MUSIC

'Imerro' is a collection of song odes to both heat and desire, closely felt. Its title literally presented itself to Diab from a random page contained in a poem by Ezra Pound found in the book ‘The Imagist Poem’. Searching for its meaning, Diab discovered that Imerro is “a Greek word for ‘desire for, I desire you’, yet nothing could substantiate its truth. “It made sense, almost like it had chosen me. An obscure word for Desire, one that might not even exist, or is so ancient that nobody really remembers it meaning anything. It's just a sound, like an album.” Imerro finds Caton at his most expressive and free-spirited. Inviting the music to find him, almost by osmosis, foregoing any preconceptions of playing any instrument he is unfamiliar with or regrets not learning during adolescence. This is music for wide screens: the result is an undeniably evocative, moving and mysterious voyage. Imerro was recorded in late July and August of 2021 at Risque Disque Studio in Cedar, BC, during the summer’s unprecedented second “heat dome”, which saw temperatures soaring to over 40 degrees. Recorded with regular collaborator and engineer Jonathan Paul Stewart, the pair journeyed by boat to the studio to a place with minimal distraction with a plan of “simple ecstatic improvisation.” Diab explains: “I wanted to place myself in a space for creation with little thematic pretence, with the belief that music ‘shows its face’ as you move along. I would pick up an instrument, whether I had experience playing it or not, and make a sound. If it wanted to be played, it would play.” ‘Ourselves At Least’, the rhythmic album opener gracefully leaps and bounds with a human-like metronome at its core, capturing a rush of elatedness felt by Diab over the course of its late night creation. ‘Lunar Barge’ bursts into life with tone-bending bow strikes that glide across Diab’s guitar towards a climatic peak before the track drops into an electronic/acoustic trance. Inspired in part by the rhythmical works of Huun-Huur-Tu and the animated cello play remindful of Arthur Russell. “Lunar Barge is a track for a dry, hot night in the forest (which it quite literally was.). I roamed around the floors of the studio picking up any instrument standing out in the moment, and tried to see if it had anything to say.” ‘The Excuse of Fiction’ sees Diab return to free-flowing guitar play, the chosen instrument of his youth. He loops layers to form an ethereal backbone before plucking further melodies from the air on top. The result is a cinematic guitar-laden expanse brimming with optimism and nostalgia. The title references a quote by Zizek: “We need the excuse of a fiction to stage what we really are.” Themes of remembrance, yearning and desire pervade the album's 9-tracks with a palpable presence as we reach ‘Quatsino Sound’, named after an inlet on Northern Vancouver Island where Diab grew up. It features hoopoe birdcalls which were sampled from a found cassette tape of African sounds before being randomized until it became rhythmic, then embellished with synth lines, bass drops, and bowed layovers. The album centres around the nocturnal ‘Crypsis’ with Diab sleepily playing notes on a switched-off Wurlitzer before dampened piano chords, bow scrapes, and noisy glitches reverberate. ‘Erratum’ erupts with untamed force from a war cry of screaming saxophone layers reminiscent of Colin Stetson. Its visceral thirst and energy seem to be a response to the heat of the night and Diab’s urge to play the instrument he loved but had yet learnt. ‘Tiny Umbrellas’, an improvised pass of banjo, bowed guitar and ethereal modular synths breathes a contemplative pause before ‘Surge Savard’ chimes in. This whirlwind closer started life as a longform jam under the influence of psychedelics; its modular synth, air organ, guitar and sax lines were initially improvised with final touches made at Watch Yer Head studio.

