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Lady of Mine is the 1989 debut LP by self-made Italian-American Joe Tossini. An astoundingly honest, passionate record of cosmopolitan lounge music, he willed this charming suburban oddity into existence without any formal musical training.
Sicilian by birth, Tossini drifted around the world between Italy, Germany and Canada, before finally settling in New Jersey. After the passing of his mother and the breakdown of a second marriage, an anxious and depressed Tossini took to songwriting as a form of therapy, crafting disarmingly candid lyrics from his extraordinary life and loves. Whatever industry savvy or musical virtuosity he lacked was made up for by unflinching resourcefulness and infectious charisma. Befriending bandleader Peppino Lattanzi at local club The Rickshaw Inn, he was encouraged to animate his singular songs with an ambitious cast of 9 players and 5 backing vocalists, sincerely credited as his Friends.
The Atlantic City basement sessions are a low budget, high romance testament to Tossini’s character and the power of positive thinking. From the defiant, Casiotone samba of If I Should Fall In Love, to Wild Dream’s dizzying escapism and the native tongue croons of Sulla Luna and Sincerita, Lady Of Mine hums with the inimitable magic of a true original. Piercing the heart with an effectively sparse combination of humming keys, CompuRhythm drums, horn flourishes and backing divas, ample room was left for Tossini to frankly deliver his much-needed life lessons.
Underperforming commercially at the hands of short lived label IEA Records, Lady Of Mine has since earned a place in the outsider music canon. Recently peaking interest as a cornerstone of the Sky Girl compilation, the private press trades for inordinate sums, typically with no financial benefit to its creator. Lady Of Mine is now finally reissued on the artist’s own terms via Joe Tossini Music, in partnership with Efficient Space, restored from original master tapes with unseen photos, extensive liner notes and Tossini’s trademark wisdom.
Devoutly independent, Tossini has previously self-released the 2015 instrumental album When You Love Someone as well as two books - a new fiction novel The Devil In White and his autobiography The Account of My Life.
Female fronted emo from the First State. Only 100 miles from D.C., Delaware enjoyed no immunity to emo. Wilmington’s Jade Tree held down the state’s first entries, foisting a 7" and album by label co-founder Darren Walters’ Railhed project onto unsuspecting Swiz and Universal Order of Armageddon customers. Railhed drummer Nick Rotundo played a key role in the shadow of the Twelve-Mile Circle, setting up Clay Creek Recording Studio in his wood-paneled Newark home and documenting local heroes Boysetsfire, Clevinger, and Network 34 in the process. “Without Nick, there would be no punk scene,” Eldritch Anisette bassist Marc Krupanski said. “He was an anchor in our fucked-up family of misfits and punks.” They called themselves The Enoch Collective, a group of young adults putting on $4 shows at VFW halls, churches, and Girls Inc. locations. Named by an awkward marriage of H.P. Lovecraft’s Eldritch Tales and the aniseed Mediterranean liqueur, Eldritch Anisette formed in spring 1996 when members of Clevinger and Network 34 showed the elasticity of adolescence. Singer Courtney Miller and guitarist Allen Hitchens were old enough to drink, while the rhythm section of Krupanski and drummer Tim Nichols had just gotten their licenses. That age gap is heard in the band’s varied influences, from Samiam to screamo, Samuel to The Sundays. “My biggest writing influences at the time were Harriet Wheeler and Tori Amos,” Miller said. “The subjects they explored felt really relatable and in some cases challenged me to feel more comfortable with putting work out there that was sometimes thematically difficult.” In winter ’97, they booked time at Clay Creek and spent two days tracking their six-song oeuvre, at a cost of $100. “Suckerpunch,” “Pessimism Goes To Work,” and “Dissection of Silence” were selected for a 7", the others relegated to a DAT Rotundo held onto for safekeeping. The band deteriorated shortly after the record’s spring ’97 release. Collected here for the first time are the band's complete recordings, pressed in an edition of 500 and housed in a hand screened chipboard jacket with lyric insert for easy scream alongs with the kids.
