characterized as the darkest song on the album, Dear Father. The song is about child abuse and doesn't really leave a whole lot to imagination. The song is given texture with strong drumwork by Brad Wilk of Rage Against the Machine fame. Iommi seems to take a break from the grand feats of the past few songs. Dear Father is a dark song honestly sort of makes me shudder ad wonder where Ozzy got the inspiration to write those lyrics. Spirits are, however, lifted with an acoustic intro to a driving song by the name by Methademic. Bringing whispers of Ozzy's Ultimate Sin and perhaps even a brush stroke of Diary of a Madman, Methademic again utilizes Brad Wilk's talented stick work. While at first Methademic seems pretty plain-jane, one quickly finds themself immersed within a multilayered sea of rock salad that could only be dreamt of by Black Sabbath. The band itself even seem to enjoy the song to the poit that the outro almost seems like a momentary jam that got cut off early in the studio. Methademic is the example as to what people should expect from bands like Black Sabbath: a collection of hugely talented and able individuals with a grand sense of taste and understanding of their crafts.
Coming in as the shortest song on the album of 3:51, Peace of Mind fills tenth position like a fifth bedpost - it's not necessary in the slightest, but it's probably not really hurting anything by being there. On the other hand, I was strangely reminded of mid-90's Megadeth moreso than Black Sabbath. Wild, rolling drum parts and promounced build-ups between parts that wouldn't really fit together without the drum leads make Peace of Mind appear as if someone decided to put two or three unfinsihed songs together to make one song. As the song ends, I get the strange feeling tht everybody simply got tire dof playing it and just ended the song. Like Live Forever, this song is nothing more than filler. It's still Black Sabbath, but there are far better Sabbath songs out there to enjoy.
Depending on which variation of 13 you purchase or check out online, Pariah is easily one of the best four songs on the album at track eleven. The standard edition has only eight tracks on it ending at Dear Father. Best Buy and Japanese Editions include the track Naiveté In Black, while the Spotify Bonus Tracks include a live performance of Dirty Women. As Pariah is the last studio song, we'll stop with that one. Should you have purchased either the Standard Edition or Japanese Edition, you made a poor decision and you don't have this song. Pariah begins with a simple, straightforward guitar intro but then quickly inject some attitude into things. The main backing rhythm is a bit on the side of average, but the bridge at about 3:23 is a nice change reminiscent of some of the Ozzy solo stuff from the 90's. The milk and honey of Pariah is, however, at the tone shift when Iommi comes in floating on a stream of notes and subtle signature vibrato. Anyone with any sort of ear for music can see why Black Sabbath's mastermnd has always been Tommy Iommi rather than the more visible Ozzy Osbourne, and it comes through in songs like Pariah.
Overall, 13 is a refreshing album from such a storied and respected act and group of people like Black Sabbath. Countless individuals have been influenced by their classic sound, and they are likely to drip from the lips of kids to come. With their 'reunion' in 13, this can only help that come true. It's a good album with a lot tooffer not only young kids but old folks who grew up alongside Black Sabbath. I think on a ten point scale I'd probably give it a seven. It's hard to deny that there's a couple average songs in there, but mostly the album is good stuff. If I were using a 5-star rating, then 13 would be crowned with a 4-star rating. Take your pick. I still got some rock in these old bones, and I can't think of exericising them bones too many other ways than with some Black Sabbath.
Invino Veritas
6/18/13
EOF
Showing posts with label Music Reviews. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music Reviews. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Monday, April 2, 2012
Shpongle's Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost: A Dream Come True
It's true that politics isn't by any stretch of the imagination my first love. In fact, love isn't really the right word in the slightest sense of the idea. But today, I turned to something little more easy-going: music. Having found myself recovering from what I believe to be a couple of chicken patties gone "afowl" this weekend, I found myself in an opportunity to listen to an album with which I’ve simple fallen in love over the past few weeks. The truth of the matter is that Shpongle's Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost, while deviating from the usual repertoire that one may typically find emanating through the halls of southern homes and offices, this album is a wonderful, fantastical journey through the minds of Simon Posford and Raja Ram.
