Suche:the metronom al

Marijus Aleksa is a Lithuanian cross-genre drummer and music producer who has spent his last decade touring and in session with some of the contemporary jazz greats including Joe Armon- Jones, Ashley Henry, Bill Laurance, China Moses and many more. Manfredas is a key figure in Lithuanian electronic music community, internationally acclaimed club DJ, owner of Radio Vilnius, music producer and remixer on releases by Andrew Weatherall, Metronomy, Erol Alkan and more.

To honour twenty years since the release of Sugababes’ iconic debut album ‘One Touch’, the band released a series of brand-new remixes, These remixes are available on blue vinyl for the first time as a RSD exclusive. The reworks from Majestic, Metronomy, Blood Orange and MNEK offer a fresh take on classic singles “Overload’, ’Same Old Story’ and ‘Run For Cover’ Pressed to blue vinyl with new artwork featuring archive photographs.

restock coming...

Last Year, Dub Techno Veterans Paul St Hillaire And Rhauder Joined Forces For A Superb Collaborative Debut Album, Decoded. Sushitech Has Wisely Chosen To Breathe New Life Into Their Soulful, Dubbed-out Exploits By Handing Over The Parts To A String Of High Profile Remixers. The First Of Three Reconstructed Eps Begins With Cobblestone Jazz's Peak-time Take On "skank", Where St Hillaire's Patois Vocals Ride A Metronomic Techno Backing Track Rich In Restless Late Night Stabs, Delay-laden Woodblock Hits And Bleeping Electronics. Flip To The B-side For A Warmer And Hazier Take On "control" By Amorf. Sitting Somewhere Between Bass-heavy Tech-house And Head-in-the-clouds Deep House, It's Something Of A Hypnotic Delight.

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.

For the next instalment in our split series, we handed the reins over to two producers whose work has kept us continually inspired over the last few years. At the helm of the A-side, Berlin big-room havoc-wreaker AMOTIK puts on the burners right away with two riotous jams that scream nothing but sonic aggression. On the flip, the mysterious, genre-unbound Janice sweeps us into his psychedelic, non-formulaic techno mindset. True to AMOTIK's minutely balanced, well-integrated blends of punishing kick drums and sunken harmonics, metronomic destroyer "Narangi" swings the pendulum sharp and clean, from deep down a thick sludge of reverb-soaked, FX-topped percussive armada to bleeps n' bloops barrage fire, whereas quake-inducing tides of 909 thunder hail down upon the dance floor with unrelenting frenzy. The dusty bone-bruiser "Hara" picks up the torch and it's in no calmer mood. A slowed-down, breaks-loaded churner, this one relies on a fine engineering of lo-freq moves and pure hardware-processed filth to establish a murky motel, cinematic narrative of sorts. Up with the fracturing wares, here's Janice rocking the flip upside down with the aptly-titled "Mass Formation Hypnosis". Doing what's written on the tin, the faceless producer rushes us headfirst into the boiler for a thorough, unfaltering brainwash. Smelling of leather, grease and coal, this one's bristling with a delectably rugged palette of unambiguous electronics: an ultimate shelling of chest-rattling drum work, in-your-face bass uppercuts, trumpeting stabs and menacingly altered vox. The final salvo, "Names and Excuses", tops it all off on an ominously droney tip, flinging us right away into the frothing mouth of a deadly machine giant, hurtling and tumbling down mazy bowels of washed-out ambient techno via rhyzomatic gutters of brooding abstract motifs and no-frills heavyweight pound. Hectic. ''XVII'' comes adorned with a duly outstanding frame to shine, and will be pressed on 180g audiophile quality vinyl. Once again a way for RYC to openly declare its aspirations and goals, in letting people know that quality, passion and love for the music is all that matters.

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.