Female fronted screamo from the cursed Elgin, Illinois scene. Hot on the heels of our Sequoia box set's repress of their $400 2x7", Numero gives The Lazarus Plot's complete recordings the hand-screened treatment. Compiled on Something Good Has Got To Come From All These Goodbyes are the aforementioned 2x7", split with Long Live Nothing, The End 7", a stray V/A, and two previously unissued songs, all housed in a D.I.Y. chipboard jacket and limited to 500 copies. Singer Laura Laurent's accompanying 24-page booklet includes lyrics and photos from these pioneering second waver's two year run. Not copping this will definitely remind you of your favorite word (regret).
Sans Merit arrives on Knekelhuis with his second album Trolley Polly. A radiant album from currently LA-based Australian musician Griffin James, one that leans into unguarded joy with a playful, disarming sincerity. The album rocks right away into our world. Lifting off where the guitar pedals mash the gas and go. While at other moments the acoustic guitar passages carry a neofolk intimacy, like the low-voiced choir singer cast out of a pastoral world, left to wander in his own solitude. These moments are swept up by surging shoegaze episodes, slipping into hazy hypnagogic pop interludes and wiry post-punk turns, giving the record a restless, shifting pulse. Beneath it all lies a lyrical sensitivity that grounds the album’s movement. Sans Merit reflects on the big questions in a world that feels increasingly fragile, balancing vulnerability with a self-aware, gently naïve humor, while staying attuned to the emotional undercurrents of everyday life. It’s this perspective that makes Trolley Polly feel so human, alive in its contradictions, and quietly comforting.
Vind is 12 pieces written and performed by CTM and produced by Jakob Littauer. The album consists of cello compositions with few exceptions - a daf enhancing the rhythm, a distant memory of the kora, a pensive flute or folly sounds. The softness of the acoustic instruments is counterplayed by concise compositions and hyperreal productions. The music presents itself as part spirit, part form; the movement in the moment, repetition, anticipation, what happened and what is to come. It's a sensuous search into stretched out moments, captured and held in one’s hand for a little while. It finds play and devotion, love and light. Dedicated to Jannis Noya Makrigiannis
At Our Best! were one of the greatest and most influential bands to emerge in the early 1980s as part of a new wave of independent acts. DJ John Peel championed them, playing their singles repeatedly and inviting them to record a session for his programme. Wry vocalist Judy Evans and brutal yet melodic guitarist James Alan who’d met at art college in Leeds fronted Girls At Our Best!, the proto-Indie band that formed from the ashes of Alan’s 1977 punk band SOS! Pleasure, the sole album, reached number two in the Indie Chart. It was an album so different from the rest of the post-punk indie pack that you can still play it now and completely baffle new listeners. As John Peel said about Roxy Music, it just doesn’t seem to relate to anything else.
After a half decade slog in the Gilman Street punk scene as The Vagrants, Brian Jay, Nick Gancheff, Craig Miller, and Dave Henwood resurfaced with a new name and a new sound. Their mid-punk crisis in full bloom, the quartet abandoned dissonant guitars and garbled glass vocals in favor of a jangly, albeit introspective mood. Neither shoegaze nor emo, and sonically exiled from their Lookout Records peers, Pot Valiant carved out their own corner of the East Bay, releasing two singles and a brilliant LP before imploding in mid-1994.
By early 1994 Pot Valiant had graduated from brooding high school punk band to young adults with an ever widening spectrum of influences. Gone were the palm-muted guitars and downcast lyrics, replaced with a modern rock sensibility and command of the subtleties of the loud/quiet dynamic. The group’s sole LP was tracked in early 1994 for the Benicia-based Iteration Records, and released via famed distribution black hole Dutch East that summer to heady critical praise. The 10-song Transaudio was awash in dense, ringing guitars, powerful drumming, and a hushed vocal approach more at home in a bar than an all ages club tucked into an industrial part of Berkley.
The San Diego via Boston alt trio's complete original studio recordings, remastered, restored, and compiled into one lavish box set. Wait A Lifetime gathers the band's peerless albums Junk and This Afternoons Malady, plus a first time vinyl pressing of R.I.P., expanded to include their unfinished 3rd album, singles, splits, and comp tracks. The 28-page accompanying booklet details the entire saga via Nina Corcoran's essay and dozens of period photos, all housed in a stunning case-wrapped and varnished box. Sink into the ground and fly.
