from Video Liszt - Ektakröm Killer (1981)

I too can change, and my outright rejection of 1980's electronica may have been vaguely mellowed with time; but if you throw some robot voices in that mix, you are still going to lose me. As such, while "Pictures of Machine Men" and "The Tube" sound like this could be a more interestingly dystopian take on Kraftwerk's computer dreams (which may be explained by Richard Pinhas' acerbic presence here), the rest just seems to announce that the future will not only be soulless, but cheesy as hell (which may explain why Pinhas hid behind an alias here) - and also powered by some strange implements (you might want to watch your back there). Of course, speaking from the future, I could nonetheless give Video Liszt high marks for prescience (and a fun name); but then again, and against the mainstream critical rationale of giving props to anyone for being a precursor to anything, I fail to see any merit in the aesthetic anticipation of worst case scenarios.

from Os Tubarões - Porton d’ Nôs Ilha (1994)

This was the final album from the mythical group out of Cabo Verde, that soundtracked its independence days, following the demise, in 1974, of the dictatorial regime that ruled Portugal and its crumbling colonial system for nearly half a century - it's not for nothing that a pivotal scene in Pedro Costa's Juventude em Marcha [Colossal Youth] consists of little more than an old construction worker, Ventura, listening to their song "Labanta Braço", on a scratchy record, in the slums where people from Cabo Verde coming to Portugal in search of a better life often ended up, as little more was needed to express how political freedom does not automatically cancel out racialized social inequality and economic exploitation. 

While the album isn't bad per se (none of theirs are) it does feel overproduced and stereotypical of many a 'modern' studio recording of African music from the 90's - which means you'll be better served by any of their previous records, whose vintage electric instrumentation has aged far better. 

The final track "Mi ma mi", though, the only one by lead man Ildo Lobo, is a fine morna, that drew a moat between itself and all that came before, and was as such a clear demonstration of why he had to go the solo way from here on out, to record the absolute masterpiece that was to be Nos Morna.

from Art Zoyd - Faust (1995)

 

After their days of chamber-prog to watch cities burn down to the ground to (so you might want to keep those records handy these days), Art Zoyd progressively (or 'regressively', to be precise) stopped letting their music speak for itself (which it did before, with remarkable dramatic acuity, without any need for captions or visual aids) and began sidelining it to a supporting role, as mere accompaniment to grander productions - the sort that can bring a vaster audience your way, perhaps with no specific interest in your music (so, really, why bother continuing to work at it as much), but with a sure taste for 'events', the bigger the better. 

This soundtrack to Murnau's Faust (1926), designed to be performed live accompanying screenings of the film, is one example of that. Make no mistake, I would attend that venue; not only since any excuse to re-watch the film on the big screen would always do, but because Murnau's masterpiece would surely have no trouble in carrying the music along (rather than the other way round), and lend it some of the life, imagination, and pathos it lacks. 

In itself, though, this is a typical product from Art Zoyd's multimedia days (at least their subsequent modern classical days could be a bit more challenging): minor key atmospheres that go nowhere, failing to stand on their own without a silent movie being projected in the background, or a light show to distract you from the absence of musical colours other than synthesizer grey. 

Yet, as the Zoyds themselves could still occasionally prove, even according it a functional, subordinate role, the music really needn't be so stale. "Gates of Darkness 2", for instance, still manages to pick up on that Zoydian state of emergency vibe, with their trademark rumbling bass lines ushering panicked masses to the catacombs. 

Obviously, even that doesn't bring anything new to the table, but when what you're offered going forward is essentially defined by the absence of what was once there, it's inevitable to appreciate more whatever remnants of a crumbling past we can still get.

from Brute Force (1970)

The overstated reference to guitar mayhem master Sonny Sharrock having sat with this band, called "Brute Force", for a record with the same title, bearing that 'we mean business' photo on the cover, may understandably have jumbled a lot of people's expectations (mine included). Adding to that confusion, while he is credited only on the first three numbers, some Sharrock-like shredding is also to be heard across a few others, and no other guitar player is identified as part of the crew. 

So, what should be made clear first of all, going into this, is that it is in no way a real Sharrock-joint: even if he adds some of his trademark tremolo cacophony to part of the proceedings, at no point is that the dominant vibe. Quite to the contrary, the first half of the record is mostly devoted to some soul-jazz-funk numbers whose righteousness seems to have dispensed with more superfluous musical considerations other than carrying the message across, and whose ability to musically rough up any listener, Sharrock-style, is fairly remote. 