Combined with the planet’s leading Afrocentric confectionary and its derivative beverage, more than a few light bulbs were set to go off in newly christened practice spaces globally upon Hot Chocolate’s inevitable suggestion. Little did Ragland know, an interracial band of musical Englishmen were eyeballing the same nom de chanson in their native Brixton. They approached John Lennon for clearance for their reggae cover of “Give Peace a Chance,” but the powerful Beatle liked their interpretation so much, he added them to the band’s Apple Records roster, thrusting the Brits ahead in the race to make Hot Chocolate a household name for something other than dark, sweet beverages. Despite the potential confusion—and perhaps in hope of capitalizing on it—Lou Ragland began filling his mug with a host of recordings that would make up his Hot Chocolate’s eponymous debut. The album would be released on the oh-so-cleverly-named Co-Co label in 1971 and bankrolled by a five-pointed council that included Ragland, Lyman Moffat, Loretta Walker, Tom Threat, and Leonard Jackson. Executed at Agency Recording and engineered by longtime Ragland associate Don White, the seven-song affair is a team of vocal numbers and instrumentals in search of a leader. Volcanic Eruption’s James McClain showed up to provide vocals for the chorus to “Ain’t That A Groove,” but the rest of the record is all Hot Chocolate. After a solid year on stage, the group had many originals in their repertoire, but they chose to mint songs that Trina’s patrons had indicated, by ballot, they’d like to hear on the LP. Designed to capture the impulsive nature of the live show, most of the material ignores the industry-standard three-minute mark, a feature that might’ve appealed to disc jockeys craving a cigarette or sandwich—had the record been serviced to anyone outside of Cleveland. Dick Dugan, the Cleveland Plain Dealer sports illustrator who’d later conceive iconic mascots for the pro baseball Indians and pro football Browns during his career, was commissioned to sketch out the Hot Chocolate cover for a paltry $100. Working from a photograph, Dugan penned an imaginative rendering of the group, performing in a mugfull of their namesake dessert drink. The album was intended primarily as a keepsake for Trina’s patrons, who scooped up the 1000-copy pressing before slamming down another round.

おどろおどろしくも暖かく、瞑想させる秀作です。ギターと電子音でカルトな魔術盤を残してきた米国の秘宝人、Master Wilburn Burchetteの72年盤が〈Numero Group〉よりアナログ再発！ギターの弦が持つ暖かな揺れと、墓地→宇宙シンクロな発光電子音の絶妙な温度が良い。Nurse With Wound系インダストリアルからAsh Ra Tempel以降のクラウト/サイケ、〈Creel Pone〉もの、〈Wah Wah〉の電子音楽再発部門、〈Feeding Tube〉の怪しげな再発やBobby Beausoleilなんかのファンも響く1枚！

Cold Spring is proud to present a unique collaboration between Industrial Breakbeat pioneers Meat Beat Manifesto (Jack Dangers) and the undisputed king of Japanese noise, Merzbow (Masami Akita). "We may not speak the same language, but in the vortex of sound, there's a raw, primal understanding that transcends words. Noise can be art, a visual representation could maybe be Jackson Pollock's No 5, a plexus of chaos redefining what music can and could be. Pushing boundaries with Masami wasn't just a musical adventure, it was a masterclass in sonic anarchy" (Jack Dangers, January 2024). 'Extinct' sees the duo take listeners on a transcendental journey, focusing on the dismantling of beat and structure and recycling the result through layers of beautifully crafted noise and feedback loops, giving birth to new rhythms buried deep in the dirt. The 20 minute opener 'FLAKKA' takes constantly evolving breakbeats which are gradually broken down over time, driven through a filter of harsh noise, destroying the old to give birth to the new. Raw and unforgiving, the track is a behemoth that blends mutant forms of broken beats and hints of dub, creating rhythmic noise of the highest calibre in the process. 'Burner' takes the record to its ultimate conclusion, the initial drum beat broken down so that it is barely recognisable. Pulsating distortion and high end audio fragments bleed into each other as the track lumbers forth and destroys everything in its path before slowly unravelling, degrading and falling apart. A harrowing yet somewhat cathartic trip through walls of harsh industrial noise and audio degradation, 'Extinct' is a masterful pairing of artists who have delivered something truly unique yet totally relevant. Don't sleep on this one! (Todd Robinson / Subunit).

First vinyl pressing of the long out of print 1993 classic many consider not only Skullflower's apex, but one of the finest noise rock records of the 90's. Edition of 600 clear smoke 2xLP in deluxe embossed sleeve.