Known for their fusion of traditional styles of music from all around the globe, Shpongle does not disappoint their fans with Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost. From the beginning, the listener is dropped into, from somewhere in the atmosphere, into a revolving collage of electronic rhythm and traditional sounds of guitar and drums. Much of the drum work in the background is tribal in some aspect or another as evidenced in tracks like Levitation Nation. Weaving in and out of the ever-changing river of beat are the wonderfully flowing moments in time when the acoustic guitar seems to bounce from flower to flower like a honey bee spreading pollen and gathering nectar. But just when the moment reaches a climax, the scene melts into a strange dream state evoking visions of the New Delhi skyline from across the Ganges River such as with the momentary interlude of Periscopes of Consciousness.
Not long after wading through the shallows of the famous Indian river, Posford and Ram continue the journey through the streets and nightlife of India as the listener's essence float through the heart of the cityscape to the edge of the surrounding areas. The continuous, winding rhythm leads the listener on a strange bus ride along the edges strange mental solitude as if the Indian moonrise blows a kiss to say goodbye to the daylight and welcome the evening. As we travel outside the walls and bustle of population, Shpongle interjects the central theme of the album that, according to William Blake, nothing is lost, like a strange American guide whispering in the ear of the traveller, interpreting the surrounding environments. Suddenly, everything slows down and begins to shutter. With the introduction of what seems like a second phase to Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost, When Shall I Be Free? accompanies the small party of travelers echoing that same question and reaching a rhetoric softly reminding one's ears that the journey is not over yet.
Posford and Ram at this point, step up to the plate and bring back some Western influence, taking the listener out of Asian landscape with a chorus of horns, drums, and guitar reminiscent of both Central and North American culture in The Stamen of the Shaman. But after a short stay in Panama, so to speak, the journey continues, reaching the shores of Africa where can be heard the momentary songs of the native peoples. But so as to not let us forget our roots, Shpongle lets one float into a groove of apprehension that begins to add layer after layer of electronic injections to the mix as tracks like Linguistic Mystic and Mentalism enter the scene. The momentary lapse in Africa is curtailed prematurely, though, as the voyage makes its way back into Asia with the album's fourteenth track, Invocation. For some reason unknown to the world traveler here, Shpongle bounces us to the heavens above the world in another mixture of rhythm like a child's toy ball, stopping briefly at a zenith made of more electronic tone and traditional Western rhythm before dropping back to the Earth with Turn Up The Silence. As the moment passes, the descent back to the ground below takes place just before the seventeenth track, Exhalation, strikes its first note.
As Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost comes to close with its last three tracks, the dream begins to dissolve somewhat as an odd awakening takes place. The sudden transformation brings memories of that untimely sleep that gets interrupted, and that feeling of stepping out into the cool, windy openness of the world with that dreadful physical fatigue one feels at those times - the air feels chillier than normal, and the racing particles of air seem coarser than usual. But the feeling is only temporary, as the reality comes into focus and our limbs shake off the previous attempts at rest. Both electric and acoustic guitars begin to drive the music as we get back into our normal rhythm here in our normal state and relax, slipping into an old pair of shoes. As the twentieth and final track suggests, the listener is finally Falling Awake.
Shpongle's Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost is a fantastic piece of music eclipsing their previous efforts, Are You Shpongled? and Tales Of The Inexpressible. Simon Posford and Raja Ram truly outperform even themselves on this wonderful offering to the world. Obviously meant to be listened to in its entirety and in order, the fabric of this album is one tapestry that takes us around the world in a meditation of culture and sound. Unlike so many other psychedelic trance or dance albums, I don't feel as if this album is meant for the likes of a rave or dance club. Actually, I find myself using this album, continually looping it from end to end, as I play video games and during the repetitive job of a technician. It allows my mind to settle and focus, and provides a relaxing undertone to the job before me, no matter how frivolous it may appear.
Good album. Check it out.
Invino Veritas
3/12/12
EOF
Known for their fusion of traditional styles of music from all around the globe, Shpongle does not disappoint their fans with Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost. From the beginning, the listener is dropped into, from somewhere in the atmosphere, into a revolving collage of electronic rhythm and traditional sounds of guitar and drums. Much of the drum work in the background is tribal in some aspect or another as evidenced in tracks like Levitation Nation. Weaving in and out of the ever-changing river of beat are the wonderfully flowing moments in time when the acoustic guitar seems to bounce from flower to flower like a honey bee spreading pollen and gathering nectar. But just when the moment reaches a climax, the scene melts into a strange dream state evoking visions of the New Delhi skyline from across the Ganges River such as with the momentary interlude of Periscopes of Consciousness.