A band that played so loud their entire fan base went deaf and never spoke of them again. Formed in 1993 in the go-nowhere exurb of San Jose, California, Super Static Fever played only a handful of gigs in their brief two year existence, punishing spectators with a tinnitus-inducing wah-wah wall of Marshall-stacked distortion. Their sound was a mix of Melvins-esque sludge, Swervedriver’s melodic crunch, and latter-day Black Flag’s penchant for volume, as heard from the stock stereo of a hot-boxed 1985 Ford Econoline. Unfinished tapes from two ear-bleeding sessions are all that survived the ensuing 25 years since their indifferent break-up, mixed by the exacting Steve Albini as the band’s one condition for reissue. The package reeks of the ’90s computer-crippled D.I.Y. aesthetic, with VHS blur and opaque white screened on chipboard. A record that just barely does, and probably should not, exist.
A band that played so loud their entire fan base went deaf and never spoke of them again. Formed in 1993 in the go-nowhere exurb of San Jose, California, Super Static Fever played only a handful of gigs in their brief two year existence, punishing spectators with a tinnitus-inducing wah-wah wall of Marshall-stacked distortion. Their sound was a mix of Melvins-esque sludge, Swervedriver’s melodic crunch, and latter-day Black Flag’s penchant for volume, as heard from the stock stereo of a hot-boxed 1985 Ford Econoline. Unfinished tapes from two ear-bleeding sessions are all that survived the ensuing 25 years since their indifferent break-up, mixed by the exacting Steve Albini as the band’s one condition for reissue. The package reeks of the ’90s computer-crippled D.I.Y. aesthetic, with VHS blur and opaque white screened on chipboard. A record that just barely does, and probably should not, exist.
For the first time on vinyl, Yo La Tengo’s understated, lonesome score to Kelly Reichardt’s classic “Old Joy.”
Recorded in a single afternoon at Yo La Tengo’s studio in Hoboken, Old Joy is a drifting, improvisatory journey, born out of years-long friendship between the band and the film’s director.
The six instrumental tracks, created in collaboration with legendary guitarist Smokey Hormel, carry that unmistakable Yo La Tengo sound, but delivered in service of another great work of art. The music, like so much of Reichardt’s film work, is low-key yet arresting, stripped down to the essentials, warm and unpretentious. The record includes two variations on the beloved “Leaving Home” theme, released for the first time on vinyl after years traveling in Yo La Tengo fan circles.
This music is a balm, remarkably full of emotion despite (or maybe because of) its restraint and minimalism. Originally released on They Shoot, We Score, a CD compiling several of the band’s soundtracks, Old Joy stands as a cohesive whole here, blooming and rewarding repeat listens. Sliding reverbed guitars, muted piano and percussion, the hum of an old amp - the blurry memory of an afternoon in the studio, or a short-lived road trip through the backwoods of Oregon.