The second of Louis Wayne Moody’s trilogy of mid-century noirs, 1966’s runaway adventure They Move In The Night follows the escapades of “The Kids”—teenage siblings Cara and Applejack Seaworth—as they set out across America by thumb, rail, and bicycle in search of their long lost father—”The Man.” Hunted by the F.B.I., P.T.A., C.T.A., animal control, and a wicked grandmother dead set on claiming their inheritance, The Kids must come to grips with their orphaned reality and an unyielding future.Discovered after spending 58 years on a dusty shelf in the Louis Wayne Moody Pictures vault, this previously unissued soundtrack contains a backpack’s worth of grieving guitars, somber surf, and haunting hiss, zipped tight with the teeth of abandonment, dashed dreams, moral ambiguity, fate, tearful goodbyes, and lukewarm diner coffee. Because the long arm of society nips at their heels... They Move In The Night.

A post-modern mixtape of 12 micro-genres created by The Numero Group. Bending the rules of the compilation with a selection of songs bound by their soaring spirit and adventurous approach, REACH is inspirational living for algorithmic times.

A raw-nerved hybrid of elemental Merseybeat, lugubrious surf-noir and sheer sonic assault, the remarkable legacy of Long Island's Mystic Tide has long been venerated within the '60s garage rock pantheon, even if their existential racket only slipped out on a series of painfully rare 45s. Now, the fruit of Joe Docko Jr and friends' cottage industry has been refurbished in best-ever sound, along with fresh insights as to how this singular brand of noise came to be.

11月下旬再入荷。自国のソウル、ゴスペル、ファンクにとどまらず、ニューエイジ・ミュージック始祖ヤソスや日本からは原マスミまで、世界各地のオブスキュアなサウンド&グルーヴを掘り起こしてきた米国の大名門〈Numero Group〉からは2010年にリリースされた大人気ゴスペル・ファンク・コンピ・シリーズ作品『Good God! Born Again Funk』が14年振りにアナログ・リプレス。ミシシッピ州のデルタ地帯から北に向かって歩いてくるブルース歌手なら誰しもが奏でる、暑く、汗だくで、土っぽい密造酒のリズムの中で生み出されたスピリチュアルで珠玉のゴスペル・ファンク満載の大傑作コンピ盤！

Columbia Recording artist Leon Bridges effortlessly transforms Pastor T.L. Barrett's "Like A Ship," updating the 50 year old gospel soul classic for the 21st century.