Not long after wading through the shallows of the famous Indian river, Posford and Ram continue the journey through the streets and nightlife of India as the listener's essence float through the heart of the cityscape to the edge of the surrounding areas. The continuous, winding rhythm leads the listener on a strange bus ride along the edges strange mental solitude as if the Indian moonrise blows a kiss to say goodbye to the daylight and welcome the evening. As we travel outside the walls and bustle of population, Shpongle interjects the central theme of the album that, according to William Blake, nothing is lost, like a strange American guide whispering in the ear of the traveller, interpreting the surrounding environments. Suddenly, everything slows down and begins to shutter. With the introduction of what seems like a second phase to Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost, When Shall I Be Free? accompanies the small party of travelers echoing that same question and reaching a rhetoric softly reminding one's ears that the journey is not over yet.
Posford and Ram at this point, step up to the plate and bring back some Western influence, taking the listener out of Asian landscape with a chorus of horns, drums, and guitar reminiscent of both Central and North American culture in The Stamen of the Shaman. But after a short stay in Panama, so to speak, the journey continues, reaching the shores of Africa where can be heard the momentary songs of the native peoples. But so as to not let us forget our roots, Shpongle lets one float into a groove of apprehension that begins to add layer after layer of electronic injections to the mix as tracks like Linguistic Mystic and Mentalism enter the scene. The momentary lapse in Africa is curtailed prematurely, though, as the voyage makes its way back into Asia with the album's fourteenth track, Invocation. For some reason unknown to the world traveler here, Shpongle bounces us to the heavens above the world in another mixture of rhythm like a child's toy ball, stopping briefly at a zenith made of more electronic tone and traditional Western rhythm before dropping back to the Earth with Turn Up The Silence. As the moment passes, the descent back to the ground below takes place just before the seventeenth track, Exhalation, strikes its first note.
As Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost comes to close with its last three tracks, the dream begins to dissolve somewhat as an odd awakening takes place. The sudden transformation brings memories of that untimely sleep that gets interrupted, and that feeling of stepping out into the cool, windy openness of the world with that dreadful physical fatigue one feels at those times - the air feels chillier than normal, and the racing particles of air seem coarser than usual. But the feeling is only temporary, as the reality comes into focus and our limbs shake off the previous attempts at rest. Both electric and acoustic guitars begin to drive the music as we get back into our normal rhythm here in our normal state and relax, slipping into an old pair of shoes. As the twentieth and final track suggests, the listener is finally Falling Awake.
Shpongle's Nothing Lasts...But Nothing Is Lost is a fantastic piece of music eclipsing their previous efforts, Are You Shpongled? and Tales Of The Inexpressible. Simon Posford and Raja Ram truly outperform even themselves on this wonderful offering to the world. Obviously meant to be listened to in its entirety and in order, the fabric of this album is one tapestry that takes us around the world in a meditation of culture and sound. Unlike so many other psychedelic trance or dance albums, I don't feel as if this album is meant for the likes of a rave or dance club. Actually, I find myself using this album, continually looping it from end to end, as I play video games and during the repetitive job of a technician. It allows my mind to settle and focus, and provides a relaxing undertone to the job before me, no matter how frivolous it may appear.
Good album. Check it out.
Invino Veritas
3/12/12
EOF
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Siena Root's Far From The Sun (2008) : A Review
The past week or so has been quite uneventful to the point of being a lull. When this happens, (and it happens occasionally), I can feel the very soul of my creative outpouring quiver and pass out like a junkie who just climaxed. In fact, that may a more accurate description than I care to accept at this point. Creatvity is addictive, and should you find yourself in the auspcious position to create something that is, indeed, pleasant to yourself (if not someone else) then I invite youto pause right before that highpoint and simply enjoy the moment before you crash like a skier rolling over a slope of moguls. If you do that, I have no doubt that you will become addicted to your own creativity. Anyways, this "lull" has lasted for a couple of weeks thusfar, so when I woke up this morning it was no surprise that I felt pretty uninspired. As my head loosened itself from the over-squashed lump of fluff that is my pillow, I rose to meet the day at the halfway point. (As of late, me and the day have an understanding: I don't mess with it, and it doesn't mess with me.) I reconfimred my agreement with the impending day, and soon got ready for work, keeping in my mind the time table under which I was bound. I soon found myself running late, and stretched across my face was this Charlie Brown-esque grimace at the memories of sleep and the anticipation of having to do work. As I cleared the umbrella of interference from the local radio waves, I turned on my little Sony MP3 player and let it build its library. I then powered up my cheap-o RF transmitter connected to my MP3 player. I then tuned the radio accordingly. As not to loose my understanding of where I was while driving, I quickly allowed my consciousness and eyes dart back up to the road like a horny hummingbird as I waited for the library creation of my toys to take place. I breathed one hard sigh as fruition was realized, and punched the play button. After a short delay, sweet music rang. Ahh, and what's better is it was good music, too.