Fresh and zesty with subtle tropical flavours, this is a delightfully listenable debut from Matthieu Beck on Growing Bin. Inspired by the lilting rhythms, jazzy instrumentation and slow listening gems found on his Love In The Afternoon radio show, the Frenchman has crafted a gorgeous collection of laid back sophisti-pop, perfect for long summer days or seasonally affected escapism.
Any suggestion of sorrow in the album title is actually a mislead - this may be a solo LP, but Matthieu's surrounded himself with the musical friends he's made over the years, serving as composer and bandleader to a willing troop of collaborators. Longtime friend and former Metronomy bassist Gabriel Stebbing, Source Ensemble drummer Emmanuel Mario, and of course Laetitia Sadier herself, stepped in to lend their services and bring Matthieu's music to life, before Jérôme Caron (Blackjoy) expertly mixed it all down.
Though the tracklist may read like a travelogue, these nine tracks all began at home with Matthieu sat behind a Fender Rhodes with a drum machine by his side. Soon live bass, saxophone and flute strolled into his unhurried arrangements, retaining the simplicity of his demos while expanding the emotion. Weighty synth drones and bubbling bass balance the airy elements of tracks like "California" or the dream-pop romance of "Rooftop Rome", while the mellow "Malika" and joyful "Retour De Plage" showcase the Frenchman's relationship with jazz. Elsewhere there's hints of digi-dub ("Island" and "Suede"), coastal boogie ("Tokyo Montana"), stripped back city pop ("California") and downtown nostalgia ("Dora"), before Beck arrives at the poetic, progressive but peaceful finale "Piano Fin", which recalls Air at their prettiest, without stepping outside Matthieu's well defined sound.

Paul Wise aka Placid is the driving force behind ‘We’re Going Deep’ – a thriving online community and record label that’s showing no signs of slowing down as we pop, dip and spin into the spring season. As a label owner, Paul’s mission couldn’t be clearer - releasing new music for heads of all persuasions. Fresh cuts aimed squarely at the dance floor, your front room or even just the headphones. Rather than staying too hung up on the past, he continues to focus on serving up the best in new Acid, Electro, Techno, Deep House alongside scintillating slices of Downtempo music.

Sticking to the trusted format of 4 superlative cuts from equally talented producers, the quality and talent on show does not disappoint on WGD 007. Starting the dance with 303 maestro and label legend Tin Man, A1 “I Said Acid” is a tantalising twist on the classic combination of a Roland TR-707 and SH-101. As a metronomic pulsating kick carves out a squarely hewn path, slow opening filtered lead and hauntingly repetitive “Acid” vocals exert maximal pressure to create a sheer moment of joy. Balanced out by the dreamy atmospherics of A2 “I’ll Meet You On The Dancefloor”. UK Deep House supremo Rai Scott exerts her perfected knowhow: blending organically tinged percussion with profound melodic touches that meander across the borderlines of your consciousness.

On B1 “Necessary Order”, the machine mastery of Sound Synthesis collides in perfect harmony as Keith Farrugia demonstrates his deft turns of the dials that are becoming more in demand. A sprinkle of stargazing soul is woven around light touch acidic tweaks and snappy drums, echoing the twinkling embers of the cosmos. Not to be outdone, Dutch born German bred producer Roger Van Lunteren takes control with the final slice on B2 “Le Dee Trois Trio Prends Trois”. A wince inducing, sawtooth heavy jam that should not be taken lightly. As the saying goes, this one’s only for headstrong.