Sometimes, Mitski says, it feels like life would be easier without hope, or a soul, or love. But when she closes her eyes and thinks about what’s truly hers, what can’t be repossessed or demolished, she sees love. “The best thing I ever did in my life was to love people,” Mitski says. “I wish I could leave behind all the love I have, after I die, so that I can shine all this goodness, all this good love that I’ve created onto other people.” She hopes her newest album, The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We, will continue to shine that love long after she’s gone. Listening to it, that’s precisely how it feels: like a love that’s haunting the land. Love is always radical, which means that it always disrupts, which means that it always takes work to receive it. This land, which already feels inhospitable to so many of its inhabitants, is about to feel hopelessly torn and tossed again – at times, devoid of love. This album offers the anodyne. “This is my most American album,” Mitski says about her seventh record, and the music feels like a profound act of witnessing this country, in all of its private sorrows and painful contradictions. But “maybe it’s beyond witnessing,” she says. At times, it feels like the album is an exercise in negative capability – a fearless embodiment and absorption of the pain of other bodies. When I ask her what the album would look like, if it were a person, she says it would be someone middle-aged and exhausted, perhaps someone having a midlife crisis. But through the daily indignity and exhaustion, something enormous and ecstatic is calling out. In this album, which is sonically Mitski’s most expansive, epic, and wise, the songs seem to be introducing wounds and then actively healing them. Here, love is time-traveling to bless our tender days, like the light from a distant star. Mitski wrote these songs in little bursts over the past few years, and they feel informed by moments of noticing – noticing a sound that’s out of place, a building that groans in decay, an opinion that splits a room, a feeling that can’t be contained in a body. It was recorded at both the Bomb Shelter in East Nashville and the Sunset Sound Studios in Los Angeles. The album incorporates an orchestra arranged and conducted by Drew Erickson, as well as a full choir of 17 people - 12 in LA and 5 in Nashville - arranged by Mitski. And for the first time, it felt important to Mitski to have a band recording live together in the studio, to create this new sublime sound. Working with her longtime producer Patrick Hyland, the album has a wide-range of references, from Ennio Morricone’s bombastic Spaghetti Western scores to Carter Burwell’s tundra-filling Fargo soundtrack, from the breathy intimacy of Arthur Russell to the strident aliveness of Scott Walker or Igor Stravinsky, from the jubilation of Caetano Veloso to the twangy longing of Faron Young. From the first track, the album introduces and then heals a wound. “Bug Like an Angel” finds the divine in the ordinary, in the boozy drowning of sorrow. The narrator sings from the strange comfort of rock bottom: “sometimes a drink feels like family.” And suddenly, that choir of angels sings: “FAMILY!” This first track introduces a cosmic paradox: “The wrath of the devil was also given him by God.” This is an album in which dark and light exist in the same gesture, the same broken prayer. Like the Buddha inviting the demon Mara in for tea, The Land embraces brutal, daily pain — the necessary toll of transcendent love. In “Buffalo Replaced,” the wail of a freight train replaces the vibrations of the long-gone stampeding buffalo. Here, hope itself is personified, anthropomorphized into a sleeping creature, and our narrator wonders if life would be easier without her. But then, as though in response, “Heaven” offers a beautiful moment of passion, preserved like a fossil in time even though the “dark awaits us all around the corner.” This oasis is aggressively interrupted by “I Don’t Like My Mind,” a song from the perspective of someone in extraordinary pain. They are begging to keep their job, while actively keeping terrible traumatic memories at bay. Without their employment, these memories might take over, consuming them as relentlessly as the cake that they ate one “inconvenient Christmas.” The toggling between hope and despair in these four songs is masterful — the good, the bad, and the ugly in America’s backyard. This mythology continues to deepen with the stunning “The Deal,” in which someone is so burdened by their soul that they beg for it to be taken from them. Soon, the singer’s soul is revealed to be a bird perched on a streetlight. In a coup of songwriting, the narration does not switch into the newly-souled bird’s voice. No, we stay with the soulless “I.” The bird calls down: “You’re a cage without me. / Your pain is eased but you’ll never be free.” This song reinforces the album’s tug-of-war between the intoxication of love and the pain of isolation. Close on its heels is “My Love Mine All Mine,” an instant classic and the beating heart of the album, wherein the singer imagines their love shining down on the earth from the moon, long after the speaker is gone. “It’s just witness-less me,” she sings on “The Frost,” which suddenly takes us from the anticipation of loss right into the aching loneliness of it. On the subject of witnessing, Mitski says: “I’ve always been the person on the outside watching. And I’ve also done that with myself... outside of myself, witnessing myself, watching myself.” She thinks that she might have adopted this habit as a condition of being a woman of color, and that it’s led to the occasional post-apocalyptic fantasy of being the only person left in the world. We talked about Samuel Beckett’s Krapp’s Last Tape, in which a man is profoundly alone, with only an archive of old tapes to keep him company. He remembers the seismic event of an old sexual encounter, but now it’s: “Past midnight. Never knew such silence. The earth might be uninhabited.” The Land repeatedly offers that same hypothesis. Without love, is there anyone here? After the alien lift of “Star” comes the album’s showdown. “I’m Your Man” feels as inevitable, bloody, and haunting as a Sergio Leone duel scene. The “Man” in the title isn’t some fella proclaiming devotion, Mitski says, but rather the man inside her head, the haunting patriarch who treats her like a dog and can destroy her at whim. Despite his confidence and swagger, he is tracked down by a pack of hounds — who have unionized in the name of catharsis. After this violent reckoning, a Fowler’s Toad calls out in what sounds like a human scream. The night settles into silence. The earth might be uninhabited. We glide into the liberating closer, “I Love Me After You,” in which someone is truly alone but truly free. King of all the land. “I don’t have a self,” Mitski observes. “I have a million selves, and they’re all me, and I inhabit them, and they all live inside me.” Loving all of these selves does not yield the easy burst of a pop song. It’s the “long, complex, deep love, that you can never get to the end of, that’s always evolving, like a person. And there’s just no end to it. It feels like space travel.” The album is full of the ache of the grown- up, seemingly mundane heartbreaks and joys that are often unsung but feel enormous. It’s a tiny epic. From the bottom of a glass, to a driveway slushy with memory and snow, to a freight train barreling through the Midwest, and all the way to the moon, it feels like everything, and everyone, is crying out, screaming in pain, arching towards love. Maybe this is what our best artists do: take a spaceship into the furthest reaches of pain, in order to bring back the elixir that we already had inside us. The unknowable known of love. “You have to go to both worlds all the time,” Mitski says, by which she means the mysterious world of making and the brutal world of living. This album is an act of hyperlocal space travel. Love is that inhospitable land, beckoning us and then rejecting us. To love this place — this earth, this America, this body — takes active work. It might be impossible. The best things are.