That being said, things do start looking up on the flip side: the more free-flowing energy of "Monster" and "Ye-le-wa" I can certainly dig; but, for me, the most pleasant surprise the record had to offer was possibly its only moment of "Doubt", whose flute-swept winds (permeated by some (short) circular-breathing-sounding figures that remind me of the incredible shower of locusts Evan Parker would unleash all over Scott Walker's Track Six; high praise for that) close the album suggesting that, ultimately, against the very statement of existence for the band and album alike, these guys could actually have been more adept at the inspirational than the confrontational - and that, contrary to our action-packed imaginary of how social justice gets done, should hardly be seen as a lesser role for any freedom fighter to take on. As so many will possibly be re-learning in these days of renewed civil unrest, taking to the streets to fight against "the man" (making his triumphant comeback) is bound to only get you halfway there, if you can't also give everyone something to fight for.

from Gordon Grdina Trio - ...If Accident Will (2008)

Proto-Sonny Sharrock guitar freakouts, proto-Grant Green guitar chillouts, proto-Anouar Brahem oud divagations, this record has it all, except a sense of identity or direction. Pick a lane, sir. 

It reminds me of Andrés Segovia having advised Julian Bream to ditch the lute and stick to the classical guitar, as you couldn't possibly master two instruments the same way you could one, devoting your entire energy to it. While I wouldn't entirely subscribe to that line of thought (as I don't particularly subscribe to Segovia playing style either, historical importance notwithstanding), especially outside of highly specialized music worlds like classical or jazz, on a case-by-case basis it can certainly hold true sometimes. 

In Bream's case, I actually find some of his lute work more satisfying than a lot of his guitar records, particularly from when Segovia's influence over guitarists everywhere was more pronounced (as in the overuse of piercing metallic tones, also found in John Williams' earlier records), so he probably made the right call in doing his own thing. 

In Grdina's, though, with the alluring "Morning Moon" clearly towering over the rest of this record, if Segovia were around to tell him to stick to the oud and ditch the guitar instead, in this instance, just like in those days when political actors were able to pursue ideological agendas and still touch base with some form of common sense (or was that just a dream?), even I would have had a hard time disagreeing with the man.

from Maledictus Sound (1968)

Before Visitors, there was Maledictus Sound, among the many other projects Jean-Pierre Massiera came up with, but while they are all nominally different, so far I have found them all to be frustratingly the same, starting with a template of more or less novelty stock music and then piling on some hired instrumental guns, extraneous tapes, and all sound effects available in the studio (so maybe John Zorn owed him a little something during his Tex Avery moods...). The most frustrating part of it though, is when he would occasionally leave a small gem behind, suggesting he could actually bring it should he want to; but he didn't feel like it, so screw you. 

In this case, it's a bonus track from 1973 which, for some aggravating reason, only got to see the light of day in a reissue of this album, and whose title, "L'étrange Monsieur Whinster", would double as the album title for another project, Horrific Child, but where that track or any other with that name is nowhere to be found, much less any one better than this one (or even close to it). 

Nominal mindf#$%ery aside, it really is a remarkable collage, always changing gears but with a sense of flow, that's unexpected, exciting and, for once, a bit creepy (unlike the cartoon monsters on the original cover of the album); and the fact that something like that remained locked away as if it were a dirty secret, while all the throwaway stuff he could muster got sent to the stores is just grrrrr. Sure, it can also spur some hope that there might be a lost project still to unearth, where Massiera took his music a tad more seriously and consistently delivered the goods; but at this point I assume that, just like those weathered comedians whose whole mental make-up gets conditioned by years of appearing in talk-shows, there was simply no way anyone could ever get him to stop doing shtick for much more than 5 minutes.

from Visitors (1974)

