Поиск:nervo

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

Beautifully drunken it hums, the piano in “PianoPiano”, the last tune of “How to Spread Lies”, the first EP by Roman Flügel for the Hamburg based label Dial in the year 2010. Or take “Strich”, a peculiar electrical slow-motion grinder, out on his “Mutter” EP for Klang Electronic in 2006. Since long, the renowned Berlin based DJ and producer is investigating in spheres beyond the dance, the groove, the ecstasy. Zones, where the molecules harmonize, senses relieve, and the soul quietens. All his last albums, “All The Right Noises” (Dial), “Themes I-XIII” (ESP Institue), “Eating Darkness” (Running Back) have moments of tension and relaxation in a deep harmonious connection.

Now “Balmy Evening”, a sundown record for sunup’s. Eleven notions in adventurous journey music, embracing the freedom of structure, blurring the musical pulse into harmonic meditation and mysteriously grooving zones, leaving all unnecessary accessories behind. A quality, that many of his collaborative and solo productions from past 30 years comprise. Still, most of them squint on the dance floor, where jack is king. Not so “Balmy Evening”, where real party bangers are absent. There are moving tunes like the slow Kraftwerk-melody-leaning funkateer “Duftschulter”, or the artificially jacking “Greenhouse”, where nervous Synth patterns ball along soft breaks and decreet kicks. Also, “Super Sonne”, an odd, seemingly improvised synth conversation might ask some souls out for a dance.

But all others, like “Atmosphere”, “Frei”, Dolphins, “Goth”, or “Ambienteuse”, rather seek for the tranquil in each one’s spirit. Listeners need be ready for surprises. Ready for impulsive ideas, linked to a harmonious flow, always ready to grow. An album full of silence, utterly loud, beautifully diverse humming, displaying a playful, exploratory side of a celebrated club music producer, to whom atoms dance in manifold ways.

Riding the razor’s edge between bristling electroacoustic wizardry and the constrained structures and harmonic interplay of musical minimalism, »Immanent in Nervous Activity« is Die Schachtel’s new release from the creative partnership of Giovanni Di Domenico and Jim O’Rourke.

Comprising a single long-form work, divided into two movements that culminate as a second chapter to the duo’s 2015 LP, »Arco« - an album which endeavored, on visionary terms, after the potential of waiting and patience as means toward musical form - their latest adventure - recorded in Japan with further contributions by Eiko Ishibashi on flute and Tatsuhisa Yamamoto on snare - rolls at a glacial pace, deftly weaving tension into restrained sheets of tonality, texture, and harmonic dissonance that ripple with microscopic detail and a stunning sense of structure.

After almost a decade-long hiatus, cult 6-piece MFMB announced their
return with the long-awaited album - Sugar
The followup to 2012's critically- acclaimed "Colossus", "Sugar" revives the dark
and driven alt- rock the Swedes made their name with - equal parts rigor and
finesse, wracked with nervous tension. This time around, however, a democratic
approach to the writing process was decided on, with each member contributing
equally to the sound and feel of the record. The result is unmistakably the sound
of MFMB, but reinvented for these tempestuous times. The making of the album
is a story in itself. "Sugar" is seven years in the making. It has been a bumpy ride.
They were not always the best of friends. Priorities changed. Members quit, then
joined again. It was never easy. We believe you can hear it on the album, how
every song is a result of differing opinions fighting it out until they landed. In the
end, it's MFMB, but ringing purer than ever before. MFMB have remained prolific
throughout their hiatus, which includes Joakim Lindberg becoming one of the
underground scene's most in- demand producers, working with the likes of Hey
Elbow, Spunsugar, This Is Head, and many more.

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

Rubini’s “Le Cahier de Occelli” marks 10 years! Dedicated to the legendary Group-B Rally era, it was our fourth release and one of the first to elicit a certain interest from the deep-house international scene at the time. To celebrate, we asked two of our beloved artists to remix this definitive slice of Degutibus Music electronica, with the results proving why we love them in the first place. Superpitcher delivered a 14-minute oneiric voyage of “Le Cahier de Occelli” whilst the B-side received a nervous blow-up from I:Cube for “Easyleft Henri” (the track originally dedicated to Henri Toivonen, Rubini’s personal hero).

These monster cars are still roaring!