Third pressing on transparent pink vinyl. At the 2018 edition of Roadburn Festival - a congregation of all things obscure, heavy and experimental in Tilburg, the Netherlands - two generations of Japanese Krautrock genius took to the stage for a live collaboration that was just as hypnotic as it was inevitable. The artists in question were Tokyo's Minami Deutsch and the legendary ex-Can frontman Damo Suzuki. With Minami Deutsch's heady metronomic jams providing the backdrop on which Suzuki was left free to deliver his distinct improvised vocals, the Live At Roadburn LP is challenging, raw and, at times, totally alien. Divided into three parts, from start to finish the LP is consumed by an unrelenting motorik rhythm section that never lets loose for a second. At the flick of a switch, intricate guitars veer from hypnotic and meditative to skewed psychedelic freak-outs drenched in fuzz. Where Minami Deutsch's playing is sharp and meticulous, Suzuki's stream-of-consciousness ramblings steer the music into whatever direction he sees fit. The result is equal parts disorientating, sporadic and totally all-consuming - the only thing keeping you grounded being that distorted and seemingly-endless 4/4 drive. Repetition. Minimalism. Improvisation. Transcendence. That was the ideology of seminal Krautrock pioneers Can, whose 1970-1973 work with Damo Suzuki at the helm unleashed something in music that would change it forever. Some 45 years since Can's final record with Suzuki - the inimitable Future Days - and the spirit of that era still lives on. Not least because ever since then Suzuki has embarked on an endless one-man tour, traveling around the world and taking to the stage backed by countless different bands. Crossing paths at Roadburn, Suzuki's ensuing performance with Tokyo via Berlin-based group Minami Deutsch is now available to relive on wax.

Even in its moodiest, most downbeat moments there's a spark of energy
that bursts out of A Face In Your Life, the new album from Pet Fox.Where
past efforts played around with after-the-fact layering of instrumentation,
the band's third full-length comes alive in the moment
Tracked live in one room, without the use of a metronome, the ten songs that
unravel across the album capture Theo Hartlett (Guitar/ Vocals), Morgan Luzzi
(Bass), and Jesse Weiss (Drums) in their rawest, most immediate form. Touching
upon notions of anxiety and self-doubt, A Face In Your Life travails the depths of
these themes while also offering little snippets of hope and guidance along the
way. Indeed, the album's sprawling opening track 'Settle Even' is billed as a selfhelp pamphlet, a reminder to the band themselves and those listening that there
will always be people in the world looking out for us, even when that feels like an
impossible feat. An inspired collection of riffs that twists and turns into varying
shapes throughout, Pet Fox never outstay their welcome in the half-an-hour or of
A Face In Your Life but do more than enough to make the kind of impression that
leaves you wanting to journey back through the shadows, to unpick the little knots
of the ideas they're exploring here. It was brought to life by just three people in
one room but it lends itself to something way beyond that; the never- ending
search for coping mechanisms in the messiest of worlds.

Features all-analogue mastering from the original tapes by legendary engineer Bernie Grundman (himself a former employee of the label), as well as unsurpassed audiophile pressing on 180-gram vinyl at Quality Record Pressings, presented in a Stoughton Printing old-style tip-on jacket.

The series highlights gems from Contemporary's extraordinary catalogue and features artists who both defined and expanded the sound of West Coast jazz.

1957's The Poll Winners was the first of five all-star trio sessions featuring the dazzling interplay of guitarist Barney Kessel, drummer Shelly Manne and bassist Ray Brown. For The Poll Winners, Kessel, Manne, and Brown did not record together simply because they all happened to have won first place on their respective instruments in the Down Beat, Playboy, and Metronome polls.

Their collaboration was due to mutual respect, and their sensitivity to one another's musical requirements. Here, in a set composed mainly of pop and jazz standards, they represent the ultimate in their fields, constituting a rhythm section that also provides brilliant solo interludes by all three members. Collectively, Kessel, Manne, and Brown won dozens of polls over the years; this record eloquently tells you why.

Peer through the windows of the sun-dappled homes in Sicily and you will be faced with a small, strange ceramic object adorning each hallway. It is a glistening pine cone standing upright – a pigna – the longstanding symbol of Sicilian openness and welcome hospitality.

The pigna is a delightfully unusual and yet apt symbol for the title of the third record from Benjamin Harris, AKA Yarni. Ever since his debut LP release in 2017, Yarni has established a following committed to his musical openness, an intuitive curiosity that has spanned everything from house and techno to cinematic ambience and Japanese percussion, as well as jazz horns and afrobeat fanfares. For Yarni, anything goes and everyone is welcome. Now, Pigna sees Yarni reach his fullest and most musically diverse expression, taking its name and ethos from Sicily, but finding a sonic home in the luscious orchestration of a new ensemble of musicians.

