Tuesday 20 September 2011

Dayse and Aver EP01- Review

Like a scratched Isaac Hayes record, the industrial soundscape of 19th century Manchester provided the sultry mood music to the conception of a new age. Spinning frames, steam engines and the howls of disfigured children; a sensual rhythm to which Karl and Friedrich thrust their swollen and throbbing dictations deep into each other’s minds. The hirsute lovers tangled like spiders caught in their own web of intellectual lust, it became impossible to tell where one beard stopped and the other began. Sometimes, Engels would pretend to be the proletariat, tied tight to the frame of his bed, while Marx played the cruel Mill owner. “Spare the rod and spoil the child, my dear boy,” he’d say, spitting on his hand. It was in this setup that they penetrated further into the concept than ever before. Distributing his warm wealth across Engels’ perfect oily body, inspiration struck. “I’ve got it,” he shrieked, “My best line yet… but what rhymes with ‘chains’?

Stains. The Capitalist bed sheets were well and truly soiled that day, leaving a mess the servants of the Imperial Machine are still struggling to remove. With all of this in mind, it‘s fitting that Dayse and Aver’s ode to our city is a reflection on the revolution that it helped to inspire. It comes in the guise of a hip-hop concept album- portraying a not so distant Mancunian dystopia. A terrifying cauldron in which brutality, surveillance and hidden menace meld to form a hellish urban penal colony. D&A have created a future every bit as vivid as the books and movies that inspired it; and in doing so, they have provided a powerful commentary of the present.
This debut is a soundtrack for a world in which many of us carry tracking devices in our pockets, willingly, like lambs unaware of their shepherd’s plans for them. Our midnight bus rides, blazed and bleary, are under the cycloptic gaze of countless security cameras.  Dayse’s lyrics confront a society that has allowed the gap between the rich and the poor to widen, systematically removing the safety net from under those who lose their grip.  References to social philosophers from previous centuries show him to be a well read MC, acutely aware of the Industrial Revolution’s parallels to the present.

Dayse and Aver The beats laid down by Aver match the lyricist’s dexterous flow with a sonic syncretism the two have honed through years of performing in The Natural Curriculum.  Opening track, Hell Is a City, is a statement of intent- over a haunting wall of synths a sample, sourced from the bowels of science fiction, warns the listener that returning to Earth is suicide. And right about then Aver introduces us to the Bass- lurching and stuttering and heavy as hell.

The EP’s strengths lie in its diversity, various flows and styles are fused seamlessly; from nocturnal jazz of Dark Matter to the MF Doom-esque psychedelia of 221120100. Human Zoo sounds like some kind of nightmarish Native Tongues production. Despite the nods to influences (some obvious, others less so), EP001 stands out on its own terms as a work of individuality and artistic integrity. Somehow managing to sound both old school and futuristic, Dayse and Aver have hit on something that deserves to be noticed.


Friday 16 September 2011

Haunted Insomniac Ambient Mixtape

 
1. Hildur Guðnadóttir- Elevation
2. Francesco Tristano- Andover
3. Deathprod- Dead People's Things
4. Aiden Baker- The Sea Swells a Bit
5. The KLF- Elvis On The Radio, Steel Guitar In My Soul
6. Caretaker- False Memory Syndrome
7. The Hafler Trio- Buggy White Flings
8. Oren Armarchi- The Evening So Soon
9. Murcof- Come Quislera Decirte (Remix)
10. Iancu Dumitrescu- Grande Ourse
11. Tangerine Dream- Birth Of Liquid Plejades
12. ASVA- Birds

Wednesday 7 September 2011

Free Trojan Horse!

Something interesting has been happening over the last few months. A good band actually seems to be getting some of the attention they deserve... and (whisper it) they're actually nice guys too. If, like me, you are sick and tired of boring run of the mill, marketing campaigns disguised as bands getting all the buzz, then this is undoubtedly a good thing. I mean, who the fuck actually listens to WU LYF anyway? Certainly no one that I'd rescue from a canal boat fire.

If you live in Manchester and have been cursed with the insatiable desire for new and exciting music, you'll be pretty familiar with the great "scene" we've got going here. Lots of great musicians make great sounds for great people in great places. It’s all really great. Unfortunately, the rest of the country tends to overlook all the good stuff coming out of the city in favour of the endless stream of anaemic pussbags erupting from Wilmslow’s ass like a tepid pill shit.