I have very little tolerance for gleefully trashy aesthetics, so Jean-Pierre Massiera, french king of musical exploitation and one-off artistic aliases (this being one of them), has no real hold on me. Still, I will admit that his counterfeit sound profile should be understood and discussed as a bona fide aesthetic option, and not simply as an artistic cop-out by someone who can't do any better; if nothing else, because the title track here is much better than the rest of this proto-Z-movie soundtrack, filled with 'futuristic' sounds, 'alien' voices, and ghoulish choirs chewing the cardboard sci-fi scenery. On the other hand, and as you can surely surmise from that description, for those times when eliciting condescending derision is one of the main sources of enjoyment you can get out of a work of 'art', this might be right up your alley. Who knows, it may even sync up nicely with that copy of Plan Nine From Outer Space.

from Panta Rhei - Bartok (1976-77)

As is well known, adaptations of classical pieces for rock instruments are one of the things that made prog a much maligned genre, and that, like any snap judgement, can be partly right, in what concerns those who engaged in such generally contemptible practices (when (and how) they did: I'd certainly never throw Gentle Giant's mostly stellar discography overboard on account of a warped quote of Liszt's Liebestraum No. 3 on "Nothing at all" (which could even be heard as a deconstructionist take on romantic aesthetics and subject matters) - I'm not even dismissing that otherwise fine song because of it), but it can also be very wrong in what concerns those who were actually thinking progressively about music, instead of simply doing electrical versions of more or less recognizable musical pages from the western canon. Regrettably, that is what these ELPesque adaptations of Béla Bartók pieces essentially do; but that doesn't mean I would go as far as Bartók's heirs have, in determining that this shouldn't even be released. In fact, and taking into account that these guys have already been punished enough for their hubris, I might be even willing to concede that the initial "Quarts" may bring some nuance to such a critical view, by suggesting that, at least in short syncopated bursts, even rehashed old formulas can for a brief moment bring a spring to your step.

from Harald Grosskopf - Synthesist (1980)

For a record of electronic music released in 1980, called Synthesist, and with the artist looking like a chromed nerd on the cover (possibly also doing the robot on his live shows), this could certainly be worse; but that's not exactly enough. The album still bears some traces of Grosskopf's respectable resume, having played with quite a few krautrock household names: the more spacey tracks in particular ("B. Aldrian" and "Trauma") can pleasantly recall Ashra's m.o. on the best parts of New Age of Earth, although in a more rushed way (it is 1980 after all: time to wake up, snort a line, grab your briefcase, get a cappuccino on the way, and go to the office). 

Sadly, the tracks relying more heavily on repetitive rhythms and sequencer patterns may also recall Ashra's m.o. on the worst parts of New Age of Earth - only without Manuel Göttsching's guitar inventions to give it some form of human touch, which is why a good chunk of this ends up feeling a bit like music on autopilot. Now, I'm sure that, in AI times, saying that will quickly stop being the burn I still think it is, as HAL 9000 2.0 fixes the whole of existence and makes life all smooth-sailing from here on out (whether you like it or not), but, call me old-fashioned, as long as I get the choice, and even if solely as a safeguard, I do still prefer my pilots to at least stay awake for the duration of the flight.

from Paolo Tofani - Indicazioni (1977)

Oh dear, it's Cramps' avantgarde series, the 1970's italian place for experimental musicians (italian and otherwise) to unleash their most experimental instincts; this time around, the guitarist extraordinaire from Area, in a solo effort where, just as in the solo efforts his colleagues Demetrio Stratos and Patrizio Fariselli recorded for the same label, it would be ill-advised to expect to find much semblance of what that revolutionary powerhouse (in every possible sense) usually brought to the table as a collective. 

As such, like the bulk of these Cramps records, this one is a bit of a tough bone to pick, and while I have nothing against thought-provoking music, I do enjoy being thrown a meatier snack once in a while to reward my attention - same reason why physics professors feel the need to crack a joke about two atoms walking into a bar halfway through their lectures on quantum mechanics. 

That's sort of what Tofani does on "Tung Tze Mao", sandwiching his electronic feedback experiments between some lovely liquid guitar harmonies (that I'm sure hold their place in Jim O'Rourke's boundless echoic memory; what they might have to do with the "great helmsman", though, is beyond me), but that's about your only treat for the day. 

Beyond that, apart from a choppy vocal piece, it's an all straight lecture on the art of the avantgarde guitar. It may very well be of theoretical interest, and mixes in some sound experiments that can make you occasionally go 'cool'; but if you're easily distracted like me, there's also a good chance that, from time to time, you'll find yourself drawn to other pressing matters, like folding paper airplanes or sticking gum underneath the desk.