By this time, you're probably wondering, "What's so special about the music this time?" I have to admit I wasn't really just pumped about driving and listening to music as I do it almost everyday, and my head was filled with things that weren't terribly pleasant. It was pretty hard to get myself motivated. One might expect somebody in my frame of mind to listen to something, perhaps, a little more emo or whiney (if there's even a difference). But, no. Not at all. In fact, I had been listening to Siena Root's Far From The Sun. Now, let me tell you about this album. I guess I decided to write a review about this album when I first heard the album's fourth track, Almost There. I was floored at such a soulful piece of elegance and fond remembrance of an earlier time. The song was like that first time I ever had a beer with my grandfather or how I remember that first cigarette felt, that cherry buzz. I think I felt my fingertips tingle for a moment. Almost There transported me on a cloud of mushroom gas back to the stoner rock of the late 1960's. (Let's face it, even though it wasn't called "stoner rock", that's what it was. Admit it.)
Far From The Sun begins with a cowbell and with a traditional rock riff straight out of 1974, and never looks back. The entire album is game for several instruments from guitar to organ to even sitar and flute. As the songs roll over and over one another, I feel like I got kicked in the balls by Jethro Tull and Jimmy Page as they each told me to wake up and smell the mushroom vapor I rode in on. Siena Root's Far From The Sun is a wonderful medley of aparent influences like Jethro Tull, Led Zeppelin, and The Beatles. The instruments are raw like their sound. The texture of each song runs several layers deep. For example, by the time the second song, Waiting for the Sun rolls around, the listener is taken to a caravan in India with a long intro jam and a sitar as its highlighted instrument. Climaxing with a stutter, the jam turns into simple, yet fun, rock groove. Tieing the groove together like a brand new pair of moccasins is the soulful voice of Sartez Faraj drifting on a current of psychedelia an extra two or three miles long.
By the time we get to the third song of eight, Time Will Tell, we really begin to understand Siena Root as an artist. Starting at first simple, this song is peeled back like an onion, layer after layer as the journey continues in a line sort of like a wormhole. The journey appears to be in a straight line, but there is no guarantee of any such thing. The world of rock dissolves after a moment into a breakdown and change drifting off into the great unknown, and then vaulting the listener into a reprise. As the third song is cleared leaving us shaking our head in agreement and acceptance, Almost There smacks us in the face to remind us that the best is yet to come. This tune is thickly layered with great, fat organ sounds and a gritty, raw psychedelic guitar slicing through everything like a snake over the surface of the water. Somewhere in the middle of Almost There, even the band realizes they must lay back and enjoy the moment and let the groove sit on top of things for a moment like the fog over a Scottish lake. But just to keep things honest, the moment clears with a spike of rock and roll riffwork leading into a solo made of grass and a vial of blood summoned from the veins of Ritchie Blackmore.
To let the listener recover from the overexposure to so much rock, Siena Root puts the bus on cruise control with their fifth song, Two Steps Backwards. This song is an "f'n rock song". Sit back enjoy the fat analog sounds of the 60's and 70's erupting into your front seat like a hot dog in your microwave as it leads you to pick back up on the rock journey. Then, Wishing For More breaks through to give you some lovin' with a catchy rock riff to carry the backbone of the tune along with the bass. Just out of the range of normal consciousness is the harmonica accompaniment that at first my mind actually said, "What hell is that? Oh, well that was unexpected." At this point, I looked down at my speedometer, and saw that it was a bit elevated. "This song is a lot of fun" I remember thinking. With a warm fuzzy feeling, the next song broke into the air with a depth and fat not yet heard on Far From The Sun, giving way to a soft medley of vocals and great accompaniment from a lone flute. Offsetting the strangely "gaelic rock" mood is what I will call "The Siena Root Rock Yo' Father's Face Off" sound. Faceless and content, I wander, dazed from the seventh song, The Summer Is Old, to the eighth which starts with an honest groove. In The Break of Dawn, the flute and guitar come together as if taunting each other, vieing with one another for the spotlight, evenutally compromising in a strange dance together. And then, suddenly, the album ends as the two instruments seem to leave off into the sunset together.