Here, at the helm of a nine-person ensemble, Yarni artfully pieces together live improvisations to create the warmth of a seasoned group performing deep within the groove. Opener “Midnight Getaway” places the listener squarely within the disco-funk of Daft Punk as Yarni’s top-line synth intersects with a rolling bassline and a lyrical flute solo from Rachel Shirley. This optimistic tone of sunlit spaciousness is then heightened on “Utopia”, as Yarni’s horn section comes to the fore to pay homage to the ineffable syncopations of Fela Kuti’s pioneering afrobeat.

Rather than scratch at the surface of these musical genres, Yarni’s attuned ear embodies the emotive essence of his various sounds by paying intimate attention to their creation. There is the punch of that afrobeat sax on “Utopia”; the rhythmic skitter of breakbeats on “The Astral”; the sludging thump of funk in the bassline on “Nova”. Collaborators are given free reign, too, to incorporate their own unique stylings into this remarkable whole, from vocalist Emily Marks’ languid tone on “In A Dream”, to saxophonist Jonoa’s innate swing on “Cherub”, and the metronomic movement of bassist Ally McMahon’s playing throughout.

Listening to Pigna is ultimately to find yourself squarely within the comforting embrace of Yarni’s musical mind. It is a truly LP experience – a record to be placed on the turntable’s platter and then left to play, allowing yourself an immersion in these journeying soundscapes. It is no wonder fellow sonic travellers such as the late Andrew Weatherall and DJ Harvey have been supporters of Yarni’s work, since here is a kindred spirit – an artist shaped in the form of radical openness, speaking the hospitable, universal language of beautiful music.

Peer through the windows of the sun-dappled homes in Sicily and you will be faced with a small, strange ceramic object adorning each hallway. It is a glistening pine cone standing upright – a pigna – the longstanding symbol of Sicilian openness and welcome hospitality.

The pigna is a delightfully unusual and yet apt symbol for the title of the third record from Benjamin Harris, AKA Yarni. Ever since his debut LP release in 2017, Yarni has established a following committed to his musical openness, an intuitive curiosity that has spanned everything from house and techno to cinematic ambience and Japanese percussion, as well as jazz horns and afrobeat fanfares. For Yarni, anything goes and everyone is welcome. Now, Pigna sees Yarni reach his fullest and most musically diverse expression, taking its name and ethos from Sicily, but finding a sonic home in the luscious orchestration of a new ensemble of musicians.

Here, at the helm of a nine-person ensemble, Yarni artfully pieces together live improvisations to create the warmth of a seasoned group performing deep within the groove. Opener “Midnight Getaway” places the listener squarely within the disco-funk of Daft Punk as Yarni’s top-line synth intersects with a rolling bassline and a lyrical flute solo from Rachel Shirley. This optimistic tone of sunlit spaciousness is then heightened on “Utopia”, as Yarni’s horn section comes to the fore to pay homage to the ineffable syncopations of Fela Kuti’s pioneering afrobeat.

Rather than scratch at the surface of these musical genres, Yarni’s attuned ear embodies the emotive essence of his various sounds by paying intimate attention to their creation. There is the punch of that afrobeat sax on “Utopia”; the rhythmic skitter of breakbeats on “The Astral”; the sludging thump of funk in the bassline on “Nova”. Collaborators are given free reign, too, to incorporate their own unique stylings into this remarkable whole, from vocalist Emily Marks’ languid tone on “In A Dream”, to saxophonist Jonoa’s innate swing on “Cherub”, and the metronomic movement of bassist Ally McMahon’s playing throughout.

