Posts Tagged ‘Feeding Tube Records’

Popular Posts Tagged ‘Feeding Tube Records’

Weeping Bong Band
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Village of Spaces – “Pace and Gait”
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Frank Hurricane and the Hurricanes of Love
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Gary War
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Nothing On Semble
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Ignatz
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Prana Crafter
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Prana Crafter

by on ·New Albums, Reviews

If it wasn’t readily apparent from the sidelong strechout that populated his half of a split with Tarotplane last year, Will Sol’s music is made for grander statements than a compact runtime can accommodate. His latest LP pushes that boundary even further, nudging the scope from one side to two. Though it’s split into six parts, the tracks on MorphoMystic are essentially all part of one long piece. Still strolling the verdant gardens of ‘70s kosmiche and bending the will psych to the whims of prog, the new album truly enjoys the spectral build and release of his German predecessors.

Even when the tempo is slowed to a Cluster-crawl, the new Prana is percolating with a heart-flutter rhythm that’s humid and hungry, yet hunted and wounded — siphoning the cosmic impulses into a dark heart. This is a more furrowed and fraught side of Sol than I’ve heard before. He’s usually threading the gauze, letting his folk strings pull gently at his prog side, but here synths and ambience assert their dominance over the guitar for the most part.

He can still wring wrath from the six, but for the most part he’s embodying the Göttsching persona well while dipping into the works of fellow Ra member Schulze’s works for good measure. Creeping into view with a tempered step, he arcs MorphoMystic into a dizzying psychological thriller by the time “Chalice of the Fungal Sage” hits the speakers. Though if things end with blood and bone, they also end with a somber relief by the time we lie into the weary homecoming of “Starlight, Sing us A Lullaby.” Sol’s been working at body high hits for the last few years, but he’s besting himself yet again with this cohesive platter.




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Nothing On Semble

by on ·New Albums, Reviews

Another low-profile stunner out of the Feeding Tube camp today, Nothing On Semble is largely the work of Curtis Godino, a member of fellow FT band Worthless. For his work in the “On Semble” he’s exploring a spacey prog that borders library soundtracks, borrows from Floyd-esque wide-eyed psychedelia, and feels wholly displaced from any current song cycles going in 2019. With mellotron upfront, forging the kaleidoscopic path, Godino’s songs riffle through the more outre edges of prog’s academic pomp. The balletic, delicate keys creep into most of his songs with a wary trepidation that begins to warp and bubble like oils over glass or sheets of tin wound and warped in the light. There’s wonder at the heart of his pieces, but in equal regard, a kind of horrific fascination with the macabre. This comes to the forefront most prominently during the sampled psychological examination that takes the forefront on “Careful With Those Keys,” but musically its in the DNA of all of the tracks.

The Library vibes take over fully by the time the listener is onto “Full Theme 1,” which sews baroque psych with a thread of funhouse delirium. It quite rightly sounds like its lost its way out of a Jean Rollin score and the feeling that there are sure to be naked vampires descending at any moment is hard to shake. The queasy unease on the album is battling against a somewhat ever-present campiness and the combination is delightfully disorienting. There’s been a revival of plenty of pockets of psychedelic sounds lo these past few years – from Jam’s resurrection to the instrumental prowess of Frank Matson, but Godino’s got a lock on the kind of off-kilter weirdness that feels like its about twenty years out from showing up as a reissue on Finders Keepers.

This one’s been issued digitally and on limited cassette (sadly no vinyl) and it’s a welcome addition to any collection of DMT-twisted psych classics out there. Recommended that you slide gently down whatever eiderdown Godino is leading us all towards.



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Frank Hurricane and the Hurricanes of Love

by on ·New Albums, Reviews

Nestled in among the oddities, noise freaks, and psychedelic travelers on the Feeding Tube Roster rests a few releases from Frank Hurricane. The persona once held sway over Frank’s duffle-bag beats and scattershot flow, but he’s long since embraced his soulful side, melding rambling folk with a strain of small town Southern spiritual blues. The swap in sound’s done Frank good over the years, but nowhere more so than on his latest LP (splitting release between Feeding Tube and Crash Symbols). Along with a band dubbed The Hurricanes of Love, Frank fleshes out his sound adding in a few more voices to the mix, the occasional parade of horns, and the slow swing of drums behind his marmalade croons. Of course, bare-bones Frank tracks still abound, with Hurricane testifying his own brand of mud-caked gospel over the sunny tangle of strings.

Now at first blush, I might’ve balked on an album that goes so far as to include a Juggalo logo on the front cover. While I’m nestled in the Catskills these days, growing up in Michigan, on the backporch of Juggalo country in the ’90s, that was a totem that could often conjure trouble. However, Frank’s a seer and a singer, a poet laureate of the rusted underbelly of America, rust I often found myself scratched on growing up. He finds transcendence in the asphalt of Tennessee’s most scorched country – giving a reverent Americana profundity to PCP warnings, haunted devil towns, pimpin’, Shrympin (sic), and yeah lonely Juggalos at the local Burger King. Its all spiritual to Frank and he lets it flow through him and sow him like the soil piled behind a local gas station.

With a countenance that recalls Wooden Wand (albeit with a heavier howl) brushing up against Robbie Basho and boiled down in Charlie Patton’s American Gothic updated for 2019, the record is warm and inviting. Frank’s stories are peppered with characters and its clear each one has rubbed off on him and in turn, they likely took a bit of Frank’s hubris with them. This is a record for the porch, the tape deck on the tailgate, or anywhere that the sun can crack in and the mountain air fills the lungs. Damn fine summer songs, and just in time too.