New York psych-pop band Crumb return with AMAMA, their most carefree and open-hearted album to date. A soundscape full of playful and patchwork experimentation — glitchy pitch-shifted vocals, cell phone recordings, nautical blips, sax mouthpiece solos, blasted drum samples, and piano strings dampened with Silly Putty — AMAMA continues to deepen the band’s hypnotic sound in a cohesive line back through 2021’s Ice Melt, 2019’s Jinx, and breakout EPs Locket and Crumb. Without a doubt, AMAMA is Crumb — singer and multi-instrumentalist Lila Ramani, keyboardist and saxophonist Bri Aronow, bassist Jesse Brotter, and drummer Jonathan Gilad — at their most animated. Buoyed by Ramani’s songwriting, at turns poetically abstract and directly confessional, AMAMA culls the strange encounters from Crumb’s touring years, tracing the dizzying path of a group that’s been in movement for nearly a decade. “Crushxd” is an ecstatic requiem for a turtle flattened under the tires of a tour van; “(Alone in) Brussels” finds Ramani in forced isolation in a distant city. On “The Bug,” we’re at a pit stop in a seedy motel, where a critter’s bite leaves a nagging feeling: “It’s always on my mind / it’s just always on my mind,” Ramani repeats over a creeping groove as she wanders the place at night. On “Side by Side,” perhaps the most candid track on AMAMA, frenetic percussion and disorienting, layered synth envelop Ramani as she considers the personal sacrifices she’s made along the way. Even as it explores transient stops and fraught encounters, AMAMA features some of Crumb’s most vulnerable, tender searches for organic connection. “Home is what I want and what I need,” Ramani sings on the clear-sighted opener, “From Outside a Window Sill”—which samples a police radio scan about a flock of geese crossing a bridge in Gowanus, Brooklyn, where Ramani grew up. The title track, “AMAMA,” is an upbeat and hopeful homage to Ramani’s grandmother, her namesake, who sings in Malayalam in the opening sample. The two voices, Lila’s and Leela’s, separated by language and place, intertwine as if on a spotty long-distance call in what is the most direct love song of Crumb’s repertoire. On the album’s closer, “XXX,” laden with distorted, industrial sounds, we finally find respite—a house shared between two lovers, a safe place. In the last moments, Ramani asks: “Isn’t this as good as it can get?” AMAMA exists at the crossroads of psychedelia, pop, jazz, and rock, and cements Crumb as a band uniquely their own. Released independently on Crumb Records and produced alongside Johnscott Sanford and Jonathan Rado in Los Angeles, AMAMA is an incandescent statement about searching for solid ground, connection, and clarity in a life of nomadic upheaval.

This second album was recorded about a year after "Scenery. The delicate yet emotionally rich playing is still there, but this time it is more powerful, and the world that Fukui has depicted comes to life with clearer contours and a greater sense of depth. The sweet and sad melody of "Mellow Dream" and the dynamic and fast-paced "Horizon" are among the dazzling performances. In addition, the album features three original songs, compared to only one on the previous album, which allows the listener to enjoy Fukui's musicality even more. Considering its maturity and rich content, it is safe to say that this is a masterpiece that surpasses the first album. Ryo Fukui regrettably passed away in 2016. His delicate touch, rich tone, and beautiful compositions. We are deeply grateful for the "pleasant dream" he showed us.

