Cerca:see other linda

Few artists arrive as compellingly yet elusively as did Stuart Moxham upon the startling debut of Young Marble Giant's sole studio album, Colossal Youth. Initial excitement was thrust upon the young Alison Statton, who sang songs written by Stuart with a couple of exceptions. The unaffected tone of her voice was in steep contrast to the typical goings-on in that still quite punky time, but it was what she sang that fully sold it. Moxham's lyrics were both intensely personal and woefully oblique. There seemed to be a sort of story in there. Confusingly, that story often felt like it was Alison's rather than the fellow who'd penned it. The unexpected miracle a deal with Rough Trade and the album's subsequent success had the band stymied for a second act and it wasn't long before the group disintegrated, although circumstances often brought members and a few of their peers - among them Debbie Pritchard, Spike Williams, and a third Moxham brother, Drew. - Phil Moxham was the band's bassist - together in odd combinations and pairings. None of the three YMG members have been especially prolific, but it's Stuart's career that has seemed the least straightforward, as if he'd wondered, "What to do when your debut is a nearly perfect artefact?" In the case of his first "solo" full-length in thirty years, Stuart took the unusual step of entering an alien studio with American producer Dave Trumfio (who's also the leader of Pulsars and bassist for Mekons) and allowing him to decide what tracks (of a large number submitted by Stuart) to record, and how they'd be orchestrated. Or not. In this case - save for the writing and composing - it's really Dave's album as much as Stuart's. The tracks went with Dave back to LA, where they were mixed, a few parts added (including subtle backing vocals from the incredible Linda Smith) . . . then later unmixed and reworked by John Henderson and Roni Ayala back in Valencia. Both versions will be made available, and both have a compelling cohesion missing from some of Stuart's work since YMG. Stuart's minimalism is quite intact, the range of emotions quite wide. There are few artists operating today like Stuart Moxham, a composer of the upper echelon of innate talent who combines avant-garde ideas with deceptively forthright personal lyrics, solid hooks, ambience and vaguely off-centre instrumentation which defies the casual marketplace as confoundingly as it ever did to the underground, whatever that is these days. His songs have been admired and / covered by everyone from Lush to Kurt Cobain, adaptations in Japanese and even a French-language hit by Etienne Daho, adaptations by Hole, Galaxie 500, Magnetic Fields, Belle And Sebastian and many others - but a new Stuart Moxham album is a special kind of joy.

Carly Simon’s No. 1 smash “You’re So Vain” lingers as one of the most clever and famous songs ever recorded. The subject of mass speculation ever since its release, soon after which it occupied the top spot on multiple Billboard charts for weeks, the anthem kept a captive public guessing at the identity of its smug subject for decades. The question surrounding the protagonist’s identity remained perhaps the only mystery on the otherwise sexually open and autobiographically daring No Secrets, Simon’s commercial breakthrough and ‘70s singer-songwriter staple.

Sourced from the original master tapes, pressed at Fidelity Record Pressing in California, strictly limited to 3,000 numbered copies, and housed in a Stoughton gatefold jacket, Mobile Fidelity’s 180g 45RPM 2LP set affords the platinum-certified 1972 effort the finest sonic treatment it’s received on vinyl. Helmed by Richard Perry and recorded at London’s Trident Studios — where Beatles, David Bowie, and Elton John captured landmark LPs — No Secrets touts exceptional production qualities highlighted by this restorative reissue.

Audiophiles and record collectors, take note: This is the first time No Secrets has been available on 45RPM. The wider grooves and dead-quiet surfaces pay instant dividends. Simple, elegant, and disarming, songs seemingly float amid wide, deep soundstages. Simon’s voice takes on a confident, assertive tenor that emerges with accurate imaging, balanced tonality, and palpable presence. String arrangements and backing vocals come through with similar realism.