Listening to Pigna is ultimately to find yourself squarely within the comforting embrace of Yarni’s musical mind. It is a truly LP experience – a record to be placed on the turntable’s platter and then left to play, allowing yourself an immersion in these journeying soundscapes. It is no wonder fellow sonic travellers such as the late Andrew Weatherall and DJ Harvey have been supporters of Yarni’s work, since here is a kindred spirit – an artist shaped in the form of radical openness, speaking the hospitable, universal language of beautiful music.

Cocteau Twins, Jefre Cantu-Ledesma, Julia Holter, DIIV, Washed Out, Broadcast, Insides, Beach House, Drug Store Romeos. Introducing Beneather, a BAFTA-nominated composer from North London obsessively crafting sad, lo-fi, cinematic, ambient scandi-dreampop submerged in gently fuzzy tape loops. Much like the paintings of Gerhard Richter or a heavy mist rolling through a familiar landscape, the debut long player from Beneather obscures and blurs ten beautiful tracks beneath washes of cinematic, ambient scandi-dreampop – details emerge and fade, voices ooze and flow, tunes soothe and unnerve, metronomic beats click and swing. It would not be out of place on a David Lynch or Jim Jarmusch soundtrack. Inspired by the likes of Jefre Cantu-Ledesma, Hammock, Grouper, Low, GAS, Huerco S., Emeralds, Jenny Holzer, William Basinski & ABBA!! Beneather is the solo project of Lewis Young - composer and collaborator in The Leaf Library, drone pop from north London. As a composer, Lewis recently scored the British short ‘Lucky Break’ which found its way into the BAFTAs short list only to narrowly miss out on the gong. Lewis is a multi-instrumentalist, producer, designer and filmmaker currently living in Walthamstow, London. He started as a guitarist in noughties math-rockers Tea with the Queen, shifting to bass for multi-harmonied Naomi Hates Humans before returning to thumping roots as drummer for The Leaf Library. Objects Forever - the imprint label created by The Leaf Library - has provided Lewis with the vehicle to jump back into experimental song craft, inspiring the genesis of Beneather. “I just needed to make a project which spoke to all the aspects of music I’ve loved creating as a multi-instrumentalist. Plugging things into things to make satisfying little electronic loops, then layering extremely minimal bass and guitar lines with a lo-fi aesthetic. Melinda and I spent a few days in the studio - picking out objects, patterns… items that could inspire a thread of instinctive wordless melody. I took that expressionism and sliced it to pieces, rearranging it into ambient vocal hooks.” Beneather is an exercise in hypnotic simplicity. Experimental, dream-like music built on layers of scratchy electronic tape loops, chiming spacious guitars and abstract pulsing vocals. These cinematic songs combine Grouper's wistful deviations with the warm fuzz of Jefre Cantu-Ledesma, the nocturnal hum of Emeralds, the crackling collapse of William Basinski and Low's glacial pop melancholy. Outside of compositions for film, TV and Podcasts - Lewis plays with the indie drone-pop band The Leaf Library, featuring Matt Ashton from John Peel faves Saloon (“World-weary yet innocent, blissful dream-pop” - UNCUT - 8/10). Lewis has supported the likes of Lali Puna, Joanna Newsom, Lætitia Sadier & Alexis Taylor.

Let’s Eat Grandma, the duo composed of songwriters,
multi-instrumentalists and vocalists Rosa Walton and
Jenny Hollingworth, release their third full-length
album, ‘Two Ribbons’.

 Co-produced by David Wrench and Let’s Eat
Grandma, the album includes previously released
singles ‘Happy New Year’, a celebratory song about
friendship, plus the stunning, melancholic title track
‘Two Ribbons’, glistening pop song ‘Hall Of Mirrors’
and ‘Levitation’, a glimmering and expansive track
driven by soaring synths.

 The band have also announced details of a UK tour,
their first in over three years, including a homecoming
headline appearance at the Sunrise Arena at Latitude
Festival, with further international shows to come.