Siena Root's Far From The Sun is a marvel and a pleasure to which I enjoy listening. Their comprehensive walthrough of psychedelic rock and attention to detail is second to little outside of those icons of the 60's and 70's that set the stage for people like you, me, and Siena Root to do what they do and discover. This album is completely chock full of instruments, too. Generally, a rock album of this type will be limited to drums, guitar, bass, and some vocals. You might get a miniscule amount of keyboards, but that really is usually no more than a bit of CGI work in modern action movies. But with Siena Root, you get a large collage of sounds and instruments from around the world including, but not limited to, the sitar, the flute, the hudy-gurdy, the organ, harmonica, and bansuri (another type of flute from Bangladesh, India, and Nepal). So, if you decide, go grab yourself a couple of purple and green party lights, and a lava lamp. Find a nice, dark, smoky room and slip into some colored sunglasses. Bring out the tweezers, lay back and grab a beer. Press play, and enjoy the ride. This is a good album for it.
By this time, you're probably wondering, "What's so special about the music this time?" I have to admit I wasn't really just pumped about driving and listening to music as I do it almost everyday, and my head was filled with things that weren't terribly pleasant. It was pretty hard to get myself motivated. One might expect somebody in my frame of mind to listen to something, perhaps, a little more emo or whiney (if there's even a difference). But, no. Not at all. In fact, I had been listening to Siena Root's Far From The Sun. Now, let me tell you about this album. I guess I decided to write a review about this album when I first heard the album's fourth track, Almost There. I was floored at such a soulful piece of elegance and fond remembrance of an earlier time. The song was like that first time I ever had a beer with my grandfather or how I remember that first cigarette felt, that cherry buzz. I think I felt my fingertips tingle for a moment. Almost There transported me on a cloud of mushroom gas back to the stoner rock of the late 1960's. (Let's face it, even though it wasn't called "stoner rock", that's what it was. Admit it.)
Far From The Sun begins with a cowbell and with a traditional rock riff straight out of 1974, and never looks back. The entire album is game for several instruments from guitar to organ to even sitar and flute. As the songs roll over and over one another, I feel like I got kicked in the balls by Jethro Tull and Jimmy Page as they each told me to wake up and smell the mushroom vapor I rode in on. Siena Root's Far From The Sun is a wonderful medley of aparent influences like Jethro Tull, Led Zeppelin, and The Beatles. The instruments are raw like their sound. The texture of each song runs several layers deep. For example, by the time the second song, Waiting for the Sun rolls around, the listener is taken to a caravan in India with a long intro jam and a sitar as its highlighted instrument. Climaxing with a stutter, the jam turns into simple, yet fun, rock groove. Tieing the groove together like a brand new pair of moccasins is the soulful voice of Sartez Faraj drifting on a current of psychedelia an extra two or three miles long.
By the time we get to the third song of eight, Time Will Tell, we really begin to understand Siena Root as an artist. Starting at first simple, this song is peeled back like an onion, layer after layer as the journey continues in a line sort of like a wormhole. The journey appears to be in a straight line, but there is no guarantee of any such thing. The world of rock dissolves after a moment into a breakdown and change drifting off into the great unknown, and then vaulting the listener into a reprise. As the third song is cleared leaving us shaking our head in agreement and acceptance, Almost There smacks us in the face to remind us that the best is yet to come. This tune is thickly layered with great, fat organ sounds and a gritty, raw psychedelic guitar slicing through everything like a snake over the surface of the water. Somewhere in the middle of Almost There, even the band realizes they must lay back and enjoy the moment and let the groove sit on top of things for a moment like the fog over a Scottish lake. But just to keep things honest, the moment clears with a spike of rock and roll riffwork leading into a solo made of grass and a vial of blood summoned from the veins of Ritchie Blackmore.