Enhanced by an all-star cast — Simon’s then-husband James Taylor, Paul and Linda McCartney, Mick Jagger, Lowell George, Klaus Voorman, Bobby Keys, Jim Keltner, Nicky Hopkins, and Bonnie Bramlett are among the renowned musicians who lend a hand — No Secrets advances Simon’s themes of personal introspectiveness, no-holds-barred reflectiveness, and feminist-inspired boldness. She makes every moment of No Secrets worth savoring. Simon invests her all in the songs, handling beautiful ballads, sassy folk-rock numbers, and bluesy fare with calm, composure, and candor.

While acknowledging her own regrets (“You’re So Vain”) and loss (“The Carter Family”), Simon champions the highs (“The Right Thing to Do”) and pains (“His Friends Are More Than Fond of Robin”) of love in a sincere manner indicative of her maturity as both an artist and singer. The New York native distinguishes “When You Close Your Eyes” with deep-rooted spirituality, recalls childhood joys via charming sentimentality on “It Was So Easy,” and and takes ownership of her persona on a cover of Taylor’s “Night Owl.”

“We have no secrets
/We tell each other everything,” Simon sings at the record’s midpoint, encapsulating both the themes and bravura of an effort that was nominated for four Grammy Awards and saw her write or co-write every song but one. Combined with Perry’s savvy instrumental arrangements, her self-assured performances and forthright lyrics grant No Secrets an edginess and relevance immune to the ravages of time.

Futura Resistenza is pleased to present the latest release from the prolific, restlessly creative composer-performer Anthony Pateras, two side-long pieces - one performed by Callum G'Froerer on double-bell trumpet, the other sung by Clara La Licata - in which soloists are accompanied by numerous pre-recorded tracks of their own instrument or voice, creating acoustic halls of mirrors where the distinction between live performer and recorded accompaniment becomes difficult to perceive. Palimpsest Geometry (2020) for double-bell trumpet & tape works with rapidly pulsed single trumpet notes, at brisk tempos that hover at the perceptual threshold between rhythm and tremolo. The interaction between different rates of pulse produces skittering echoes, as if G'Froerer's layers of trumpets were really a single sound bouncing around the sonic space. There Is A Danger Only Our Mistakes Are New (2021) for voice & tape goes to work on a see-sawing two-note melodic cell, insistently transposed and transposed again, hummed or sung with open vowels, contracting to a semitone and expanding to a minor third. More than anything in the canon of Western art music, the piece calls up the criss-crossing repeated figures of Inuit vocal games or the interlocking repetitions of Banda-Linda music, where rhythmic and harmonic displacements of repeated motifs fuse together individual parts into the illusion of an impossibly rich and multi-faceted unitary sonic organism. Essentially homogeneous in texture yet built up from constantly changing details, broadly static yet always moving and shifting, these pieces exemplify Pateras' recent work while also pushing it into a new, strikingly immediate direction. Here, form grows organically out of the material itself; the results are sparkling, immersive, and quietly uncompromising. (Francis Plagne)