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Village of Spaces – “Pace and Gait”

by on ·Videos

A bucolic new video from Village of Spaces, the duo of Dan Beckman-Moon and his partner Amy Moon Offerman-Sims along with a constantly revolving chorus of players from Big Blood, Amps for Christ, Dire Wolves among others walking the cosmic trail. “Pace and Gait” is a buzzing, serene piece of psych-folk, though its more interested in soothing the soul than wobbling the listener off their axis. Beckman-Moon’s slightly nasal croon lulls the listener to a place of lamplight solitude and the flood of background voices makes the invitation seem pretty tempting. The video is awash in hazy seaside imagery that recalls the cooler end of the summer, with the band feeling like local residents of a summer town once the influx of weekend drop-ins has finally skidded to a close and the true calm of the place is restored once again. The band’s LP, Shaped by Place is out next week on Feeding Tube.



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Weeping Bong Band

by on ·New Albums, Reviews

Massachusetts is pumping out some high-quality psych of late, with MV & EE constantly dispensing gems via their Child of Microtones label and, of course, Feeding Tube serving the needs of the warped and warbled soul in all of us. With an already commendable performance behind him in Wet Tuna, P.G. Six has taken up with members of Pigeons, Crystalline Roses and Viewer to form Weeping Bong Band. Not ones to waste an apt moniker, the band’s eponymous debut is perfect fodder for higher consciousness excursions and late-night fade outs into the ether. The record exists in a state of permanent 2AM Dead improvisations twisted through the soul of Brightblack Morning Light and doused in the blood of Fahey. The record is vibrating as an unconscious conduit to the astral plane, glowing like embers in holy fire. If J. Spacemen was taking drugs to make music to take drugs to then his likely heirs have all just formed a coven on the shores of the Connecticut River.

The band weaves primal moments of solitude and natural communion with an uneasiness that coalesces in the final track, “Jaume 1.” They strike a tentative accord between man and nature, feeling like kindred spirits with the mossy groves around them, but knowing they are intruders all the same. So it becomes that chemical consumption shifts the plane and the record drops the listener into a verdant cocoon of earthen menace. This is a record built for headphones, or speakers pushed to fill a room to the brink. Quiet and calm as it may be, Weeping Bong Band is a record that’s felt as light and heat and smell just as much as it taps on the eardrums. The band can be commended for breaking the fourth wall and taking us all along for the ride.


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Gary War

by on ·New Albums, Reviews

The past few years have been illuminating in terms of seeing how some of the lo-fi set have grown up and out of the nest that sprung them. With Ariel Pink embracing the warmth of ‘60s sunshine and The Soft Moon going full Nine Inch Nails lately, there’s a lot to be said for taking the seed of sound and blowing it up bigger than before. So, with that in mind its interesting to see former Pink collaborator Gary War back after five years with his first new LP in the post-hypnogogic comedown. War (nee Greg Dalton) doesn’t entirely emerge from the shadows he’s lurked in, but he does give the sound a good fleshing out with a crack backing band that features members of Sunburned, Pigeons and Bobb Trimble’s melted psych circus.

War has also played with Trimble over the years and he seems to have taken a page from Bobb’s tendency to dig his heels into psychedelia’s weird end while still giving it a bit of instrumental sparkle. Same goes for underground legend R. Stevie Moore, and there’s quite a bit of this record that brings to mind his classic Glad Music. Like that bit of warped wax, Gaz Forth is full of shaded psych-pop that’s whizzing by in dazzling double doppler-effect, dropping snippets of the ‘60s that seem just out of reach – was that some Tull-era flute or maybe it’s Moody Blues, some ELP organ ramp-up – we’re never quite sure.

What is for certain is that this is Dalton at his best and it’s probably the most realized version of what Gary War sounded like in his head all those years. Coming out just a bit from the cloud of hiss that’s permeated the project brings out a glittering array of colors in his work – right before the band takes a hot iron and smudges them at the edges, that is. On Gaz Forth Gary War is spreading the smudge to the widescreen though and it’s never sounded more alive.




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Ignatz

by on ·New Albums, Reviews

Bram Devens slides back home on Kraak for his fourth full length at the label while partnering up with the always venerable Feeding Tube for the US release. He’s come a long way over the years. Gone are the crusted electronics that marked his early works. Gone too are the tin can Americana blues of his 2013 work Can I Go Home Now?. There’s a bump in Devens’ fidelity, but that simply means that its a smoother ride, its by no means a crisp studio setting on The Drain, but then it wouldn’t really be Ignatz if it wasn’t wrapped some manner of midnight hiss. With the clarity comes a directness from Bevens that’s been lacking in his previous works. He’s always felt a bit confessional, but The Drain is a new depth for his songwriting. His guitar work comes through with the weight and gravitas of troubled folk bluesmen. There’s an unmistakable sadness to the record, haunted and hushed; given forth in his mumbled but pained delivery and the tangled fingerpicks that adorn the album.

Devens is indeed circling the drain, or so it would seem from the sounds of The Drain. Its almost impossible to really get into this album in the light of day. Its barely even a twilight record. Its a 1:30 AM, lawn chair in the backyard, single porchlight sporting a halo of fog type of record. If ever there was a record to soundtrack the reassessment of your life choices, this is that record. Its the most bare and honest record of the man’s career and though it sounds like terrible pain went into its creation, its output is beautiful and spare. Its the kind of record from an artist that you can say, “forget the rest of the catalog, for now just start here and sink in.”




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