After the Pacific Northwest grunge raids of the early '90s that saw Nirvana, Mudhoney, and even the Melvins hoisted up the major label flagpole, Unwound's 1993 debut came as a welcomed reprieve for underground noise-niks everywhere. A pulsing cluster of wiry feedback, lurching bass, and single stroke rolls, Fake Train entangles the energies of frustrated backpack emo, faded Riot Grrrl back issues, and their own dash of teen spirit and unleashes it all in an earsplitting 10-song assault.

Comes on like an homage to Wire's 1 2 X U' as filtered through Minor Threat and a broken bottle of Robitussin.' —Pitchfork

It's no contest: Unwound is the best band of the '90s.' — A.V. Club

Anton Klint hails from Sweden and likes to make music at night. In his first release for Hivern he shows once again his knack for producing highly amusing electronic dancing sounds. Both of his tracks in 'Lyckliga Mnniskor' are twisted, playful and hard to pin down, which gives them a unique freshness. The title track is a schizoid take on tribalistic house, in which playful percussion layers and nervous synth sequences provide the background to its menacing vocal sample. 'Djembe Unchained' is, as its title suggests, still heavy on the percussion, but these are generously processed through delays to build a spaced-out and dizzy atmosphere. The track gets the remix treatment by our long-time favourite Black Merlin, who sharpens the beat to invoke mystic forces and push 'Djembe Unchained' into slo-mo cosmic techno territories. The artwork is by Barcelona-based artist Xavier Marin.

Für eine Band, die mehr als ein Jahrzehnt damit verbracht hat, den modernen Metal neu zu definieren, scheint für While She Sleeps das Beste noch bevorzustehen, denn 2022 werden sie auf einigen der größten Sommerfestivals der Welt spielen, in den USA und Australien unterwegs sein und im Herbst eine große

Europatournee mit Parkway Drive absolvieren. Mit ’SLEEPS SOCIETY (SPECIAL EDITION)’ erweitert die Band das erfolgreiche Sleeps Society-Album um drei neue Tracks sowie eine akustische Neubearbeitung von ’YOU ARE ALL YOU NEED’ und ’SYSTEMATIC’ mit Gastgesang von Rou Reynolds von Enter Shikari. Und die Tracks sind nicht einfach nur ”Add-Ons” - sie sind komplett in das Tracklisting des Albums integriert - was ein völlig neues Hörerlebnis
für die Fans schafft!

Für eine Band, die mehr als ein Jahrzehnt damit verbracht hat, den modernen Metal neu zu definieren, scheint für While She Sleeps das Beste noch bevorzustehen, denn 2022 werden sie auf einigen der größten Sommerfestivals der Welt spielen, in den USA und Australien unterwegs sein und im Herbst eine große

Europatournee mit Parkway Drive absolvieren. Mit ’SLEEPS SOCIETY (SPECIAL EDITION)’ erweitert die Band das erfolgreiche Sleeps Society-Album um drei neue Tracks sowie eine akustische Neubearbeitung von ’YOU ARE ALL YOU NEED’ und ’SYSTEMATIC’ mit Gastgesang von Rou Reynolds von Enter Shikari. Und die Tracks sind nicht einfach nur ”Add-Ons” - sie sind komplett in das Tracklisting des Albums integriert - was ein völlig neues Hörerlebnis
für die Fans schafft!

Following on from Le Motel’s knockout release in February, Brussel-based producer DJ JM lands on Maloca Records with a new EP ‘Squash’. The prolific producer is known for his impressive output of production-only mixes and releases on labels such as Nervous Horizon, Goon Club Allstars, and Even The Strong. The DJ JM project was first established in Vilnius, Lithuania in 2015, becoming quickly known for off-kilter club records. Heavily driven by percussion, DJ JM continues his powerful stride, this time providing six weird and wonky dancefloor anthems. With the Maloca Records ethos built upon global collaborations, on this record DJ JM teams up with Ugandan MC Swordman Kitala on ‘Funicular’. Launching Maloca Records in 2020, Le Motel aims to bring together an international network of makers which was highlighted on the label’s first compilation, Maloca Vol. 1. The release focused on a terrestrial and borderless percussive sound that has been bubbling in clubs and Le Motel’s orbit, featuring tracks from Nick León, OMAAR, DJ JM, Dengue Dengue Dengue, Coen, DJ N.K. and Tsongo. Maloca has also released solo EPs from Howie Lee, Farsight and Griffit Vigo.