In the Andes of Peru, in a valley formed by the Huallaga River, lies the city of Huanuco. There, a little over fifty years ago, the emblematic cumbia band Los Darlings de Huánuco was born, and since then their compositions have gone around the world, bringing their homeland to the ears of music lovers and collectors. Adversities kept them away from music for two decades, but in spite of this, they marked a parallel path and created their own history in the maximum splendor of Peruvian cumbia. In a valley formed by the Huallaga River lies a temperate land located on the eastern slopes of the central Andes of Peru: Huánuco. A little more than seventy years ago, in that land of mountains and starry skies at almost 2,000 meters above sea level, Juan Nájera was born. A multifaceted musician by profession, he did not always have the privilege of being able to dedicate his life to music. For almost ten years he ran a family hardware store in Huánuco and then a mechanic shop on La Marina Avenue in Lima. He was also a truck driver. A decade of military dictatorships in Latin America made the artist's path very hard in the region, and Peru was no exception. Nájera was only nineteen when his first son was born. He had to make a living and the possibilities for entrepreneurship were slim. But if we go back in history, Juan Nájera was, first and foremost, a boy who dreamed of becoming a musician. Later, he was a boy who made it. Los Darlings de Huánuco managed to cross borders, not only in the capital of Peru, but also abroad. There are many collectors and music lovers around the world who seek and appreciate their songs, musical gems that have toured different latitudes and have managed to position this band from the Peruvian countryside in the most remote places on the planet. In a country characterized by its centralism, where opportunities in the countryside are much scarcer than in the capital, where the foreigner is greeted with more warmth than the local, and where getting ahead, especially in the musical field, implies an extraordinary effort, Los Darlings de Huánuco managed to take their sound to where they never thought it would be possible. From the Andes to the skyscrapers, from the heart of Huánuco to the immensity of other continents.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Theresa Stroetges returns to Karaoke Kalk with her second album for the Berlin-based label, her fifth solo full-length with her Golden Diskó Ship project in total. Having released records with the Indian-German band project Hotel Kali as well as Painting, a group dedicated to audio-visual concepts, »Oval Sun Patch« sees her embrace influences from club culture, advanced electronic music, and pop more firmly than ever before. Over the past 15 years, Golden Diskó Ship has served a vessel with which the Berlin-based multi-instrumentalist has traversed a variety of genres and circumnavigated all conventions in the process. With »Oval Sun Patch,« Stroetges again sets sail into unknown waters with what is perhaps her catchiest album so far—beat-driven, playful, atmospheric, and at times thoroughly anthemic. This is the sound of Golden Diskó Ship moving forward.

A life lived in transit, the vastness of bodies of water and the isolation of islands as well as more generally notions of processes and progress have been recurring motives throughout Stroetges’ previous records and also mark »Oval Sun Patch.« In fact, the foundation for the six pieces was laid when she was working abroad and at times close to the sea. The massive three-part album closer »Earth Before The Space Race« was conceived as a multi-channel audio-visual performance piece during a 2021 residency at Zaratan Arte Contemporânea in Lisbon. The others were written in the following year during two other residencies when Stroetges first spent time in Austria at the sound art festival Klangmanifeste in Lindabrunn and then visited Portugal once more for a stay at Goethe-Institut in Lisbon. With the help of Shelley Barradas, who lent her a guitar, and Julia Klein, who helped her setting up a temporary studio in the Goethe-Institut Portugal’s auditorium, she made the preliminary recordings of what would later become this album.

»Oval Sun Patch«, later refined in Berlin and mixed in close collaboration with London-based engineer Hannes Plattmeier, is a direct result of Stroetges having to work with what was available to her at the time of writing and recording. While her distinct guitar playing—evocative yet funky, complex but catchy—once more features heavily and she uses her voice in manifold ways to sometimes harmonise with herself or creating complex canons as counterpoints to her her own lead vocals, the electronic gear she worked with dominates the album both compositionally and sonically. Stroetges’ music has always displayed a passion for club culture and advanced electronic music, but on »Oval Sun Patch« she proves once and for all how well these influences can be integrated into her unconventional approach to songwriting.

However, the punchy beat and Moroder-like bassline that form the backbone of »Dolphins With Soft Helmets,« the throbbing house and techno grooves underneath »Ephemeral Carnivores« and »Well-Oiled Machine« as well as the jittery IDM rhythms of »Google Your New Name« and her nods to trip-hop with »Tiny Island« do not so much follow established formulas as they use them as a starting point for wild experimentation instead. Stroetges juxtaposes complex rhythms with interlocking melodies and rich harmonies in ways that continue to surprise throughout and still leave enough space for the occasional wistful guitar or vocal passage. Nowhere does this approach feel more epic than on the 12 ½ minutes long »Earth Before The Space Race,« which takes its time to unfold, changing its pace and mood throughout.