To let the listener recover from the overexposure to so much rock, Siena Root puts the bus on cruise control with their fifth song, Two Steps Backwards. This song is an "f'n rock song". Sit back enjoy the fat analog sounds of the 60's and 70's erupting into your front seat like a hot dog in your microwave as it leads you to pick back up on the rock journey. Then, Wishing For More breaks through to give you some lovin' with a catchy rock riff to carry the backbone of the tune along with the bass. Just out of the range of normal consciousness is the harmonica accompaniment that at first my mind actually said, "What hell is that? Oh, well that was unexpected." At this point, I looked down at my speedometer, and saw that it was a bit elevated. "This song is a lot of fun" I remember thinking. With a warm fuzzy feeling, the next song broke into the air with a depth and fat not yet heard on Far From The Sun, giving way to a soft medley of vocals and great accompaniment from a lone flute. Offsetting the strangely "gaelic rock" mood is what I will call "The Siena Root Rock Yo' Father's Face Off" sound. Faceless and content, I wander, dazed from the seventh song, The Summer Is Old, to the eighth which starts with an honest groove. In The Break of Dawn, the flute and guitar come together as if taunting each other, vieing with one another for the spotlight, evenutally compromising in a strange dance together. And then, suddenly, the album ends as the two instruments seem to leave off into the sunset together.
Siena Root's Far From The Sun is a marvel and a pleasure to which I enjoy listening. Their comprehensive walthrough of psychedelic rock and attention to detail is second to little outside of those icons of the 60's and 70's that set the stage for people like you, me, and Siena Root to do what they do and discover. This album is completely chock full of instruments, too. Generally, a rock album of this type will be limited to drums, guitar, bass, and some vocals. You might get a miniscule amount of keyboards, but that really is usually no more than a bit of CGI work in modern action movies. But with Siena Root, you get a large collage of sounds and instruments from around the world including, but not limited to, the sitar, the flute, the hudy-gurdy, the organ, harmonica, and bansuri (another type of flute from Bangladesh, India, and Nepal). So, if you decide, go grab yourself a couple of purple and green party lights, and a lava lamp. Find a nice, dark, smoky room and slip into some colored sunglasses. Bring out the tweezers, lay back and grab a beer. Press play, and enjoy the ride. This is a good album for it.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Earthless - Live At Roadburn (2008): A Review
It's a chilly, rainy day in Missylvania as the winds that drive the storm crackle overhead and break through the effervescent sky of divine pipe smoke. The asthmatic breath of the gods point everything ninety degrees to the southeast, and I, without an umbrella, dash the ten feet through the howls of weather to quickly unlock my car door and hurl myself into the front seat. The general plan is to do this without getting too soaked, but that is just a pipe dream and I hit the seat, scoot upright with added motion in my hips, and slam the door behind as a monstrous gust beats at my driver side window like a horde of banshees beating at the the stone walls of Blarney Castle. I am soaked. The droplets of water drip from my bangs and onto my shirt as I turn the key and the cold AC, still on from yesterday's ride, blasts me in my face sending tiny daggers of ice through my veins as it whips across the water on my arms and face. "There's got to be more to life than this" I think to myself as I push the partially visible compact disc hanging from the player into its slit and watch it disappear. Perhaps I'll be lucky this time. Perhaps not. I close my eyes for a brief moment as if the added mental effort on my part might sway the spirits of earthly probability to allow this small gem of gold foil and lacquered plastic is alongside prayed to produce some cheerful sound to accompany my drive to work. No such luck. I shall only be beckoned by the droning laughter of the rain and wind, the splashing of the cars as I pass them and they pass me on either side of the white lines barely visible in the storm.
I walk into work twenty-seven minutes late due to poor visibility and the ire of a front that is still mad at mankind for not sacrificing a virgin at midnight perhaps. Hell, I don't know, but I'm really sick of having to drive in this rain at this point. This time it cost me money, and all I wanted to do was disappear into my work, and escape for a while on some dreamy current of music, textured velveteen with the knowledge that it would be a while before I had to venture back out in the elements. I slipped into my chair with nary a word, turned on my computer, and immediately put on my headphones. I flicked the switch on my external hard drive contianing all the music I owned in the world, sixty gigs stretched across a spinning platter lik a pizza pie made of the wreckage of a world war II bombing squadron. What was I in for? Who could tell. I had made a concerted effort recently to pick up some new music, and was eager to try some of it out. I discovered a record label, TeePee records, that had a bunch of neat bands with names like Black Math Horseman and Ancestors. "Earthless. Hmm. Okie dokie. Bring it on, Earthless." I said to myself as I started the first track of the album "Live at Roadburn". There were only two songs on this album which wasn't really an oddity for some of these bands to whom I had listened. Often these indy labels put out EPs of live shows and whatnot. What ensued after that mouse click was nothing short of ninety minutes of groovy and about seven or eight inches past 'Damn.'
