2015 was an interesting year. It didn't start out as such, but then I didn't yet know my life would change by its closure. But more about that later...
I found myself in the bay area on business back in late October. Even managed to hook up with an uncle and check out a record shop or two. I'd packed Simon Reynolds' Rip It Up And Start Again, which I'd begun to read again (always a pleasure), timed so that I would get to the Freak Scene chapter while up there. Essentially a chronicle of the post punk scene that coalesced in the Mission District of San Francisco during the late seventies through the eighties, the chapter dives into groups like Tuxedomoon, Factrix and The Residents. And Chrome...
Chrome. I managed to catch the newly reformed Chrome way back in August. Helios Creed in the flesh. Unbelievable. The most titanic sound you could possibly imagine and all in close quarters at The Casbah. At one point I closed my eyes and felt as if I were clinging to the wing of a aeroplane, lifting off the runway into the jet stream. Upon the show's conclusion, drummer Aleph Kali grabbed the microphone and said something to the effect of Give it up for Helios Creed, the godfather of West Coast space rock, which given the circumstances, was pretty hard to argue with. My ears still seem to be recovering. Always meant to write about it, but then the moment passed and time came closing in...
It seemed like every show I did manage to write about only got its treatment sometime later. Usually about a week later. In the case of Dâm-Funk, a whole month passed before I had the chance to put something down in writing! Then, it all got out of hand. I discovered after the fact that my trip to the Bay Area took me out of town for Octave One's show in San Diego.
Octave One! In San Diego!
Me! Not in San Diego!
You couldn't make this stuff up...
Soon after, I started my new job at work. Same company, new job. New group. And yet my old group had a project deadline coming up just before Christmas. I knew that I was the only person who could do what needed to be done in the timespan allotted, and didn't want to leave my old group (who I've been working with for ages) standing on the landing.
So I did what any relatively non-sensible person would do and opted to do two jobs at once, the new and the old. Two full time projects, simultaneously. The ideas I come up with sometimes! Work, Work, Work. The mythical eighty-hour week was upon us. All nighters, working every day through Thanksgiving weekend up until Christmas. Months passed with nary a stopgap post...
At the beginning of 2015, I'd set out to post every month. To keep with it. I did, but just barely (and truthfully, only in the most technical sense). In retrospect, I was pushing too hard on the in-depth excursions and losing sight of the day-to-day. The short posts, the dispatches.
In the process of shaping vast pieces on Stacey Pullen and 4 Jazz Funk Classics, moving back and forth between mapping Another Green World to atmospheric tiles across time and reveries on nineties summer heat and the Atari 2600, weeks would pass without my checking in here. Plus, the protracted development meant that I missed unfurling any of these by year's end. So I'd have to rattle off a placeholder in the lean months, when I really should have been making posts of all sizes on a regular basis — rather than once in a blue moon...
Consequently, I never even managed to touch on Detroit in any sort of comprehensive way, which at some level was sort of the whole point in the first place. It's in my blood. Stay tuned for the antidote...
December was to be post punk month. Hence the machine funk/post punk rejoinder back in late November (from Dâm-Funk to 400 Blows by way of Hashim, and all in two easy moves). Aside from RIUASA, there were a number of fascinating diversions into this interzone that happened to find me during the period between Halloween and Christmas. DJ mixes and interviews. The records themselves. With work in overdrive, writing about it just seemed out of the question. A missed opportunity, no doubt, but the music... well, It Keeps You Running, don't it? Maybe next year...
All of this to say, the resolution for 2016 is to change the landscape of this place. Loosen it all up a bit. Posts coming at you in rapid-fire about all of the above and more. While the Parallax crew gets things moving on every front, Tighten Up Vol. '16, this will be the place to unwind. A change in tone. More telegrammatic, cursory in places and even silly at times, certainly a bit messier all around, but ultimately — I hope — a step in the right direction.
A month ago today, Dâm-Funk rocked The Casbah. It was the first day of the tour, which I later found out would coincide with the release of his new album Invite The Light. His last solo full-length of new material was also his debut, 2009's massive Toeachizown. Firmly grounded in electronic funk, it used g-funk, r&b and techno — sounds that were crucial in my own musical life — as a launchpad in Searchin' 4 Funk's Future. For me at least, it's been one of the key records in recent memory.
I've kept up with his trajectory since then, including his archival Adolescent Funk compilation as well as collaborations with Steve Arrington and Snoop Dogg. All the while, I've been patiently anticipating another solo record, so I was excited to lay my hands on a copy and hear the direction he's taken his sound since.