»Oval Sun Patch« is an album about change. The lyrics describe constant transformations of sceneries, relationships, physical and emotional states as well as the climate throughout its running time. Stroetges in the meanwhile leads the way as a singer, songwriter and producer who lets her music evolve constantly. This is sound, moving forward.

They drift with phantom ease from spare, intimate, literate alt-country to a nuanced, weighted music bearing the marks of rock'n'roll history..." Classic Rock 8/10 // ”...slow burning, emotional intensity" Mojo **** // ”Alluring and seductive." Uncut **** // Morton Valence’s eighth, and eponymously titled album, comes to you, courtesy of Cow Pie Recordings, featuring 11 new songs, produced by the legendary BJ Cole. Robert ‘Hacker’ Jessett and Anne Gilpin, who form the nucleus of Morton Valence, effortlessly take the country music genre, which is generally considered a uniquely American musical form, and create something uniquely English, without ever compromising their authenticity. The atmosphere that BJ Cole brings to the album is palpable, in both production values, and his unmistakable pedal steel guitar performances, on songs such as the plaintive ‘Together Through the Rain’, where an estranged Anne and Hacker reunite under the shelter of an umbrella, walking through the rain and trading verses along the way. Or the more upbeat country rock of ‘I’ve Been Watching You/You’ve Been Watching Me’, which is almost as if Richard and Linda Thompson had touched down in some Nashville backbar before heading for the bright lights. And of course, the scintillatingly down-beat opener, and instant urban-country classic; ‘Summertime in London’, where Hacker reflects on his home city from afar, through simultaneously tear-stained and rose-tinted glasses. What gives the album its country hallmark, are the narratives in the songs. However, they forego the typical Americana for an altogether more kitchen-sink aesthetic. We see the return of MV alter egos Bob and Veronica in ‘Bob and Veronica’s Big Move’, as they make their way from the big city to what could only be the arcadian blue-collar tranquillity of Hastings, or Skegness perhaps? There’s the bewildered small-town homecoming of a wannabe prodigal son in ‘A Town Called Home’. And a conversation with ‘Jim’, a seemingly old-school kind of bloke, with a penchant for midday drinking and late-night city shenanigans. As well as BJ Cole’s steel guitar, there are other collaborations too. ‘Like a Face that’s Been Starved of a Kiss’, co-written with Band of Holy Joy front man, and lyrical visionary Johny Brown. Flamenco guitar genius, Amir John Haddad, sits in on the urban-cowboy ballad, ‘Me & My Old Guitar’, the skewed violin of Dylan Bates brings something of the vaudeville to songs such as ‘It Isn’t Easy Being an Angel’, Guy Jackson adds his sublime keyboards throughout, and the whole thing is held together by unsung rhythm section heroes Jamie Shaw on drums and Josh De Mita on bass. As with all Morton Valence albums, along with the shade, there is always some light, in particular the escapist cosmic romp of ‘It’s a Brand-New Morning’, or the wryly observant, ‘It Isn’t Easy Being an Angel’, where the protagonist discovers that he’s living in some weird kind of purgatory where even the late Johnny Thunders has quit smoking. This is an ambitious album, formed through a unique symbiosis of musical characters, which is ready to redefine UK country music, put ‘urban country’ centre-stage, and should be heard by everyone

Clear Vinyl



An album such as this obviously owes a lot to the atmosphere in which it was recorded, which we can imagine was magical. We know it took place in Fromentel, Normandy, in a farm converted into a studio by the producer Jacques Denjean, known for his work with Dionne Warwick or Françoise Hardy as well as having been a member of the Double Six. It was also at Fromentel, that Denjean would record two fantastic albums with Albert Marcoeur. When Emmanuelle Parrenin followed in his footsteps a year later she was in good company: the sound engineer at the studio was her partner and therefore uniquely capable (we imagine) of creating an adequate soundscape for her delicate universe. What is more, five years previously, Bruno Menny, the sound engineer partner, recorded his first and only album, but what an album: in electroacoustic terms we can hear things which make him appear as the spiritual son of his mentor Iannis Xenakis!