Ryo Fukui is a renowned pianist born in Hokkaido, Japan. His fresh and delicate playing has attracted many listeners, and his first album, "Scenery," has been highly acclaimed worldwide. The earnest performance of his youthful days shakes the listener's emotions pleasantly. It Could Happen To You" swings as if strutting, "Early Summer" is exhilarating and joyful, and "Scenery" seems to contain the night air of late autumn. The "Hokkaido-like emotion" that blends with Fukui's qualities and combines a large scale and subtlety is pleasant to listen to. The green leaves sprouting, the dazzling clear stream, the clear sky, the snow falling without a sound.... Here, the beautiful scenery spun by Ryo Fukui lives on forever.

Brown Rice is probably the most accessible entry point into Cherry's borderless ideal, jelling into a personal, unique, and seamless vision that's at once primitive and futuristic in the best possible way. Its title track is a sensual fusion of various styles and sounds from the African, Indian and Arabic traditions. It also represents the spiritual multiculturalism that Cherry was interested in exploring during this creative period. With ex-Ornette Coleman cohorts on board – Billy Higgings on drums and Charlie Haden on double bass (also heard on electric) – the album (originally released in Italy in 1975) is a cult on its own.

Limited edition of 2021 on clear vinyl. The masterpiece released in 1973 by Joao Gilberto, known as the god of bossa nova, has been reissued in analog format! This masterpiece is known as one of the best pieces of Brazilian music of the 70s. This masterpiece is known as one of the best pieces of Brazilian music of the 70s. It contains incredibly gentle, delicate, and amazing performances with a tremendous presence.

Congo Natty is one man, a family, a movement. Mikail Tafari aka Rebel MC stands at the core, but as “Jungle Revolution” shows, he’s the lens that brings the whole into focus.

Ten tracks long, “Jungle Revolution” clearly lays out the way in which Tafari sees Jungle as a re-boot of roots reggae for a new century. Full of blood and fire, the sternum-buzz of sub-bass, rapid fire drum breaks, sweet hooks, righteous anger and professions of love, it’s the kind of passionate, committed, raw and spiritual, beautiful record that doesn’t come along that often. “The message of reggae is Ras Tafari and Ras Tafari is love,” he explains. “They sang about love but they was also prophesying and talking about the system, talking about things that were going on in the world. I saw Jungle as being that same music, where we were going to spread a message.”

That message is spread by a diverse cast of collaborators. The album was mixed with On-U legend Adrian Sherwood and Skip McDonald (whose career goes back as far as the Sugarhill Band) plays guitar and, on the deep dub of “Revolution,” melodica. Production smarts are martialled from Benny Page (on the straight up ragga-jungle of “UK Allstars”), Vital Elements (the 150bpm anthem “Jah Warriors” and “Jungle Is I and I”), Serial Killaz (the pure roots bounce and rinse out of “Get Ready”) and Boyson & Crooks (creeping technoid paranoia on “London Dungeons”). Vocalists, meanwhile, run a huge range. There’s a who’s who of UK soundsystem culture on “UK Allstars.” True Congo Natty family like Nanci & Phoebe (check out Phoebe “Iron Dread” Hibbert’s verse on “Microchip” and Nanci Correia’s contributions throughout the record) and La La & The Boo Yaa (“Jungle Souljah”) fill the album with sweet hooks and total commitment. Last, there are artists perhaps best known for their work with others, but drawing new sustenance from Congo Natty’s Rasta beliefs and political views. Lady Chann offers a scintillating contribution on “Jungle Is I and I” and Buggsy, best known for his work with Joker, makes a telling intervention.

That this all holds together into a coherent whole that nods back to the legacy of roots reggae and classic jungle without being in thrall to either is down to the clear-eyed vision of the pioneer behind it. That he could make a record so vital, so alive with love and anger and pure joy, shows that Congo Natty the man is more than just a legend. He’s a revolutionary. And that revolution is happening now. 
 