Earthless was exactly what I needed this morning. The first track, Blue / From The Ages, began with a warm welcoming of the crowd at the 13th annual Roadburn fest in 2008. Earthless, didn't waste any time, however, as Isaiah Mitchell's feedback ladened whine of sustain broke the air and hung there like a bumblebee caught in an updraft and smoking a phatty while watching Max Headroom sing Merry Christmas, Santa Claus. I couldn't really tell you where either of the two songs started, ended, or came together. Unlike so many jams, the beauty of Earthless isn't at the joining of two ends a la The Allman Brothers Band, but rather the journey between multiple destinations amongst the stars of a universe painted with multiple effects and rawness of the dusty, woody tone of Mitchell's trip across the cosmos. As note after note swirls about the others in aeruption of harmonic ether. each rhythm, each variation of rhythm seems to break through like a sentient piece of baker's dough kneading itself in a tumbling dryer of existential discovery. I begin to see exactly why they call themselves Earthless. They are not simply a 'jam band' though I've only run across one song of their's that's under 7 minutes long and has words, and that's a cover tune.
Just happy to be along for the ride is the bouncy tone of Mike Eginton just outside the background of Mitchell's serenade piercing the black void ahead like a comet, holding his pilot just a few inches above the complementary tides of drum after drum sent forth by Mario Rubacalba, Earthless' mad scientist that broguht the elements together. But in the end, you have to ask yourself, "Does the monster bend to the will of the scientist, or does the scientist bend to the will of the monster?" Through fifty-six minutes of greased lightning and blazing solar furnaces of stoner rock, the listener's ear are wrapped around a variety of intermingling rhythms backboned by Rubacalba and Eginton, and fat, meaty accompaniments architectured by Mitchell's Silver Surfer -esque unravelings. During this time and with a hardly a otice, I replaced the LCD in a notebook computer. I had reached my goal. I escaped the trying frustrations of my corner of the universe. I, indeed, had become quite, well, earthless myself.
All was not cherries and popsicles, however. Now, there's nothing bad about this album, but after fifty-six minutes, I realized why I didn't own a lot of jam bands in my musical repertoire. Jam bands are like porn in that it's just not fun anymore after about an hour. I need a bit more conclusion, summarization, or even finality in my life. Well, if not in an existential sense, then atleast in context of my music. Perhaps my appraisal would be different if I hadn't made a particular effort to listen to every portion of this album today. After all, this is the kind of album you put on in the background during a cokout with your friends and just let it hang in the background like a weather baloon made of awesome, pulsing just enough to occaionally catch someone's attention to appreciate it. I really like this album. But I can't sit for 90 minutes and listen to two songs, unless I have something to affect my sense of time to the point that time flies by or my mental functions completely drag like sliding down an incline made of caulk. In this, Earthless is no Allman Brothers, Rubacalba is no Gregg Allman, and Mitchell is no Duane Allman. But they are pretty damned good in their own right. Comparing the two isn't fair, though, as that's really comparing oranges and bike tires. Yeah, they are both round, but that's really about it. I could compare them to, maybe, some of the Widespread Panic jams, but then that just leaves me wondering 'Widespread who?'. But that wouldn't be fair to Earthless, right?
Alas, I digress.
Earthless Links:
Earthless @ MySpace
Earthless @ Wikipedia
Gravity Records
TeePee Records
Earthless @ Last.fm
Enjoy.