What makes Maison Rose unique is exactly this fusion between the two conceptions of Emmanuelle Parrenin and Bruno Menny, creating a perfect marriage of tradition and experimentation. The tradition comes from the songs collected by Emmanuelle Parrenin in rural areas, in a similar vein to the work carried out by Alan Lomax and Shirley Collins. The experimentation is in the sound captured by Bruno Menny, who both arranged and recorded the album. This is not to forget those who came with their guitar (Denis Gasser), or their lyrics (no less a figure than Jean-Claude Vannier). On the one hand we have the humble and non-demonstrative singing, with melodies which remind us of songs we would sing to calm a child's nightmares, and on the other hand a pronounced rhythmic intensity at certain points, such as on "Topaze" where the drums in particular evoke the Motorik of krautrock legends Faust.

A real haven of peace, Maison Rose is enchanting with its aura of mystery and spirituality, with soft, gentle songs which seem both ancestral and futurist. Originally published by Ballon Noir in 1977, this album follows on from other folk marvels such as Le Galant Noyé from the pre-Mélusine period. On the subject of Maison Rose, if we had to risk a few comparisons we would mention Vashti Bunyan, Linda Perhacs, Joanna Newsom, Collie Ryan, Shirley Collins, Trees Community, Sourdeline and Véronique Chalot as those which spring spontaneously to mind. But this is too reductive for the timeless singularity of Emmanuelle Parrenin: because Maison Rose was recorded in 1977, in the midst of the punk revolution.

LNDFK (aka Linda Feki) presents her ground-breaking debut album, "Kuni" on Brooklyn-based Bastard Jazz Recordings. Undeniably on the rise after her 2019 breakout performance at Primavera Sound, LNDFK has already caught the attention of Pitchfork, Rolling Stone, Clash Magazine, Noisey, and Brooklyn Vegan (among many others) while being championed by the likes of Gilles Peterson, Tom Ravenscroft, and Jamz Supernova & landing spots on tastemaker playlists like Spotify's "Pollen" and "Fresh Finds."

"Kuni" is a spellbinding exploration of dichotomies: Love & Death (Eros & Thanatos), Flower & Fire, Delicacy & Violence, Poetry & Realism, Purification & Destruction. These opposites are reified in the 10-track LPs multifarious and multifaceted sounds, elegantly meandering through a variety of styles and genres, spearheaded by Linda and features the production wizardry of Darrio Bassolino who co-wrote the album.

"Kuni" opens with "Hana-bi," an ambient instrumental piece that sets the tone for the album. Inspired by the Takeshi Kitano 1997 film of the same name – particularly Joe Hisaishi's stunning soundtrack, as well as Kitano's paintings which appear in the film. "Hana-bi" expresses the dialoguing opposites of flowers and fire, the first of many dichotomous representations throughout the album. "Takeshi" acts as an extension and to "Hana-bi," albeit one of opposing sound, with its driving, highly syncopated drums (which reappear throughout "Kuni") – à la Karriem Riggins, Questlove, or Yussef Dayes – frenetic bass line, and jazz chords. Linda's sultry voice is interspersed, initially jumping around in scat fashion, being triggered as if a sample, before her lyrics come in; her vocals are used like an additional instrument, adding to the song's rich texture. "Kuni" truly hits its stride with the next song, "Smoke – a moon or a button" (its title lifted from the 1959 book by Ruth Krauss and Remy Charlip), which is structured like a jazz standard yet flows into neo-soul territory sonically with those prodigious drums a highlight once again.

LNDFK touches on experimental hip hop in two songs on the record (both of which were released as singles in 2021): "Don't Know I'm Dead or Not (feat. Chester Watson)" – track #4 – and "How Do We Know We're Alive (feat. Pink Siifu)" – track #9. Although they embrace a more hip hop-leaning sound, these songs by no means shy away from the exploratory theme, and feature two of the alt-rap scenes rising stars with Chester Watson and Pink Siifu who offer provocatively impressing verses, combining dense word play with unconventional flows. While these tracks may first appear to be outliers on the album, they are undeniably in tune with "Kuni's" message and sonic palette, acting as testaments to LNDFK's willingness to explore and experiment.