We rolled into the venue early in the evening as The Junkyard Band bumped out from the dancefloor. The Cookie Crew DJ's were tearing it up on the decks, spinning a blend of down and dirty electronic funk — a perfect warm up for the evening to come.
Dâm-Funk hit the stage with his live band in tow, kicking into high gear from the jump; I'd almost forgotten how hard live funk could hit. I've seen some footage of him performing live on stage in the past, but this was him taking it to a whole other level. He'd truly polished his game and come into his own as a frontman of this lean and mean three-piece band.
Many of the extended, Pacific endless trax from the Toeachizown days had been revamped with lyrics and loosened up with a tensile center of gravity. The band jumped into an updated take on Mirrors — that preview of things to come on his debut — and it still sounded like the futurist optimism of Detroit poured into one ray of elusive sunlight and scattered through a prism into the sky.
Indeed, long stretches of the show stepped confidently into techno territory. O.B.E. (Out Of Body Experience), from the new album, seemed to recall Underground Resistance circa their masterful Galaxy 2 Galaxy series of records: that same sense of astral jazz exploration — shot through with deep electronic shades and timbres — gliding reckless across the dancefloor. 4 Hero's shimmering synths on their epochal Parallel Universe also come to mind, along with the dubbed-out stomp of The Orb, whose track of (nearly) the same title... well, I've only just now realized what it stood for!
It dawned on me that Damon Riddick just might be the West Coast analog to one Kenny Dixon Jr., crafting a double-gatefold vision of post-electro music that stretches beyond one record or the next to populate a vast mosaic of sound; each of these auteurs seem to be hard at work creating their own musical universe. Coincidentally, they both seem to have edged closer to Prince in their delivery (see Moodymann's Det.riot '67 and Dâm's new record, for example).
There were serious Purple Rain vibes running through The Casbah show, a sense of grandeur that the venue struggled to contain. At one point Dâm launched into a heartfelt paean to some distant lover that had him dropping to his knees, James Brown-style, repeatedly throughout its seemingly interminable (in the best possible sense) run. The tension was undeniable. Another moment found him in the middle of the dancefloor, stretching his keyboard out for the audience to play.
The show ended with an encore consisting of Dâm getting behind the drum kit and running loose-limbed through a selection of stone cold funk classics like Rick James' Mary Jane, Slave's Just A Touch Of Love and Cameo's Candy, connecting his own music with a rich lineage of electronic funk even as he leans bravely toward the future. All 'N All, it was a transcendent experience, in which the small venue transformed into one great pulsing ultraviolet dream.
Coming at you in the last possible moment... here's a mix for the end of summer! Smack in the middle of a heatwave, you wouldn't know it to look outside. Sometimes, you've gotta heat it up in order to cool it back down.
The Parallax Sound LabRadio AG Intro
Welcome to the madness...
Black GrapeLittle BobRadioactive
Shaun Ryder's post-Happy Mondays project finds him in league with one-half of the Ruthless Rap Assassins, just in time to bridge the gap between Madchester and the dusted big beat excursions just around the bend. This is the closing track to It's Great When You're Straight ...Yeah, a record I'd almost forgot about until very recently. It's even better than I remembered, and ended up being my soundtrack to this past summer.
Major Force ProductionsSax HoodlumMajor Force
A massive slab of breakbeat noise from this Japanese crew. Major Force were at the cutting edge of sampladelic hip hop, operating in parallel to figures like Bomb The Bass and The 45 King. This record came out a bit later, but still arrived in time for its fat, feedback-drenched basslines to predict The Chemical Brothers in Block Rockin' Beats mode. Mo Wax, in one of their periodic coups back in the nineties, put out an essential box set covering a wide swathe of Major Force's stellar output. It's still surprisingly findable, so don't hesitate!
Odd SquadJazz RenditionRap-A-Lot
Absolutely scorching moves from this Texas crew (featuring the inimitable Devin The Dude), flowing ruff, rugged and raw over a hype breakbeat and jazz shapes in fast-forward. I always did like a good uptempo rap, and this is about as good as it gets. The group's sole full-length, Fadanuf Fa Erybody, is a masterpiece of jazz-soaked Southern hip hop.
Lightnin' RodJimi HendrixDoriella Du FontaineCelluloid
Jimi Hendrix and Buddy Miles jamming with Lightnin' Rod (Jalal Nuriddin of The Last Poets) back in 1969. As far as I know, it didn't see the light of day until 1984 when Celluloid issued it as a 12". You can see the basis for Hustlers Convention in not only its absorbing tale but that unstoppable, ever-building groove.