Small-run, high-quality LP pressed at Smashed Plastic in Chicago, on black and transparent pink vinyl.</p><iframe style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 340px;" src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=853350/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=333333/artwork=none/transparent=true/" seamless><a href="https://mississippirecords.bandcamp.com/album/old-joy-official-soundtrack">Old Joy (Official Soundtrack) by Yo La Tengo</a></iframe>
Greg Mendez has always been an economical songwriter – he wields restraint and simplicity as tools, the core of his songs sharpened into simple, cutting truths. On Beauty Land, his new album and debut LP for Dead Oceans, we’re guided by a wry but forgiving narrator, an underdog who has learned to balance cynicism and faith. These songs are self-effacing without self-pity, carefully constructed altars of imperfection channeled through pop melodies, shimmering but urgent guitars, and a voice that reaches for choir boy innocence. The bulk of Beauty Land was recorded directly to tape, almost entirely alone in Mendez’s makeshift home studio in Philadelphia – a small room with no natural light. It’s his first full length since his unexpected self-titled breakthrough in 2023, which was a slow burn success following 15 years of writing and recording music in relative obscurity between Philly and New York. Beauty Land picks up where we left off three years ago – plumbing the depths of grief, love, and addiction – but its intense, quiet clarity shows Mendez at his songwriting best. Parts of Beauty Land feel like a lucid dream, dented characters carve their way through a world that’s cartoonish and warped – the broken-clock march of “I Wanna Feel Pretty,” the chiming toy piano on “Gentle Love.” “Mary / Dreaming” begins as a sparse, finger-picked lament before cutting abruptly to a deflated, Beach-Boys-but-make-it-fucked-up resolution that brings both melancholy and joy; a sense that all things can be true at once. None of the 14 tracks here break three minutes, but they tell stories that span lifetimes. Death floats through the record, whether it appears as a memory or a threat. Everything feels precarious. There’s a fragility to how these songs are built: the way the funeral organ hits alongside the morphine on “Looking Out Your Window,” the devastating simplicity of “Frog,” with its slowed-down keyboard and bare refrain: “Please forgive me for my faults.” Beauty Land feels, at times, impossibly lonely. Which makes it really count when it doesn’t – like when Mendez sings in harmony with his wife and bandmate, Veronica near the end of “So Mean” and it feels like a cherished reunion, a fleeting moment of redemption, a temporary parting of the seas.
Greg Mendez has always been an economical songwriter – he wields restraint and simplicity as tools, the core of his songs sharpened into simple, cutting truths. On Beauty Land, his new album and debut LP for Dead Oceans, we’re guided by a wry but forgiving narrator, an underdog who has learned to balance cynicism and faith. These songs are self-effacing without self-pity, carefully constructed altars of imperfection channeled through pop melodies, shimmering but urgent guitars, and a voice that reaches for choir boy innocence. The bulk of Beauty Land was recorded directly to tape, almost entirely alone in Mendez’s makeshift home studio in Philadelphia – a small room with no natural light. It’s his first full length since his unexpected self-titled breakthrough in 2023, which was a slow burn success following 15 years of writing and recording music in relative obscurity between Philly and New York. Beauty Land picks up where we left off three years ago – plumbing the depths of grief, love, and addiction – but its intense, quiet clarity shows Mendez at his songwriting best. Parts of Beauty Land feel like a lucid dream, dented characters carve their way through a world that’s cartoonish and warped – the broken-clock march of “I Wanna Feel Pretty,” the chiming toy piano on “Gentle Love.” “Mary / Dreaming” begins as a sparse, finger-picked lament before cutting abruptly to a deflated, Beach-Boys-but-make-it-fucked-up resolution that brings both melancholy and joy; a sense that all things can be true at once. None of the 14 tracks here break three minutes, but they tell stories that span lifetimes. Death floats through the record, whether it appears as a memory or a threat. Everything feels precarious. There’s a fragility to how these songs are built: the way the funeral organ hits alongside the morphine on “Looking Out Your Window,” the devastating simplicity of “Frog,” with its slowed-down keyboard and bare refrain: “Please forgive me for my faults.” Beauty Land feels, at times, impossibly lonely. Which makes it really count when it doesn’t – like when Mendez sings in harmony with his wife and bandmate, Veronica near the end of “So Mean” and it feels like a cherished reunion, a fleeting moment of redemption, a temporary parting of the seas.