Meanwhile, "Ku" – the third and last single before the album release – furthers the pre-established future soul sound while meandering through nu jazz and left-field electronic. Inspired by the graphic novel and film, "Sin City," and its female assassin protagonist Miho, "Ku" is a musical interpretation of Miho's story, incorporating both her beauty – the first half of the song – and murderous tendencies – the second half – to create a stunning juxtaposition, culminating in an ambient finale that suggests the character's vulnerability and inner peace. The song gracefully bridges the gap between Hiatus Kaiyote-esque songwriting, Dilla's rhythmic syncopation, and Thundercat's instrumental prowess (LNDFK has shared a stage Brainfeeder labelmate Kamasi Washington).

Mixed in throughout "Kuni" are a series of instrumental pieces that function as something akin to an interlude. The aforementioned intro, "Hana-bi," and the album closer "se mi stacco da te, mi strappo tutto:" act as bookends, while "Om" indicates the half-way mark, and "Ktm" sees Jason Lindner add his sound the album. These tracks are the ambient foundation of "Kuni," representing the thematic duality of the work. Clocking in at only 24 minutes, "Kuni" packs an astonishingly diverse array of sounds, styles, and themes, all while showcasing virtuosic musicianship and instrumental prowess.

Appearing on "Hana-bi" and "Ktm," renowned international artists Asa-Chang and Jason Lindner add an additional perspective to "Kuni": Asa-Chang on "Hana-bi," and Jason Lindner on "Ktm." Asa-Chang - famously of the Japanese avant-garde group Asa-Chang & Junray - provides vocals and percussion to an alternate version of the instrumental opener, while the acclaimed keyboardist Jason Lindner offers his synth expertise on "Ktm." These features highlight the spirit of collaboration found in LNDFK's music, always willing to try out new ways of working.

LNDFK is a singer and songwriter, born of two cultures – an Italian mother and Arab father. She grew up in Naples, away from her father, the Sahara, her homeland and traditions, which has helped nourish the desire to rediscover – through art – an engagement to her roots. Her music melts with jazz, neo-soul and hip-hop influences, filtered through her experiences and sensibility.

Her first EP, "Lust Blue," was composed with the artistic production of Dario Bass and released by Feelin' Music; after that she released several singles that saw international radio support (BBC, NTS, Wordwide FM) and gained a massive audience on digital platforms. Together with her band, she toured around Europe, performing alongside such notable artists as Kamasi Washington and Mndsgn, among others. Most recently she toured Italy, and performed at Primavera Sound Festival 2019 in Barcelona.

"Kuni," is due out on NYC label Bastard Jazz Recordings in February, 2022, while the vinyl LP will follow shortly after.

"We want to make people feel good about things that we feel terrible about." says David Brewis, who has co-led the band Field Music with his brother Peter since 2004. It's a statement which seems particularly fitting to their latest album, Flat White Moon released on 23 April via Memphis Industries. Sporadic sessions for the album began in late 2019 at the pair's studio in Sunderland, slotted between rehearsals and touring. The initial recordings pushed a looser performance aspect to the fore, inspired by some of their very first musical loves; Free, Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin and The Beatles; old tapes and LPs pilfered from their parents' shelves. But a balance between performance and construction has always been an essential part of Field Music. By March 2020, recording had already begun for most of the album's tracks and, with touring for Making A New World winding down, Peter and David were ready to plough on and finish the record. The playfulness that's evident in much of Flat White Moon's music became a way to offset the darkness and the sadness of many of the lyrics. Much of the album is plainly about loss and grief, and also about the guilt and isolation which comes with that. Those personal upheavals are apparent on songs like Out of the Frame, where the loss of a loved one is felt more deeply because they can't be found in photographs and compounded by the suspicion that you caused their absence, or on When You Last Heard From a Linda, which details the confusion of being unable to penetrate a best friend's loneliness in the darkest of circumstances. Some songs are more impressionistic. Orion From The Streets combines Studio Ghibli, a documentary about Cary Grant and an excess of wine to become a hallucinogenic treatise on memory and guilt.. Others, such as Not When You're In Love, are more descriptive. Here, the narrator guides us through slide-projected scenes, questioning the ideas and semantics of 'love' as well the reliability of his own memory. The result is a generous record of bounteous musical ideas, in many ways Field Music's most immediately gratifying to date.