Cocoon Recordings presents: Cocoon Compilation T

Limited Vinyl Box Set including 6x blue vinyl & download code

Another year, another expertly curated compilation touches down courtesy of Cocoon Recordings. Somehow, the world keeps turning and with it the Cocoon universe keeps expanding, causing subtle yet persuasive shifts in the sonic soundscape that continue to
capture and captivate the imagination. In time-honored tradition the old guard and the new combine with devastating effect, to define the current state of play…
Veteran Techno producer Stephen Brown makes it clear the compilation series is back with a bang, opening things up in epic fashion with the lucid dreamscape ‘Level Steps’ - a true work of art. Another heavy-weight hitter steps straight up in the form of Claude von Stroke, who adds his own unique swagger to proceedings with those trademark shuffling beats and freaky, hypnotic bleeps scuffling for dominance on ‘Moody Fuse’. Denis Horvat then slows things down on ‘Monomono’, with post-raveNew Release Information
abstractions and disobedient synth-patches causing mayhem before the track finally unfolds in all its terrifying beauty.
Motoring on, the collection wastes no time reaching that familiar tipping point as we enter the techno phase of the journey. A very special appearance from Daniel Avery makes it all the more worthwhile amid a dense forest of chiming melodies and blistering electrical surges on ‘Your Future Looks Different In The Light’, before Jeroen Search’s aptly titled ‘Subversive Elements’ lead us deeper and
deeper, into the matrix.
Marco Bailey then kicks off a triptych of trance with some massive filtered piano action on ‘Kanai’ that’s destined to trigger a serotonin smile with everyone it touches. Revisiting the huge,
ever-growing pulsating brain of planet Orb, Damiano van Erckert continues the loved-up vibe on the gorgeously titled ‘500 People 500 Hearts 1 Love’, expertly complimenting the classic ambience with
some slick 909 snare and cymbal interplay. The melodic pull of ‘Vision99’ then signifies that the party is peaking at just the right moment as YOKTO concocts a glistening, psychedelic groove. The
emotional resonance climbs ever higher with brittle melodies endlessly circling a lush, throbbing bass drone to create the sense of something stirring out of reach.
Just when you think the acid sound is done and dusted, up pops a track like Jonathan Kaspar’s ‘CCC’ that somehow manages to offer an entirely new perspective. Riding in on a wave of expectant
arpeggios, the squelching bass and noise filter go toe to toe before Kaspar gets busy with a freaky tempo excursion that’ll be destroying dance floors all year long. ‘The Art of Electronics’ is, as the title
suggests, another superlative example of pure analogue fire, served up by UK legend, Andrew Meecham aka The Emperor Machine. The funk starts to flow as the bass drops, the machines cut loose and a swarm of cascading bleeps ride the trans-europa express to oblivion.
Electro overlord Carl Finlow, has come to define the UK take on the genre over the last couple of decades. Here, he makes his long overdue label debut, taking us into the closing straight with a
nervous sliver of dystopian futurism, complete with molten basslines and a fuzzy logic that underpins the tight, laser-guided groove on ‘Surface Control’. DeFeKT then draws this great adventure to a close
with the deliciously dark robo-disco overtones of ‘Terraform’ creating a dusky landscape that skillfully seduces the listener before the tension finally breaks in a wash of ecstatic chords.
All in all, it’s a supremely ambitious collection of tracks, generously featuring some of the most inspirational and durable artists of their respective generations. In fact, is this perhaps the best Cocoon
Compilation to date

Geen Vinyl
Reissue of the 1999 Man's Ruin album! JOHN GARCIA, ARTHUR SEAY, DAVE DINSMORE and MIGUEL CANCINO! now on green vinyl!

Tossing down straight acoustic shots with electric guitar back, Hello, Hi rides through the valley of yer ol' Canyon legends, finding an isolated place to unspool Ty's copious reserves of nervous energy beneath an open sky. Swarms of harmony vocals caper among the clouds, but there's a rider on the horizon behind, with crossbow trained on his very own heart - the engine driving all the relationships of life, whether down Broadway or over the cliffs at night! Whatever doesn't get killed is getting stronger all the time. A lean, mean deal, baked in saltwater and sunlight, compassion pouring out it's beautiful blue eyes.