Greg Mendez has always been an economical songwriter – he wields restraint and simplicity as tools, the core of his songs sharpened into simple, cutting truths. On Beauty Land, his new album and debut LP for Dead Oceans, we’re guided by a wry but forgiving narrator, an underdog who has learned to balance cynicism and faith. These songs are self-effacing without self-pity, carefully constructed altars of imperfection channeled through pop melodies, shimmering but urgent guitars, and a voice that reaches for choir boy innocence. The bulk of Beauty Land was recorded directly to tape, almost entirely alone in Mendez’s makeshift home studio in Philadelphia – a small room with no natural light. It’s his first full length since his unexpected self-titled breakthrough in 2023, which was a slow burn success following 15 years of writing and recording music in relative obscurity between Philly and New York. Beauty Land picks up where we left off three years ago – plumbing the depths of grief, love, and addiction – but its intense, quiet clarity shows Mendez at his songwriting best. Parts of Beauty Land feel like a lucid dream, dented characters carve their way through a world that’s cartoonish and warped – the broken-clock march of “I Wanna Feel Pretty,” the chiming toy piano on “Gentle Love.” “Mary / Dreaming” begins as a sparse, finger-picked lament before cutting abruptly to a deflated, Beach-Boys-but-make-it-fucked-up resolution that brings both melancholy and joy; a sense that all things can be true at once. None of the 14 tracks here break three minutes, but they tell stories that span lifetimes. Death floats through the record, whether it appears as a memory or a threat. Everything feels precarious. There’s a fragility to how these songs are built: the way the funeral organ hits alongside the morphine on “Looking Out Your Window,” the devastating simplicity of “Frog,” with its slowed-down keyboard and bare refrain: “Please forgive me for my faults.” Beauty Land feels, at times, impossibly lonely. Which makes it really count when it doesn’t – like when Mendez sings in harmony with his wife and bandmate, Veronica near the end of “So Mean” and it feels like a cherished reunion, a fleeting moment of redemption, a temporary parting of the seas.
"What Can I Say" is from the CD reissue of Kick Me Hard by one of our favorite bands ever, NRBQ. "Yellow Sarong" is by The Scene Is Now, from their first album, Burn All Your Records, on their label, Lost. A really great album, as are their other two, Total Jive and Tonight We Ride -- you can never say enough about The Scene Is Now. Cat Stevens wrote "Here Comes My Baby" and did a pretty good version of it, too (really), but we didn't hear it until recently. We learned it from the Tremeloes, who had a hit with it somewhere in the '60s. "Emulsified: was the handiwork of Rex Garvin and the Mighty Cravers, and we found it on the incredible swell compilation At The Party, which no record collection should be without, Candy Records. It'd be difficult to wholeheartedly recommend the Escorts' From The Blue Angel reissue on Edsel, but equally hard to come down on an album with "The One To Cry." "Griselda" was sung by Peter Stampfel on the Rounder album, Have Moicy!, a record only Stephan Wichnewski could dislike. "Speeding Motorcycle" is on Daniel Johnston's Yip Jump Music, pressed up by Homestead. "Andalucia" is on John Cale's Paris 1919 (we recorded "Hanky Panky Nohow" from the same LP for a Ruta 66 compilation, with Georgia singing, and maybe that'll be out before too long). "Oklahoma U.S.A." originated with Muswell Hillbillies by Ira's all-time faves, The Kinks. "Tried So Hard" can be found on the Flying Burrito Brothers' 3rd album, the first without Gram Parsons, no classic. Fairport Convention also did it on Heyday; and of course, Gene Clark did it too, but it slips my mind as to where. "You Tore Me Down" is from Shake Some Action by the Flamin' Groovies, and if it's on that CD thing that came out last year, all the more reason to pick one up. And these are our second cracks at "Did I Tell You" and "Barnaby," which can be found on New Wave Hot Dogs and President Yo La Tengo respectively (as well as together on our de-lux CD) -- and we use the word "found" primarily as a figure of speech. Dave's group, the Schramms, with Al on electric bass, just released their Okra LP, Walk to Delphi.