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"We want to make people feel good about things that we feel terrible about." says David Brewis, who has co-led the band Field Music with his brother Peter since 2004. It's a statement which seems particularly fitting to their latest album, Flat White Moon released on 23 April via Memphis Industries. Sporadic sessions for the album began in late 2019 at the pair's studio in Sunderland, slotted between rehearsals and touring. The initial recordings pushed a looser performance aspect to the fore, inspired by some of their very first musical loves; Free, Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin and The Beatles; old tapes and LPs pilfered from their parents' shelves. But a balance between performance and construction has always been an essential part of Field Music. By March 2020, recording had already begun for most of the album's tracks and, with touring for Making A New World winding down, Peter and David were ready to plough on and finish the record. The playfulness that's evident in much of Flat White Moon's music became a way to offset the darkness and the sadness of many of the lyrics. Much of the album is plainly about loss and grief, and also about the guilt and isolation which comes with that. Those personal upheavals are apparent on songs like Out of the Frame, where the loss of a loved one is felt more deeply because they can't be found in photographs and compounded by the suspicion that you caused their absence, or on When You Last Heard From a Linda, which details the confusion of being unable to penetrate a best friend's loneliness in the darkest of circumstances. Some songs are more impressionistic. Orion From The Streets combines Studio Ghibli, a documentary about Cary Grant and an excess of wine to become a hallucinogenic treatise on memory and guilt.. Others, such as Not When You're In Love, are more descriptive. Here, the narrator guides us through slide-projected scenes, questioning the ideas and semantics of 'love' as well the reliability of his own memory. The result is a generous record of bounteous musical ideas, in many ways Field Music's most immediately gratifying to date.

When Linda Smith purchased a 4 track cassette recorder in the mid-1980s she was playing guitar in a band called the Woods, and thought it would be useful for sharing demos with her bandmates. In the end, the new hobby followed her from New York back to her native Baltimore, and over the next decade she’d release several albums worth of delicate, bewitching solo music on cassette. Till An- other Time: 1988-1996 is the first retrospective collection of Smith’s charmingly lo-fi music.

Sparse and gentle, Linda’s music is tinged with lovelorn melancholy despite the sweetness of her voice. Over ‘60s pop-indebted melo- dies on tracks like “A Crumb Of Your Affection”, she delivers ob- servations with an earnest softness. Elsewhere, her voice takes on a post punk deadpan, as on “I See Your Face.” The effect of both modes is a haunting charm, equally reminiscent of early Cherry Red Records and ‘60s yé-yé.

With a no-nonsense approach to recording, Linda recorded almost all of her songs at home. There was a creative freedom that came with recording on tape, and unbeknownst to her, this was a conclu- sion that many musicians were reaching at the time.

Unfortunately, the independence that made at-home recording ap- pealing to Linda also made it difficult for her to reach a wider au- dience. Relying on niche publications, cassette trading, and word of mouth to share music, Linda released a few 7”s on labels like Slumberland and Harriet but remained relatively local in terms of reach. Nevertheless, one can trace a direct line from Linda Smith to the ubiquity of bedroom recording today.