Perhaps this is starting to change to some extent. Like the blinding flash of light as the police raid an illegal sex dungeon, there is hope for the disenfranchised. Our days of being chained to the greasy torture rack of anonymity may be a long way from over, but one of our own are about to break free. Having just been featured in Classic Prog Rock Magazine (that ubercool guardian of hipster style and taste), Trojan Horse are about to embark on a nationwide tour which is bound to increase their profile.

Personally, I couldn't be happier for them. I've been living vicariously through Nick Duke's beard for the last few years, whispering into the ears of underaged emo girls that I used to be in a band with the guy. Things are about to get a lot better for me. And for You, because The Horse fucking rock. Comprising of three ginger brothers and some other Guy, the band is often referred to as Eccles' answer to Hanson-  and believe me, their jaunty Prog-Metal styling totally lives up to the comparison.

To celebrate their recent turn of fortune, the Horse are giving away their debut LP (which I reviewed a few months ago) for free. So why not click HERE and download it? You could even listen to it... if you're into that kind of thing.

Friday 2 September 2011

Manchester Evening Coming Down

Rain, too cold for August, hammers down from an unforgiving sky. A damp cotton hood does little to protect my aching forehead from the icy daggers. A waterline has worked its way up my jeans, slowly, like poison creeping towards the young Montague’s heart. My shoes- wet and heavy- are drowned corpses.

I’m not headed anywhere. There’s no reason to be out in this weather, but I walk all the same.

Hands in pockets, I drift through Piccadilly Gardens, my shoulders bump into strangers and I don’t try hard enough to avoid the tsunamis of bus splash wheels. The perverted lights of the amusement arcade pierce the dull night, grotesquely twisting the shadows of old men sharing cigarettes outside a betting shop. Under the concrete archway, Somali boys in brand new baseball caps laugh and huddle close together. A young couple kiss on the low bridge over the fountain, stopping to watch me walk by.

I pretend not to notice.

Bars and restaurants are full of strangers, as alien to me as B-movie atrocities. Lads clad in white t-shirt horror, swagger into the rain, oblivious to all as they shout and sing. Like brothers in a morgue, they all smell of the same cheap fragrance. Further down the road, men in pinstriped suits and no ties, talk on and on about mortgages and their daughters’ university fees and the state of test cricket. Their shoes seem dry- I wonder how they got there.

A beautiful woman rushes past me, her pendulum hips awakening butterflies in the pit of my stomach. A suitcase follows her towards the station like an enthusiastic dog, its wheels slip sliding on the wet pavement. I wish I could go with her too, but she moves faster then my serotonin depleted soul can manage. Soon, she’s out of sight, lost among a crowd of passengers in waiting. By the time I reach the taxi rank, I can’t remember what she looked like.

A left at the Star and Garter takes me into a tunnel’s cobwebbed womb. The flickering of the overhead yellow lights always play tricks on my eyes, conjuring phantom shapes to dance around me. I sit down for a while, finally out of the rain, back against the filthy brick wall of my haunted cave. Happily, I remember a can of beer in my bag. Passing pedestrians sidestep me, as if avoiding a fallen gorgon, careful not to make eye contact. Sipping the cold beer as the trains roll over head, I feel, momentarily, content.

Time travels, cars drive by and more trains pass above me. Two cops in diseased jaundice jackets walk towards me. I attempt to hide the can, but they don’t care either way. They just walk by. Using my hands, I get to my feet. Out of the tunnel now, I climb the hill through the industrial estate where balding men get blowjobs in maroon Cavaliers. Tyres screech as someone makes a get away, or perhaps begins a pursuit- I can’t say. Two whores in tall leather boots and high skirts stand beneath a single blue umbrella. Madonnas in boob tubes. I smile and say hello, but they just scowl and look away- disgusted by an uninvited traveller in this barren land. Unexpectedly, their snub hurts more than a lifetime of averted gazes. “Fucking Cunts,” I mutter under my breath- kicking a puddle and instantly regretting it.

In Ancoates, where the giants once were, amidst the rubble of burnt out mills and crumbling warehouses, kids- with the glowing eyes of hungry foxes- ride by on the back wheels of their bikes. I begin to think about the moon, invisible behind the clouds, and whether it really controls us. Are we just marionettes, twisting at the whim of Dianna’s silver strings? I pick up a litre of whisky from the nearest off licence, deciding that wheat and barley have stronger pulls than any lunar cycle.

The path along the canal is strange and muddy so when I manage to climb down there I’m completely alone. I watch the stadium’s floodlights reflecting in the murky water, which moves just as I do- propelled by a force we can’t understand. I continue my aimless journey. I am Nebuchadnezzar, king of Nothing. Through the lonesome dark and endless sheets of rain, I push onwards towards my kingdom. I’m going Nowhere.