It is to the detriment of our understanding of musicality that we mostly measure it by the capacity to produce, and much less by the capacity to receive some sort of acoustic information or event. The virtuosity of listening, of understanding the sonic situation and its potential, is, however, that which defines one's capacity to interact – with other musicians, with the audience, and with the environment. This could also be taken to mean that an ethical act is implied in the situation of listening – the decision to relate, to be attentive to, to actively position oneself in relation to what is heard.

Rarely is this capacity so thoroughly pronounced and ethically conscious as in the case of Manja Ristić, the Belgrade-born and Royal Academy of Music-schooled musician, composer, sound and multimedia artist (the list could go on), who currently lives on the island of Korčula in the Croatian part of the Adriatic. Ristić’s recent, field recording-based work, is indeed all about attentiveness, most of all towards the environment and the acoustic traces of the endangered ecological layers of her old-new Mediterranean surroundings. With that in mind, it is indeed no wonder that her newest album draws from Milton’s Paradise Lost, which could easily be the anti-slogan of the endangered Croatian coast, eaten up by the pressures of touristification and the usurpation and privatization of once common space. More precisely, the album is inspired by one of the fifty Gustave Doré illustrations of Milton’s epic, Him, fast sleeping, soon he found, In labyrinth of many a round, self-rolled, from which it draws its title. The verses and the scene are from Book IX, and depict the moment Satan inhabits the Serpent, the beginning of his subversion of God’s autocratic rule, as some interpretations would have it.

For Ristić, the actual Paradise she introduces us to is in a state of imbalance – the idyllic soundscapes of her island surroundings overlain with sonic anxiety, such as on the album’s first track, The Flies, with its unrelenting, nervous buzzing evoking the ominous Biblical entity of Beelzebub, or The Lord of the Flies. The next track, Whales, which beautifully utilizes archival whale recordings, could also be taken to establish an intertextual relation to Milton through Melville, whose Moby Dick was strongly influenced by Paradise Lost. The middle track of the album, dedicated to the Croatian-American painter and muralist Maksimilijan Vanka, uses to great, unsettling effect what to my ears sounds like a buried hydrophone, a technique often employed by Ristić in her work, giving us a rough, grinding impression of water beating the pebbles over a high-pitched drone. But perhaps the most ominous, pessimistic image is painted in The Flag Pole, in which the symbol of revolutionary victory (I’m thinking of the Yugoslav modernist Tin Ujević and his proto-avant-garde sonnet Farewell from 1914) becomes a source of terrifying sonic unease, as we are listening to the incessant sound of its rope hitting the metal pole. However, with Dlana Night comes relief – the drones become airier, calmer; there is a distant notion of people, dogs, everyday life, all shrouded in the calming sound of the crickets on the island of Silba. Ristić, ultimately, serves us some hope on this wonderful new album, showing us that something has been lost, but that something can also be gained through the thoughtful attention with which she listens to the world around her.

„My recording techniques all boil down to one thing – intuition. I do not use expensive or highly sensitive equipment nor do I employ special techniques. On the contrary, I believe that the information regarding a space or an object can be recorded well enough on an average device. My personal guideline when recording sound is the positioning of myself as the listening medium, active and with the intention of establishing a connection that is sometimes intellectual, sometimes conceptual, and sometimes phenomenological.” - Manja Ristić, in an interview for Kulturpunkt.hr

After almost a decade-long hiatus, cult 6-piece MFMB announced their
return with the long-awaited album "Sugar"
The followup to 2012's critically- acclaimed "Colossus", "Sugar" revives the dark
and driven alt- rock the Swedes made their name with - equal parts rigor and
finesse, wracked with nervous tension. This time around, however, a democratic
approach to the writing process was decided on, with each member contributing
equally to the sound and feel of the record. The result is unmistakably the sound
of MFMB, but reinvented for these tempestuous times. The making of the album
is a story in itself. "Sugar" is seven years in the making. It has been a bumpy ride.
They were not always the best of friends. Priorities changed. Members quit, then
joined again. It was never easy. We believe you can hear it on the album, how
every song is a result of differing opinions fighting it out until they landed. In the
end, it's MFMB, but ringing purer than ever before. MFMB have remained prolific
throughout their hiatus, which includes Joakim Lindberg becoming one of the
underground scene's most in- demand producers, working with the likes of Hey
Elbow, Spunsugar, This Is Head, and many more.