Thembisa’s Hot Soul Singers were formed in 1975 by promoter and producer Sam “Jiza Jiza” Mthembu. In the early years the trio was called the Thembisa Happy Queens and consisted of sisters Ntombifuthi and Nombuso Mabaso and Lindiwe Ndlovu. The trio would start out playing Jive, Zulu Disco and other popular sounds of the 70s . In 1979 they became the Hot Soul Singers and would begin a career in the emerging Disco scene which their group name was now more fitting for.

Their first single under the new name was a tribute to their producer Sam, and their first album “Together” would come 2 years later in 1981. It contained their Lamont Dozier rip off from a year earlier, and biggest hit to date “ Give Me My Love Back” which was playing in jukeboxes across the country. At this time the Hot Soul Singers were also gaining popularity due to their demand as an opening act for American groups. Sam’s ongoing pursuit to be a successful promoter also helped to ensure they were always in the headlines and playing shows. It would be in 1983 that the group would temporarily step away from a major label and go onto record their first Maxi single with the independent Raintree Records new Lyncell Imprint.

Like most places in the world the early 80s was a fast changing time in music for South Africa. Although the Maxi had a disco standard for years in other parts of the world it had only recently been popularized in South Africa. Thanks to the Brenda and the Big Dudes smash, Weekend Special, the maxi took over as the preferred format for pop music, replacing the cheaper but time restricting 7” single. Singles were being pushed to the limits in the early 80’s with running times of 4+ minutes a sides by some labels. The Maxi allowed for groups to extend their grooves onto a full side and later album art containing smiling musicians infant of cheesy backdrops became the norm. Synthesizers had been used in pop music for years already but the DX7 wouldn’t land in the country for another year. Drum machines were being used but had yet to fully replace live drummers like would happen in the years to come. The recording of this new single would require a full band resulting in it being one of the gems of the crossover period before the complete midi takeover. Durban’s Graham Handley was recording some of the best upcoming Disco sounds for labels like Heads Music and groups like Kabasa and Masike Mohapi and was tasked as engineer. Other known musicians in the session would be Jimmy Mgwandi from the group Image, who’s signature bass playing can be heard on both songs. A young Daniel Phakoe aka “sox” was also present and took care of the male parts of the vocal line. Both musicians have writing credits along with lead singer Nombuso. Other possibilities of musicians would be Thami Mduli aka Professor Rhythm who had been with the group since their early days as well as a young Chicco who was best friends with Jimmy at the time.

The single, which was packaged in a customized but simple company disco sleeve, went on to do quite well. Less than a year later they would feature on a track with Sunset which would lead to them singing with Sounds of Soweto records label. The group would enjoy the growing fame when tragedy struck in 1984. On their way to a show in Mpumalanga they were involved in a car accident which took the life of Nombuso and left her husband Sam with a leg injury he limps with to this day. Upon recovering Sam would organize a tribute concert at Soweto’s Jabulani Amphitheatre. Even though the tragedy left the group broken and without a member the band went back to work to record their second full length album. They worked with Mac Mathunjwa who had written Nombuso’s favourite song “Going Crazy”. This album would be released with two different names and covers. One took the former singer’s favourite song as the album name and used a photo consisting of all three girls where the other released under the name “ A Tribute” and would only have the remaining members on the cover.

Although the tragedy never halted the group, moving forward the trio of singers would see a few members change. Lindiwe would leave to join Freeway and then become Linda “Babe” Majika so by the time they were ready to record in1986, now with Teal records, the only original member was Ntombifuthi. She would also shortly leave the group and provide backing vocals to other artists including her old band mate Linda. The Hot Soul Singers would be kept alive by Jiza Jiza and go on to record 5 more albums before calling it quits in 1990 after a successful 15 year career. Today the only core member left is Sam Mthembu who still lives in Thembisa and is occasionally promoting live events. Even though he did produce a handful of artists back in the 70s, his most significant additions to the music industry were the Hot Soul Singers and his event promotions, which is what he is best known for and will most likely be the legacy of his career.