Limited edition silver 2LP Vinyl in printed inner sleeve in custom origami fold out outer sleeve, packed in printed poly bag

SML is the quintet of bassist Anna Butterss, synthesist Jeremiah Chiu, saxophonist Josh Johnson, percussionist Booker Stardrum, and guitarist Gregory Uhlmann. Their debut album 'Small Medium Large' began as a collection of long form improvisations recorded during two separate two-night stands at beloved Highland Park, Los Angeles venue ETA. Unfortunately, this major development site for the burgeoning new West Coast jazz & improvised music sound closed its doors permanently at the end of 2023. The venue, perhaps best known outside of LA for Jeff Parker's 2022 album 'Mondays at the Enfield Tennis Academy', was the perfect location for the start of SML, especially given that both bassist Anna Butterss and saxophonist Josh Johnson are part of Parker's quartet that held down a regular gig at ETA since the venue's early days (and hence thoroughly documented, heard on Parker's album). 'Small Medium Large' was engineered and recorded in stereo direct to Nagra by Bryce Gonzales and compiled, arranged, and edited with additional production, recording, and studio composition by SML across their various home studios. While editing, chopping, and rearranging stereo mixed improvisations is hardly a new idea (for a modern and relevant example we can look to Makaya McCraven's output on IARC) these results are a stunning expansion of the Teo Macero / Miles Davis editing concept explored on classics like 'In a Silent Way', 'On The Corner', and 'Get Up With It'. Stylistically though, these recordings have more in common with the proto-trance repetitions of Harmonia, and with Holgar Czukay's re-assembly technique used in his work with Can. Throw in a supremely intuitive utilization of polyrhythmic floating patterns (a la Susumu Yokota), and the result is a truly innovative take on time-clocked electronic rhythms augmented with live instrumentation that never loses that elusive human sway. 'Small Medium Large' is a sublime assemblage of circulatory grooves and textural anomalies, at different moments recalling the synth-laced improvisations of Herbie Hancock's Sextant, the jagged dance punk of Essential Logic, the rhythmic revelry of Fela Kuti, the low-end elasticity of Parliament/Funkadelic, or the glitchy dub techno of Pole. Taken in totality, the album captures a euphoric creative synchronicity between some of today's most exciting musicians.

A cornerstone of the Arbutus catalogue, this deluxe LP features a multi-page photo zine, huge party poster, and sky blue colour vinyl.TOPS are a four-piece band from Montreal, equal parts girls and guys, delivering a raw punk take on AM studio pop. Picture You Staring, is a lush array of timelessly crafted songs.Singer Jane Penny gives a new voice to the silent girl at the edge of the circle, disillusioned but honest and unpretentious, a tone complemented by David Carriere's seamless guitar playing and the measured drumming of Riley Fleck. TOPS' subtle arrangements are delivered with a cool restraint that blend with the individuality and self-assured desire of their female lead.Picture You Staring gathers strength through intimacy. Self-written, recorded and produced at Arbutus Records' studio in Montreal over the course of a year, this album contains 12 impeccable examples of pop craftsmanship that will reward repeat listeners.

Atmosphere and gravity lean into each other. They are simultaneously expansive, and anchoring. They hold us, and lend a sense of perspective. They provide a stability and a knowingness which is essential in the absolute, and yet we can't help but find ourselves gazing upward, outward and reaching towards that which sits outside those things and ways we know. Selene is a record about that this lingering desire for that which sits beyond. It is work that seeks new perspectives snatched from familiar vistas, and it meditates on that sense of anchor and perspective. The work is also a speculative hymn to the visions of the celestial zones that spill ever outward. These visions, once merely what we could perceive with the naked eye are now so much more. Our minds eye is fed in equal parts by radio telecopy, filmic dreams and fiction renders of a place most of us will never know first-hand. This recording ties into a linage that reaches back, while stretching forward. It is just one story of so many, told across places, across cultures, across generations. It sits in the in-between of before and after, and in that moment invites us to situate ourselves and lean into it.