 Deluxe 140g vinyl LP in 300gsm gatefold sleeve with
matt UV varnish and embossed foiling area, with
150gsm matt UV varnished inner sleeve and digital
download card, also with matt UV varnish.

 Deluxe LP includes exclusive 7” in spined sleeve disco
bag and 180gsm matt machine varnish inner sleeve.

 Tourdates - April 30 & May 1 Stag and Dagger Festival
Glasgow, July 24 Latitude Festival Southwold, October 6
Clwb Ifor Bach Cardiff, 7 Yes (Pink Room) Manchester, 8
Belgrave Music Hall Leeds, 13 Cluny Newcastle, 14
Metronome Nottingham, 15 Space 54 Birmingham, 16
Mash Cambridge, 18 Thekla Bristol, 19 Koko London, 21
Patterns Brighton, 22 Epic Norwich.

Co-produced with Metronomy's Joseph Mount, electro-pop artist TATYANA's debut album is a careful fusion of her classical harp training with her keen sense for pop production and songwriting. Inspired by late-2000s indie pop and Swedish pop auteurs, Treat Me Right is a sparkling, catchy collection of `80s synths and futuristic auto-tuned vocals. TATYANA has lived in Holland, Russia, Singapore, and Boston - where she attended Berklee College of Music on a full scholarship - before settling back in her hometown of London in 2018. The transient nature of her upbringing has certainly informed her music: from underground raves to viral YouTube covers to playing harp on tour with Neneh Cherry, there seems to be no scene that she doesn't thrive in. Last year, she released her thrilling debut EP Shadow On The Wall via Sinderlyn. The self-produced collection was met with praise from tastemaker outlets like NYLON, FADER, Office, Bandcamp, Line of Best Fit, and Crack, as well as an exclusive vinyl pressing with Vinyl Me, Please's Rising program. Treat Me Right is the irresistible product of these impressive first steps, the kind of precisely produced, impossibly catchy pop that takes other artists their entire careers to nail.

Hotel Paral.lel, released in 1997, marks the full length debut release from Austrian Christian Fennesz, originally released by MEGO, following the twitching drone as found on the 1995 EP Instrument, also included in this deluxe 2LP reissue. Once launched, Hotel Paral.lel was to instigate a sublime exploration of a wide variety of forms, from formal abstraction to shimmering drone around to ground zero glitch pop.

Recorded just before mobile computing devices became omnipresent it was an investigation into the sonic possibilities residing in guitar based digital music. Sz launches the career with a constantly buzzing sound that resembles a fax machine encountering a G3 laptop for the first time, realising the game is up. Nebenraum is the first foray into the style for which one would attribute to Fennesz. A glacial drone unexpectedly morphs into a gorgeous melody and microscopic groove. Adding pulse and melody was hearsay in the radical end of experimental music up until this point and with this single gesture, everything changed, for everyone. Blok M nails this trajectory home with a straight up 4/4 beat. Such rhythm also features on Fa with a euphoric mix of a thudding beat, sharp splinters of noise and a devastating exploding melody. Repetition plays heavily through this album as the hyper metronomic beat on traxdata lays a bed for all manner of buzzing electronics. On the closing “Aus” we see a glimpse of what was to come in the future works of Fennesz, an experiment in popping, bubbling pulse pop. A far more darker and experimental work than Fennesz’ subsequent work. This is an exquisite radical field of freeform noise, sliced techno beats and subtle ambient texture all coming together to create a timeless work. There’s little out there in the world of music, still to this day, that sounds remotely like Hotel Paral.lel.

With a radical reinvention of music Hotel Paral.lel is an essential addition to collectors of pioneering music in the late 20th Century and sounds as enthralling today as it did to the shocked ears occupying 1997.

Remastered by Stephan Mathieu.

Chris Imler likes to play drums standing up. He‘s the dandy with the killer offbeat, or, as one major German newspaper once put it, the "Grand Seigneur of the Berlin Underground". He has been making his mark on countless Berlin musical affairs since long before the fall of the Wall, with The Golden Showers, Peaches, Oum Shatt, Driver &Driver, Die Türen, Jens Friebe, to name but a few. He has also been perfoming across Europe as a solo artist for the past decade.