Invino Veritas
8/11/11
EOF
I walk into work twenty-seven minutes late due to poor visibility and the ire of a front that is still mad at mankind for not sacrificing a virgin at midnight perhaps. Hell, I don't know, but I'm really sick of having to drive in this rain at this point. This time it cost me money, and all I wanted to do was disappear into my work, and escape for a while on some dreamy current of music, textured velveteen with the knowledge that it would be a while before I had to venture back out in the elements. I slipped into my chair with nary a word, turned on my computer, and immediately put on my headphones. I flicked the switch on my external hard drive contianing all the music I owned in the world, sixty gigs stretched across a spinning platter lik a pizza pie made of the wreckage of a world war II bombing squadron. What was I in for? Who could tell. I had made a concerted effort recently to pick up some new music, and was eager to try some of it out. I discovered a record label, TeePee records, that had a bunch of neat bands with names like Black Math Horseman and Ancestors. "Earthless. Hmm. Okie dokie. Bring it on, Earthless." I said to myself as I started the first track of the album "Live at Roadburn". There were only two songs on this album which wasn't really an oddity for some of these bands to whom I had listened. Often these indy labels put out EPs of live shows and whatnot. What ensued after that mouse click was nothing short of ninety minutes of groovy and about seven or eight inches past 'Damn.'
Earthless was exactly what I needed this morning. The first track, Blue / From The Ages, began with a warm welcoming of the crowd at the 13th annual Roadburn fest in 2008. Earthless, didn't waste any time, however, as Isaiah Mitchell's feedback ladened whine of sustain broke the air and hung there like a bumblebee caught in an updraft and smoking a phatty while watching Max Headroom sing Merry Christmas, Santa Claus. I couldn't really tell you where either of the two songs started, ended, or came together. Unlike so many jams, the beauty of Earthless isn't at the joining of two ends a la The Allman Brothers Band, but rather the journey between multiple destinations amongst the stars of a universe painted with multiple effects and rawness of the dusty, woody tone of Mitchell's trip across the cosmos. As note after note swirls about the others in aeruption of harmonic ether. each rhythm, each variation of rhythm seems to break through like a sentient piece of baker's dough kneading itself in a tumbling dryer of existential discovery. I begin to see exactly why they call themselves Earthless. They are not simply a 'jam band' though I've only run across one song of their's that's under 7 minutes long and has words, and that's a cover tune.
Just happy to be along for the ride is the bouncy tone of Mike Eginton just outside the background of Mitchell's serenade piercing the black void ahead like a comet, holding his pilot just a few inches above the complementary tides of drum after drum sent forth by Mario Rubacalba, Earthless' mad scientist that broguht the elements together. But in the end, you have to ask yourself, "Does the monster bend to the will of the scientist, or does the scientist bend to the will of the monster?" Through fifty-six minutes of greased lightning and blazing solar furnaces of stoner rock, the listener's ear are wrapped around a variety of intermingling rhythms backboned by Rubacalba and Eginton, and fat, meaty accompaniments architectured by Mitchell's Silver Surfer -esque unravelings. During this time and with a hardly a otice, I replaced the LCD in a notebook computer. I had reached my goal. I escaped the trying frustrations of my corner of the universe. I, indeed, had become quite, well, earthless myself.
All was not cherries and popsicles, however. Now, there's nothing bad about this album, but after fifty-six minutes, I realized why I didn't own a lot of jam bands in my musical repertoire. Jam bands are like porn in that it's just not fun anymore after about an hour. I need a bit more conclusion, summarization, or even finality in my life. Well, if not in an existential sense, then atleast in context of my music. Perhaps my appraisal would be different if I hadn't made a particular effort to listen to every portion of this album today. After all, this is the kind of album you put on in the background during a cokout with your friends and just let it hang in the background like a weather baloon made of awesome, pulsing just enough to occaionally catch someone's attention to appreciate it. I really like this album. But I can't sit for 90 minutes and listen to two songs, unless I have something to affect my sense of time to the point that time flies by or my mental functions completely drag like sliding down an incline made of caulk. In this, Earthless is no Allman Brothers, Rubacalba is no Gregg Allman, and Mitchell is no Duane Allman. But they are pretty damned good in their own right. Comparing the two isn't fair, though, as that's really comparing oranges and bike tires. Yeah, they are both round, but that's really about it. I could compare them to, maybe, some of the Widespread Panic jams, but then that just leaves me wondering 'Widespread who?'. But that wouldn't be fair to Earthless, right?
Alas, I digress.
Earthless Links:
Earthless @ MySpace
Earthless @ Wikipedia
Gravity Records
TeePee Records
Earthless @ Last.fm
Enjoy.
Invino Veritas
8/11/11
EOF
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