The feeling that Anastasia Coope's music transmits seems to emanate from a precipice beyond the material world, like a void or memory pressing up against the veil. It’s exacting and enveloping, but unmoored in space and time: ghostly, spectral, far-out folk. Darning Woman, her debut album, feels like a dispatch from another past. Akin to lullabies or nursery rhymes, its minimal folk instrumentation contorts into something staccato and strange led by Coope's expressive, stratified vocals. In spite of the suggestion of antiquity that runs through Darning Woman, 21-year-old, Brooklyn-based Coope is very much a contemporary artist. Born to an English father and American mother (whose original Martin acoustic she uses to compose), she was raised in the New York village of Cold Spring. The lonely landscapes and small towns of the Hudson Valley populate her songwriting, setting wintry backdrops against the acrobatics of her voice. Her experience making this record was a largely insular one, too; she began recording music while staying at a relative’s empty home in Beacon, NY, experimenting with recording software in an empty living room, singing directly into the open space. Until that point, Coope had only thought of herself as a visual artist, not a musician– but it felt right immediately. Throughout the next year, she worked to invent the lush, sweeping universe conveyed here. Her voice is the core of this work - emotive, oscillating between shadowy effervescence and something more guttural, building atop itself. Coope spent months teaching herself to sing in a new way, through hocketing and layering her voice, constructing choirs of herself. These songs often start from a chorus or phrase that gets stuck in Coope’s head and bloom into chaotic, fractured earworms. There’s a slew of past cultural touchstones that inform her approach to music making – the avant-garde art rock of the ‘80s; Trish Keenan or Su Tissue or Brigitte Fontaine; medieval choruses; church choirs; contemporary folk; romantic close harmonies groups of the ‘50s; Meara O'Reilly’s Hockets for Two Voices. But rather than the sonics of those works, Coope was instead moved by the ephemera surrounding them, their songs’ abilities to conjure whole worlds. Here, the lush, romantic opener “He Is On His Way Home, We Don’t Live Together” is the portal into Coope’s universe. It teeters in, disquieted, a choral slowburn building into something between hysteria and euphoria, with a slinking piano and a jarring electric guitar line closing out the din. On later songs, like “Sounds of a Giddy Woman,” the auditory illusions became tactile as she composed: “I was able to envision a room of things happening, rather than me just building something,” Coope says. “The record was me starting to think spatially about music.” Coope’s songwriting revolves around intuition and aesthetics, rather than precise lyrical storytelling; she has a striking ability to invoke a sense of movement with her makeshift mantras. The word “woman” appears repeatedly throughout the album’s song titles, but for Coope, that was an unconscious motif. “The word ‘woman’ was having a physical idea of what my songs were trying to represent through this idea of a muse or an idol or an icon,” she says. “It was a mix of the idea of being maternal, of housekeeping, and then also the idea of a character, a star.” The title track serves as a skeleton key for the entire record; “Darning Woman” is a hyperphysical sing-song, a literal instruction to darn and repair, the wane and waxing repetitions that make up a life. It’s the umbrella under which the rest of the songs live. Decisive in its fervor, it loops around nesting: mending, cleaning, housework – collecting, building, and decorating – the hands-on, tangible aspects of at-home life. These songs are built from that, and mantras plucked from the ether or poems and fragments of overheard conversations jotted down, transformed into an entity unknown. Like Coope’s paintings, drawings, and mixed media artworks, which occasionally feature among the imagery in her album and single materials, her songwriting yields an esoteric distance. It’s the feeling of the work pushing back on you, holding you at arms’ length. It invites you to see, to feel, rather than know – but for all that’s arcane here, Darning Woman is rooted deeply in the things we can touch. --Libby Webster

The final album in Pastor T.L. Barrett’s 1970s four-part suite of gospel funk LPs, Do Not Pass Me By finds the fiery preacher getting spaced out on God’s love. Accompanied by his Youth For Christ Choir, the eight-song record is buoyed by the seven-minute opus “Father Stretch My Hands,” later sampled by Kanye West on 2016’s The Life of Pablo.

Operating in a basement studio at the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, pipeline man Howard Neal and his appropriately named Shoestring label was Alton, Illinois' answer to a question no one asked. Pressed in minuscule numbers and barely outside the 62002 zip code, the singles by The James Family, Jimmie Green, Pete & Cheez, and Carletta Sue are prime examples of cosmic midwestern disco in search of a break. This heavy weight 10-song LP is housed in a tip-on sleeve, and includes an essay and imagery that complete the picture of this pure expression of small-town soul.