from David Shire - The Conversation (1974/2001)

 

As usual for soundtracks, even for one of Coppola's (discreetly) greatest films (beware, spoilers ahead), The Conversation suffers from consisting mostly of minor variations on a main theme. Even when it breaks free from it, for a couple of snappy jazz numbers, it kills the mood produced by said theme which, in itself, is fantastic, and (like that final panoramic shot, going back and forth, as if mimicking a security camera, of Gene Hackman playing his sax in the middle of a presumably bugged apartment futilely ripped to shreds) perfectly embodies the film's atmosphere of ultimately resigned surrender to all-pervading suspicion, surveillance, menace and paranoia (obviously, a now unrelatable 1970's problem). Still, once is enough. A few variations do try to reach for some unusual tools, venturing timidly into musique concrète, but all of it is always cut short by a constant return to that inescapable theme, whose recurrence could even be said to bear a certain thematic pertinence. However, when its execution follows (no matter how tastefully) the principle of least artistic effort, it can still make you rapidly feel that, like good old Gene, you're just being made to run around in circles.

from Bacamarte / Mário Neto - Sete Cidades (1999)

 

from Bacamarte - Depois do fim (1983)

Mário Neto was obviously a skilled guitarist, but that's not enough to elevate this rather generic 1980's brazilian prog affair (where there's not even anything specifically 'brazilian' to begin with). While it has gained something of a cult status within the 'community', I actually think the album Neto released in 1999, Sete Cidades, where he gets to show off all he wants, has a higher ratio of interesting compositional and instrumental bits; even if, overall, it is clearly under-produced (maybe to its own benefit) and marred by similar problems as this one, mostly its all round lyrical ingenuousness.

Anyway, it's actually funny how, for a genre that's reputed for being complex and pretentious, you often get in these records a single track that demonstrates, by contrast, how often proggers dialed back the adventurousness they were capable of, to meet some sort of commercial expectations, thus aesthetically cancelling what the genre was supposed to be all about. Here, it is "Controvérsia", which, if you can give some of those badly dated farty moog sounds a pass, is a short instrumental track that possibly has as much musical moxie as the rest of the album combined, because, apparently, the market ruled that having a girl sing corny melodies about the end of the world (no matter how topical that keeps getting) over synth chords with some soloing in between is "progressive". I beg to differ.

from Modern Music Band - Modern Music Band (1972)

Here's one of those 1970's bands whose eagerness to be "modern" (which this swedish outfit equated with putting together some brass/hammond-driven proto-progressive pop-rock songs, à la early days Chicago) actually entailed that their music quickly sounded rather passé. Neither exciting nor offensive, all the songs just pass me by, and the instrumental breaks aren't given enough time to showcase anything other than standard competence, which is a shame, because, judging by the progressive jazzy intro "Betjänten", if the band had been left to their own design, without having to pay lip service to some hey-I'm-hip vocalizing, I could see this being an album I would be happy running my mouth about.

from Amoebic Ensemble - Limbic Rage (1995)

Proto-avant prog, of the pseudo-gypsy wedding persuasion, that can't help but feel somewhat incomplete without the proper week-long reception - that is, with the exception of "What I Did Last Summer", that does its best to implant you with the false memory of having been there and partying so hard that you can't remember a single thing about it - which I don't, so it must be true. Sources tell me that is the way of the world now.

from Rui Júnior - O Ó Que Som Tem? (1983)

There is usually no deeper chasm between the relative enjoyment musicians and spectators can get from a musical performance than the one produced by an all-(unpitched)-percussion collective - that is, except the one resulting from hearing it on record, and this isn't the album to disprove that. There was some instrumental variety in this portuguese ensemble's kit, which could make for a decent showcase - although it all surprisingly lacks rhythmic punch, as if their neighbors had threatened 'next time' they would call the cops -, and the opener "Recolhimento", beginning with some welcome chants and bagpipes (that could have made a difference going forward, but only return, too little too late, in the final tracks), making it sound like you're following a medieval procession of monks into a recondite forest for some cabbalistic rituals, can give you hope that maybe there'll be something more to this; but then you enter a clearing, everyone takes off their cloaks, and it turn's out it's just a bunch of dudes arranging themselves into a more worldly drum circle, so, either be ready to pick up a djembe and join in, or you might want to bring some aspirin along just in case.

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 ground (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 supposedly from 1973, "L'étrange Monsieur Whinster", which would open the album of the same name (but where it was titled "Frayeur") released in 1976 under yet another distinct project identity, Horrific Child, and where it was also the only thing really worth keeping, as despite the album's cranked up weirdness, a good measure of associated goofiness could still not be avoided. 