Massive AttackHorace AndyLight My Fire LiveWild Bunch
I actually heard this version before I got to hear the The Doors' original. It totally spun me around at the time, stripped down as it was and yet at the same time teeming with those half-lit rootsical vibes. That's Bristol for you. Daddy G hypes the crowd while Horace Andy does his inimitable thing over rugged breakbeats, video game bleeps emerging scattershot from the mix. When the horn solo hits, I'm 15 again.
Kendrick LamarKing KuntaTop Dawg
To Pimp A Butterfly is a truly staggering album, housing a breadth of vision that is only surpassed by its depth of feeling. Hear it a dozen times and you've still only scratched the surface. I have a feature kicking around somewhere that places it squarely in the continuum stretching from Electric Ladyland to America Eats Its Young and beyond. I'll need to dig that up sometime. King Kunta plays like a call to arms, its momentum a chain reaction that builds and builds as Lamar's relentless flow culminates in a glorious will to power. You could write a whole book on this LP.
Toxygene apparently began life as a remix for Jean Michel-Jarre's Oxygene 7-13, but was ultimately rejected by Jarre and wound up on The Orb's Orblivion. Its blunted 4/4 dub stylings seem to draw on the sound of earlier classics like Perpetual Dawn and Blue Room, even as it threatens to surpass them in its carnivalesque grandeur and that casually monolithic stomp.
Keni StevensNight Moves Ultra-Sensual MixElite
Ever since seeing Night Moves (with Gene Hackman), I've made it a mission to check out any song of the same title (even if Dee Dee Bridgewater's version, as heard in the Spring Mix, was already comfortably in the stacks by that time). I can't explain it, it's just one of my thangs.
At any rate, I chanced into hearing this one and then managed to find it for next to nothing shortly after. It's quite simply one of the great atmospheric soul records of its era, up there with Mtume's Juicy Fruit and The Isley Brothers' Between The Sheets. The Ultra-Sensual Mix reshapes the original rhythm into a form not unlike Flynn's light cycle, grooving light years smoother as if over the grid itself. Beyond that, it's pure atmosphere... reverb-draped vocals echo out into the distance while neon blue vectors scroll beneath a vast twilight landscape, crescent moon shimmering in the night sky.
Dâm-FunkWe ContinueStones Throw
I was lucky enough to catch Dâm-Funk at The Casbah a few weeks ago in what turned out to be a sold out show. It happened to be the same day his new album came out, so I snapped up a copy with the quickness. It finds the man emerging from behind his synths and taking the mantle of frontman, plying a sort of Ready For The World-esque electric funk. I've always loved the way he seems to split the difference between r&b and techno, and this finds him continuing in that mode. True machine soul.
VangelisLet It HappenVertigo
Liquid, soothing kosmische folk from the man behind Blade Runner Blues. Crystalline Fender Rhodes dance across drifting currents of Mellotron in an utterly absorbing swirl of cosmic psychedelia. Pure, glistening dreamtime music. This is one of those songs that everyone should get to hear at least once.
Johnny HammondShifting GearsMilestone
From the album Gears, one of the all-time greatest jazz funk records, sporting what may be the very best Mizell Brothers production of them all. Perfect soundscape after perfect soundscape. Keys in liquid Rhodes cascade over rubberband basslines and crisp drum breaks; chants echo and repeat, existing as pure texture throughout. Another Green World music.
MC KelzLynxClash Of The BeatsThree Stripe
A Smith & Mighty beat for MC Kelz on their own Three Stripe imprint. If you're at all familiar with the duo's records then you know Kelz from later tunes like Seeds and the DJ-Kicks/I Don't Know remix. With Smith & Mighty, you can almost always count on those great three-dimensional beats cutting jagged through the mix, raw and with a true physical heft to them. This track later figured into The Three Stripe Collection, an unmissable mop up of classics from the label's short-lived run.
Perfection. I generally think of this as a rainy day record, but then I play it in the dead of summer and its gentle ARPs sound sun-glazed and the trees seem to sway with its beat in the sunset. It's that Gaussian-blurred blunted quality that draws you in, and the nonchalant inevitability of that descending bridge that keeps your ears reaching out, as if grasping for the horizon.
Barış MançoBaykoca Destani iii. Kara Haber - Turnanin ÖlümüYavuz Plak
From the epic suite that takes up most of the second side of his 2023, these flutes draw that beat out into the abyss.
Max 404Steinfeld, Summer. 1982Eevo Lute
Conversely, this is most likely a rainy day record even as I often peg it as a summer one. I remember finding it at the El CajonMusic Trader in the dead of August way back in the day. Here's a record that I wasn't expecting to ever get to hear, just sitting in the racks for a couple dollars! That shop was such a great font of electronic music almost in spite of itself (I need to write about this sometime). To this day, I can't imagine who was selling this stuff back used... but I'll always be grateful for the opportunity to have scooped it up at such an early stage in the game.
