quête:jeff fx

If one thing is for sure, you can always count on FXHE to serve up the jams and surprise you in the process. Enter this new 12" from Bill Beaver aka William Beaver who has been serving up house jams under various guises since the late 80s. This one, 'Crusin Outer Drive', is, in the words of the label, "a back yard Boogie slash Hustle Summer Jam for those who live in the inner city and Beyond" and it comes with a 70s-style keyboard solo from Javonntte Garrett as well as signature off-grid drums, lo-fi charm and a raw analogue aesthetic. Vocals add the charm as the synths get passed through various filters, decay and change shape with a mind of their own and the chords never quit. Elsewhere, we get an instrumental version of the A-side and two takes on 'Down To The Sac', one a sultry, looped up affair from Jefferson, the other from Brett Fullerton, stripping it down to tribal drums and then building it right back up again via some super pimped synths. It's pure Detroit heat.

Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur's court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word "Camelot" accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of "utopia." In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson's 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python's 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armored knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys's profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy's White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle's extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle's Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one's own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. "Back in Camelot," she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, "I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry." The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping "in the unfinished basement," an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above "sirens and desert deities." If she questions her own agency_whether she is "wishing stones were standing" or just "pissing in the wind"_it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of "multi-felt dimensions" both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of "Camelot," with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to "Some Friends," an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises_"bright and beaming verses" versus hot curses_which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020's achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory "Earthsong," bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to _ a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?) Those whom "Trust" accuses of treacherous oaths spit through "gilded and golden tooth"_cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry_sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in "Louis": "What's that dance / and can it be done? What's that song / and can it be sung?" Answering affirmatively are "Lucky #8," an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the "tidal pools of pain" and the "theory of collapse," and "Full Moon in Leo," which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and "big hair." But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle's confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on "Lucky #8," special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle's beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia's FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad "Blowing Kisses"_Pallett's crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX's The Bear_Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer_and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: "No words to fumble with / I'm not a beggar to language any longer." Such rare moments of speechlessness_"I'm so fucking honoured," she bluntly proclaims_suggest a state "only a god could come up with." (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world_including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth_but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the "charts and diagrams" of "Lucky #8," a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in "Full Moon in Leo," the bloody invocations of the organ-stained "Mary Miracle," and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with "Fractal Canyon"'s repeated, exalted insistence that she's "not alone here." But where is here? The word "utopia" itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek "eutopia," or "good-place"_the facet most remembered today_and "outopia," or "no-place," a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary. Or as fellow Canadian songwriter Neil Young once sang, "Everyone knows this is nowhere." "Can you see how I'd be tempted," Castle asks out of nowhere, held in the mystery, "to pretend I'm not alone and let the memory bend?"

. For Fans Of: The Weather Station, Weyes Blood, Adrianne Lenker, Phoebe Bridgers, Joan Shelley, Lana Del Rey, Cass McCombs, Angel Olsen & Neil Young. Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur’s court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word “Camelot” accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of “utopia.” In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson’s 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python’s 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armoured knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys’s profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy’s White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle’s extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle’s Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one’s own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. “Back in Camelot,” she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, “I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry.” The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping “in the unfinished basement,” an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above “sirens and desert deities.” If she questions her own agency whether she is “wishing stones were standing” or just “pissing in the wind” it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of “multi-felt dimensions” both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of “Camelot,” with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to “Some Friends,” an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises—“bright and beaming verses” versus hot curses which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020’s achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory “Earthsong,” bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to … a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?). Those whom “Trust” accuses of treacherous oaths spit through “gilded and golden tooth” cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in “Louis”: “What’s that dance / and can it be done? What’s that song / and can it be sung?” Answering affirmatively are “Lucky #8,” an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the “tidal pools of pain” and the “theory of collapse,” and “Full Moon in Leo,” which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and “big hair.” But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle’s confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on “Lucky #8,” special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle’s beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia’s FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad “Blowing Kisses” Pallett’s crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX’s The Bear Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: “No words to fumble with / I’m not a beggar to language any longer.” Such rare moments of speechlessness “I’m so fucking honoured,” she bluntly proclaims suggest a state “only a god could come up with.” (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the “charts and diagrams” of “Lucky #8,” a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in “Full Moon in Leo,” the bloody invocations of the organ-stained “Mary Miracle,” and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with “Fractal Canyon”s repeated, exalted insistence that she’s “not alone here.” But where is here? The word “utopia” itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek “eutopia,” or “good-place” the facet most remembered today and “outopia,” or “no-place,” a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary

Heralding 2023 from way out west, Monde UFO land on Quindi with a distinctive album of dream pop vignettes and outer rim punk exotica.
Hailing from the same Californian heat haze as recent Quindi signings Bondo, Monde UFO have manifested in the past four years through a series of DIY releases including their 2021 album 7171 and last year's set of Fugazi covers, 4 Songs. The loose fit project centres around the singing, playing and songwriting of Ray Monde and Kris Chau and features Kern Haug on drums. The resulting sound arrives as a resourceful analog of plush 60s pop captured through the modest means of a truly independent musical endeavour.
The sound rendered on Vandalized Statue touches on dubby atmospherics, the lilting breeze of bossa nova and the introverted muse of US indie rock, but the end result is a natural, cohesive whole centered around the songwriting. Imagine the girl from Ipanema sat toking in a comfortable spot in the corner of the dive bar while someone weaves her a tall tale or two, and you might be somewhere in the right direction. The stories in the lyrics unfurl as meandering narratives taking you through everyday exchanges and far-fetched, cosmic scenarios alike. At every turn the cosy musicality gives everything a relatable, homespun charm, even as the mixing desk becomes a mess and the lo-fi FX crash into each other.
The album will be fronted by three singles which reflect the wide reach of Monde UFO's sound. 'Visions of Fatima' is one of the more melancholic pieces on the album, fronted by laconic organ and centring on cracked vocals with an off key charm that indirectly evokes Jeffrey Lee Pierce. 'Government Employee' is a sun-kissed trip of low-key lounge surrealism, bizarro storytelling and shuffling exotica splendour which broadly defines the woozy mood of Vandalized Statue. 'Garden Of Agony' is a more delicate but no less dreamy piece matching electric tremolo with acoustic fingerpicking balladry which hides its considerable depths behind a seemingly simple arrangement.
At once intimate and projected into the cosmos, Monde UFO add to the particular path Quindi is taking through hidden corners of independent music with a romantic, restless spirit.

Jamaica Suk’s 17-track, quadruple-volume ‘Uncertain Landscapes’ series continues with its second part, bringing five tracks of uncompromising cutting-edge techno.

NovaMute artist Nicolas Bougaïeff kicks off with the rasping sounds of ‘Nocturne 1’, a tense juggernaut of a track. Sheet metal textures clash up against eerie FX the most throbbing of kick drums, with a twisted, distorted feel to the breakdown.

Keith Carnal’s ‘Infringement’ injects rhythmic bleep patterns into its chattering percussion, creating an almost dubby feel that’s contrasted with an urgent energy. Well-timed filtering adds to the tension.

The warped wiggle of Helrad’s ‘Groove Addicts’ comes next, with intense machine energy filtering up from the depths. A manic cacophony of detuned bleeping creates a heavy, relentless feel over the succinct beat.

Insolate’s ‘Sanchin’ rocks a pulsating bass chug that underpins washed-out textures and synth delays, with rasping metallic sounds washing over the track in the second half while the shuffling percussion keeps ticking away.

Manuel Di Martino channels some classic Detroit vibes in the chattering clap & snare patterns and rolling groove of ‘Runout’. Resonant tones blip, loop and pitch-shift in hip-shaking fashion to give the feel of a classic Jeff Mills set in action.

Parisian label Chuwanaga curated by Clémentine & Saint-James is back in the production game with fresh music from Ishkero, maybe the hottest Jazz-Fusion band of the capital city. Going from Jazz-Funk to Afrobeat through Prog and Psychedelic influences, Brume infuses together killer grooves, irresistible melodies and excellent musicianship. The 12inch, coming with its beautiful illustration, reveals a uniformly good yet diverse musical journey. Behind Ishkero, you’ll find five young and gifted musicians with strong jazz knowledge: Tao Ehrlich (drums), Adrien « Dridri » Duterte (flute & percussion), Antoine Vidal (bass), Victor Gasq (guitar) and Arnaud Forestier (keys). With its strong evocation power fuelled by their youthful energy and creativity, Ishkero’s music is a one-of-a-kind variation on the Jazz genre. Fusion at its best potential! Expect intense rhythmic sections, virtuoso solos, lush FX sections and robust arrangements. Used to play a lot live, the musicians developed a vigorous connection that really shines on stage and during studio sessions. Collectively with Saint-James as their co-producer, they recorded Brume in summer 2019 at Studio Delta (Paris) with sound engineer David Cukier aka Greita (Disques Flegon). The first track, "Triple B", is an ode to 70’s jazz-funk carried by Jeff Mercadié’s Sax performance. "Tonik Gin"’s mighty jazz-rock groove which comes afterwards brings the genre to its emotional climax. B side starts with the main track "Brume", bringing together long-tailed reverberated guitars and Mizell-like piano chords for a very warm and hazy effect. As the last track, "Gare De l’Ouest" is a nice jazz variation on the Afrobeat genre, again with Jeff Mercadié on Saxophone.

Laraaji erfüllt sich eine lebenslang gehegte Ambition und nimmt in einer Brooklyner Kirche unter der musikalischen Leitung von Jeff Zeigler (Kurt Vile, The War On Drugs, Mary Lattimore) ein Album mit spirituellen Piano-Improvisationen auf. "Sun Piano" markiert einen Wechsel von FX-getränkten, kosmischen Zither-Jams zu eleganten Klavierminiaturen, Laraajis erstem gelernten Instrument im New Jersey der 1950er. Gleichzeitig ist diese LP der Start einer Trilogie, die mit der komplementären "Moon Piano" LP und einer EP mit Piano/Zither-Duetten fortgesetzt wird, um schlussendlich in einer vollständigen CD-Anthologie zu münden.