"Never before heard tunes from the heart of Manchester circa 1989. The lost demos of the band that was Joanna, recorded at iconic Strawberry and Pentagon Studios were discovered in a Manchester apartment loft after 35 years on the shelf. For fans of The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays and Charlatans. With the release of Hello Flower, Joanna is no longer “the most popular band without a record out,” as NME called them in 1990, but their singular spirit is now available for anyone who wants a taste." It’s 1989. The Stone Roses are dominating the Indie scene and music press. Happy Mondays are laying the foundations of what would come to be known as the Madchester era with chaotic live performances. All eyes are on the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution. Along the East Lancs Road, throughout industrial heartlands between Manchester and Liverpool, punctuated by woollyback accents, four young musicians meet and form the next contender for the scene’s attention, Joanna. Neil Holliday (vocals) and Terry Lloyd (bass), work colleagues from Runcorn and Widnes, join forces with Leigh Music College students Tyrone Holt (guitar) and Carl Alty (drums). They hail from thoroughly working-class backgrounds, raised by hard working dads and harder working mothers. Rejected by other local bands because of their perceived youthful naïveté, the four lads create a world of their own inside Pentagon Studios in Widnes. This world includes a stolen smoke machine and strobe lights, a wooden shack to prevent feedback on the vocals, and the occasional friend who would dance around wildly. “I think the first tune we rehearsed was called (I Wanna) Marry Joanna,” says Holliday, “I’d never sang into a mic before and had no clue about levels, amps or speakers and started sweating after a couple of failed attempts to vocalise the words I had on a scrap of paper about smoking weed.” Each track on Hello Flower came together in the Pentagon rehearsal room, a fusion of hard-edged indie rock with bass funk rhythms and crunching guitar riffs spiraling into infinity. With a clear sixties influence, Joanna was impossible to ignore and irresistibly danceable. Listening back today, their music evokes fantasies of Hacienda acid trip jubilees, where the hook is secondary to the groove and attitude. Organic and jammy, their demos are infused with a kinetic energy, full of the defining youthful experience of figuring it out. Their momentum grew quickly. They were interviewed on the cult Kiss FM by future Best Selling author and filmmaker Jon Ronson, performed at the 1500 capacity Ritz in Manchester, International 1 and Liverpool Polytechnic. The band secured coveted support slots for established acts of the time including Shack, Dr. Phibes and the House of Wax Equations, Rig, and Asia Fields. After recording several demos, Joanna had the opportunity to perform in London. It seemed like a given. The A&R people would show up, the band would sign a contract backstage, and their local-legend status would evolve into international superstardom. They were already mentioning an upcoming record deal in interviews, with a bravado that inspired one journalist to describe Joanna as epitomising “the simple beauty of youth.” Bands like World of Twist, Charlatans, Rig and Paris Angels had all followed a similar route towards recognition and secured record deals. A few hours before their fateful London show after the band had sound-checked, singer Neil bumped into a girl he knew from school. She had started dating a guy with a good job and settled into London life and escaped beyond their small-town limitations. She’d made it out. Neil puffed out his chest and let her know about Joanna’s big show and imminent success. She laughed. Neil returned to the venue in a black mood, leading to a domino-like fall of morale. They were never offered a record deal. As soon as doubt was seeded about the individual talent of any one member, and strategy became more important than expression, Joanna started to lose its magic. Wounded, they limped along for another year, never recovering their initial verve. This story doesn’t have the happy ending of instant success, but it does preserve something much more ephemeral and unique. Joanna constantly brushed shoulders with fame as manager and friend Martin Royle pulled the strings with a quiet determination in the background. A major player in the Liverpool scene, Dave Pichilingi, offered to manage the band. The Boardwalk, which later became the rehearsal space for Oasis, asked Joanna to headline their re-opening after a major refurb, selling the venue out. Was a certain young roadie called Noel Gallagher there to witness the evening while he was putting his own band together? Definitely. Hand-written letters on headed stationery, recently found in the attic of the Isle of Man home of Royle, show labels like Rough Trade, Factory Records and Polydor courted and encouraged the band to keep playing and recording. Thirty-five years later, these long-forgotten ¼-inch reel tapes from Pentagon Studios were discovered in the loft of a mutual friend, their manager having handed them off to him 24 years earlier. These musical time capsules contained tracks the band members themselves hadn't heard in over three decades, offering a poignant reconnection with their creative past and tantalising glimpses of what might have been. “We realised we were actually as good as we remembered,” says Alty. The memories between the band members are blurred and contradictory but the tapes hold everything together, they are real, definite and irrefutable. With the release of Hello Flower, Joanna is no longer “the most popular band without a record out,” as NME called them in 1990, but their singular spirit is now available for anyone who wants a taste. The simple beauty of youth can only be experienced when you are invincible, fulfilling your natural destiny, buoyed by complete optimism… This record captures innocence untainted by failure. Beyond analysis, beyond critique, just lost in the groove.