In the spring of 2020, Ben Cook _ a.k.a. Young Governor, Young Guv, or just Guv _ was holed up in the New Mexico high desert, his U.S. tour having been abruptly covid-cancelled during a southwest swing. He and his bandmates were living moment to moment in something called an Earthship, a solar-rigged adobe structure sustainably constructed with, among other things, recycled bottles and tires. And out there in the serene vastness, as a short ride-it-out stint turned into a nine-month sojourn, Ben was writing music, slowly, little by little, mostly at night while the others slept. By the New Year, almost in spite of himself, he had created a new album, two new albums actually, and through the ordeal he was forever changed. In a place he never expected to be, under circumstances no one could have predicted, and in the face of physical isolation, emotional desolation, and existential dread, Ben created GUV III & IV, a collection of songs dedicated and testifying to the eternal healing power of love _ how to find it in the world, in others, and most importantly, in himself. Written in the New Mexico wilderness and produced in Los Angeles, the double album will finally be available in it's entirety this summer via Run For Cover. Young Guv's talent as a songwriter has been with us for a long time. From forming iconic hardcore act No Warning in 1998 to joining Toronto legends Fucked Up, Ben Cook started writing songs as Guv in 2008 between a slew of other projects that were ambitiously working to define the genres they operated in. When he first started working with Run For Cover in 2019, the plan was to release a single record - but with too many songs to turn away, the project expanded into his first double album, GUV I & II. GUV III & IV finds the same ambition and expertise in hit-making, but this time the individual records hone into specific parts of Guv's sonic palette. GUV III is full of iconic hooks, power-pop guitar riffs and dancable-rock songs, while GUV IV takes notes from psych rock, electro pop and Laurel Canyon jangle to make something that as a whole, can only be defined as definitively GUV

By popular demand 1993 now available on a Limited edition vinyl release.

C.M. Toni originally released music on Partners Inc Records for a short spell between 1991 and 1993. The label was inspired by the deep jazzy, soulful US house labels like Nervous, Strictly Rhythm and the NY house scene in general. These previously unreleased tracks were found recently on a tape recorded in 1993. The raw classic sound of 12 bit samplers, drum machines and early synths are all over these lost cuts recorded in the Dollis Hill attic, authentic house music from 1993.

‘Jim, I’m Still Here’ is the second album from James Righton under his own name; produced by David & Stephen Dewaele of Soulwax and released on their label DEEWEE, the album follows The Performer released in 2020. James’ musical past is well documented; as the frontman of the genre inventing Klaxons, he helped create a revolution in British music and spawned a youth subculture. ‘Jim, I’m Still Here’ is a captivating meditation on the artists experience of the pandemic as James looks to conceptualize the myriad of emotions and events into a fascinating third person narrative. One of the album tracks features Benny Andersson from Swedish pop legendary band ABBA, with whom James has been working on putting together their new live band.

"I wrote this record during the first few months of the pandemic. At the time I wasn’t intending to make any music. I’d just released ‘The Performer’ on what turned out to be the first week of lockdown. The outside world shut down and I was busy being Dad. Then. I started making notes on my phone. Just words. In moments stolen from family life I’d head downstairs to my garage studio and put the words to music. When I was happy with a song I’d send it to Dave and Stef. Demos and Pro Tools sessions were passed back and forth between my home studio and the Deewee studio in Ghent. I was nervous about their response to the music I was making. It was personal, raw: unlike anything I’d ever written before. A conversation with the outside world during these times of isolation. For the most part my life was centred on the domestic. Getting to spend so much time with my family was a blessing. Making music was my play time. Isolation opened me to memories and allowed me to dream of the future. As the outside world tried to adapt to the pandemic I was asked more and more to promote ‘The Performer’ in live stream concerts on various platforms. As the pandemic went on, demands on production increased (more camera angles, better lighting, higher quality audio recordings). It became a one man show. I’d head downstairs to my garage, put on my Gucci suit, comb my hair and become someone else. Jim. Jim the deluded rock star, living out his fantasies from the confines of his garage. A lonely stardom. And yet, Jim was part me. He made me feel like I still existed. Jim became the centre of the new album. Dave, Stef and I worked into the sessions over the following months. It was always exciting to see where they would take my initial demos. The working method and the restrictions of making music together but in separate spaces, separate countries shaped the sound and feel of the record.
I won’t make another record like this again”.James/Jim