In "Operation Schönheit" (German for "Operation Beauty"), he has recorded his most, well, beautiful album to date. But Benedikt Frey's warm production subverts its own beauty with a multitude of clanking and ingling synth sounds, making the work very much about the cosmetic surgery it performs on itself. It's all in the tradition of the more experimental and electronic side of post-punk in which Imler and his unique groove are rooted. It doesn't take insider knowledge of Berlin's post-punk underground to realise that that Imler groove consists of rhythm that sings, vocals that dance and a look that fits, as illustrated by "Disappoint Me", his latest video: https://youtu.be/YeVJ75ljjB8

Elsewhere - such as in "Movies" - the rhythm sings, less electronically reduced, into the acoustics of an old, high-ceilinged Berlin apartment; metal clatters, a zither trembles and Imler plays with the metronome. Sometimes he moves ahead of time, sometimes trails behind it. He always manages to be in his very own groove, which carries everything along. And this is precisely the essence of the Imler rhythm, which lends itself to being applied to the very rhythm of life: Stretch and compress your time and loop it according to your own groove! Optimise nothing but feel everything! And dance to it! Even when contemplating everyday information overload, as Imler's high-speed mumbling suggests in the hectic yet smooth opening track "Temperature".

But being the ultimate night owl he is, Imler manages to make even the odd bout of paranoia seem like a good thing: like some kind of krauty, groovy B-horror-soundtrack-inflected high-pressure environment, "Whip Me" is a cross between Conrad Schnitzler and Bauhaus. In the title track, whose lyrics were written together with Jens Friebe, he intones: "You want to be something greater / You break your leg / When it heals again / You break it again" and sounds like the most gleeful fatalist you can imagine. Because in his city, one can still lose oneself better than anywhere else - a night easily becomes a whole universe that can be traversed, marvelled at and played with, and one might find one's old self again only when hearing "church bells" and "small birds singing". At least that's how Imler illustrates it in "Emptiness full of stars", and it seems likely that those "stars" are the human companions of the Berlin night in question.

And so once again Imler becomes Berlin's most important cultural ambassador: that scene of the eternally, and somehow successfully, failing creatures of the night, once the envy of the international postmodern bohème, has, despite many claims to the contrary, not been completely "optimised away", and its attitude to life is perfectly summed up in Imler's groove. And, of course, his look. "Schau Hin" (German for "Look!"), he sings in the track of the same name, masterfully dubbed out with the help of Melbourne's Leo James.

Quite right! Look - and listen.

Yours, Johannes von Weizsäcker (The Chap)

wieder auf Lager Die Hamburger Band Faust gehört zu den großen Namen, die der Krautrock der 1970er-Jahre hervorgebracht hat. Als Jean-Hervé Péron und Zappi Diermaier 1971 ihr Debütalbum vorlegten, wollte das in Deutschland niemand hören, im Ausland jedoch verkauften sich "The Faust Tapes" über 100.000-mal. "There is no group more mythical than Faust", schwärmte der englische Musiker und Krautrock-Kenner Julian Cope Jahrzehnte später. Mit "Just Us" setzen Faust ihren musikalischen Weg fort. Während Diermaier seinem Handwerk - Schlagzeug und Perkussion - treu bleibt, integriert Peron allerhand unübliche Klangquellen in sein Bassspiel, verschiedene Streichinstrumente, Klavier und sogar eine Nähmaschine als Metronom. Tracks wie "Nur nous" und "Ich bin ein Pavian" zeigen, dass Faust nichts von ihrer Vorliebe für Avantgarde und Dadaismus verloren haben. Ausflüge ins folkloristische Gefilde ("Cavaqui-ho", "Gammes") runden das wahrhaft faustische Überraschungspaket ab.