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 could remain locked away as if it were a dirty secret, while all the throwaway stuff he could muster got sent to the stores is what's really bizarre. 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.

from Milladoiro - Iacobus Magnus (1994)

Like any self-respecting folk legend, after 15 years of hard work, the masters of Galician folk music decided to proclaim themselves an institution by delivering a symphonic opus, thereby forsaking the very vitality that suffused their music, when it evoked mossy forests and gurgling brooks, instead of stuffy concert halls. "Per Loca Maritima" can still beckon the imagination for a moment, but then you find yourself again in your seat, your backside is getting numb, someone is trying to discreetly unwrap a piece of candy, starts getting shushed to no end, proceeds to do it louder just out of spite, and so on. A wonderful cultural soiree it was, I'm sure, but I'd always prefer siting on a damp log, as long as it's in the enchanted woods of A Galicia de Maeloc. 

from Irene Papas/Vangelis - Odes (1979)

Take Vangelis out of the equation, and perhaps we could have had something here, as in the a cappella "Les Kolokotronei" - even if Papas' voice sounds a bit more actorly (well, duh) than what usually passes for musical, which can be fine if you own it (particularly when, to speak of cultural 'tragedies', what passes for musical is increasingly defined and standardized by stuff like singing contests), but I'm not entirely convinced that she does; that she is not trying to sound prettier than she should or could. 

Whatever the case, Papas is not really the problem here, it's you know who. Even if his bombast is not in full flair, making this at least acceptable, it still sounds structurally wrong, and could hardly have been otherwise, given the naïveté with which it enacts its 'ancient meets modern' artistic program; handling a delicately chiseled repository of beauty, that managed to stand the test of time, with the blunt tools best known for their affinity with muzak (it's even a bit confounding, with all the money he surely won with and spent on it, how the very tones of his synth-gear could so often sound so 'cheap'). 

So, as it stands, this pseudo-modernization of traditional greek music inevitably misses the mark on all counts for me: it simply cannot grasp the cultural depth and beauty of ruins, nor is it able erect anything new; least of all, my aesthetic arousal.

from Hiromasa Suzuki - Primrose (1978)

That cover pits the threat of some ECM'esque jazz blandness against Suzuki's earlier street cred from his freaky world fusion days, and generally speaking I'd have to say the cover has it. 

Thinking back, that might not seem so surprising if you consider that Suzuki's music, even at its wildest, always flirted with compromise at some level. Just take ロック・ジョイント琵琶 ~ 組曲　ふることふみ (Rock Joint Biwa ~ Kumikyoku Furukotofumi): while the unexpected mix of psychedelic rock with biwa instrumentals and avant-jazz orchestrations (that wouldn't be out of place in the more experimental big band outings from Masahiko Satoh and Toshiyuki Miyama & The New Herd) resulted in some of his finest musical concoctions, it also appears that the recording of some of it was made to share the room with the taping of scenes for a pink film, leading the band, as they leered on occasion at their randy roommates, to let the music follow suit and take on some cheaper 'japsploitation' hues. That's how I explain it, anyway.

On this here Primrose, though, Suzuki wasn't going for compromise; he was going for a complete overhaul, in the form of some well-behaved jazz piano trio. 

Perhaps that was a way to dilute the questioning more far-out artists can so often face, in art forms where a certain technical proficiency sets the bar for recognition, on whether they can actually play it straight; but if you're one of those people who feel that pushing the boundaries is no less a distinctive artistic feat than honing a craft defined by a clear set of skills (feats which may coexist in the same artist, but not at all necessarily), you probably can't help but question what's the point in proving you can pull off something (which you might argue he (partly) did; at least "Crystal" is a lovely ballad) that thousands of other artists have pulled off before on a million other records. 

That is a question this album doesn't seem to have any real answer for, or is even remotely concerned with, so it might have been pointless to ask. Maybe it was just what he felt like doing at the time; 'expectations be damned!' 

Even so, consciously or not, "Dis-charge", shaking the jazzy business as usual with a few extra mood swings, can be thought of as offering a suggestion on how to address the inevitable crossfire of criticisms you'll face when planning to change artistic gears: even if you disappoint everyone at present, it'll still make a difference going forward when you do it with panache.

from The Ladytron (2000)

I first heard this album in the middle of one of the playlists I sometimes put together to fill up a whole busy workday with music (when I won't have time to cyclically pick and choose what to listen to next), and while I couldn't identify it, I kept thinking I had heard it before (which is why I resisted the urge to confirm what it might be, forcing my failing memory to work for it (which is why it was a relief to find out by the end that my personal Mnemosyne was right in turning me down)). As a result, that unwitting listening experiment was thus testament not only to this music's efficacy as a throwback to (neo-)psychedelic times, but also to its limitations in affirming an autonomous identity (which I guess could be expected from a band that took its name from another band's song - even if they don't really sound like Roxy Music). The (nearly) final track "Nighty Nite", though, sweet and creepy, like a lullaby sung by the monsters under your bed, does feel entirely their own, and I sure would have liked to hear an entire album that lived up to that tune. Unfortunately, as the story goes, after that it was lights out, and they were never to be heard from again...