Eddie RussSalem AvenueMonument
This one was a Kirk Degiorgio tip-off, from his Op-ART Hall Of Fame breakout of classic jazz and soul records. Another sterling jazz funk record, this time poised at the precipice of the disco age. Recorded at United Sound Studios, where George Clinton laid down his slew of classics around the same time, this is crammed with synths that seem to spring from the earth itself. The sleeve perfectly capturing the sun-kissed sounds contained within. Salem Avenue itself is exquisitely lush and deep-glazed in the heat of late summer. You can practically feel the steam rising from the asphalt.
Erykah BaduThat HumpUniversal Motown
From New Amerykah: Part One 4th World War, a record that has gone on to have lasting repercussions in the intervening years. I see the spirit of Black Messiah and To Pimp A Butterfly prefigured in this record's deeply furrowed grooves. The spectre of J Dilla looms large over the proceedings, while SA-RA were behind the mixing desk for large stretches and seemed to have had a huge hand in shaping the record's spaced-out, machine soul sound.
Quintessential low slung Texas hip hop, crafted by this central member of DJ Screw's clique. A heartbreaking record that happens to feature a gorgeous sun-kissed beat that rides a sizable portion of The Bar-Kays' song of the same title, rolling in languid slow-motion.
SA-RA Creative PartnersHollywood ReduxBabygrande
As good a tune as any to illustrate the sort of music that I like.SA-RA were important to me because they seemed to make explicit the line stretching from machine soul like Mtume and Kleeer forward in time to Model 500 and Carl Craig into Timbaland and The Neptunes, a line that gradually became apparent to me around the turn of the century. Like Dâm-Funk, SA-RA seem to split the difference between r&b and techno, coming at it from a deeply spaced out, prog-inflected angle. Hollywood Redux itself sounds like nothing so much as Supa Dupa Fly beamed into Deep Space in search of an Intimate Connection.
Another chance encounter in the used racks, this time on the second floor of the Wherehouse across the street from Grossmont Center (do I ever miss that place!). I was pleasantly surprised to see this record feature in Fact Magazine's The 100 Best Albums Of The Nineties1 recently. This record was something like Global Communication's unofficial debut, wherein savage industrial passages alternate with some of the most gorgeous ambient you could imagine (hinting at the inspired, schizophrenic path the duo would blaze throughout the rest of the decade).
RAG017: The Records
Edits: Do'shonne and Slye.
Time stretching: Do'shonne and Nautilus Jones.
Vibes: Atari 2600, Kleeer, Lake Murray, Jazz Mosaic, Sittin' On Chrome.
It's been a long time since I last posted, but only because I've been waiting to transport everything to a new location: here. The Parallax Room has now become Parallax Moves, while our plans for the former will be revealed sometime in the future.
It's been a busy month and a half, with myriad projects unfurling in the Heights and a couple phenomenal shows at The Casbah (Chrome and Dâm-Funk, both doing their respective thang in full force); all things I hope to touch on shortly... for now, I leave you with a brand new site to roam in the pitch black night.
The Jungle record came out a year ago today. It's crept up on me in a big way over the course of that year. At first I almost heard past it — pleasant enough, I suppose — but as much as I casually dug the record, I hadn't yet totally succumbed to it's brilliance. Then Sari took me to see them live at The Belly Up Tavern last September.
In the context of the live show, every corner of that venue teeming with such deeply atmospheric dance music, I was totally drawn into their trip; finally everything made sense. You could feel all manner of young people having their first rave experience to this music, eyes closed, hands in the air and dancing with wild abandon. Immersed in the vibe. It lives on even now?
I know that in my case it all took me back to a youth spent dancing in nightclubs and out in the desert to whatever strains of house and techno I could find in San Diego at the time. Cruising the city streets between work and school and the lab, bumping Stacey Pullen and making beats whenever I had the chance. Lot's of time spent digging in the trenches with my head in the clouds. Downcast but not out.
The wild shapes and sonics of that music's synthesized pulse kept a young brother's head up and feet moving forward. And forward. Fast-forward to the present. Now here was a live group on stage conjuring that same atmosphere, sidestepping any familiar rock concert forms to approximate the sound of the deepest of grooves coming off a hot 12" in the club — reworked from scratch backwards in widescreen and bang up to date.
The record itself is fantastic. I was baffled by the veil of silence that seemed to cloak this album in the music press. Any coverage the group did happen to garner seemed to focus on the most superficial aspects of their profile. Much has been made of the crew's mysterious nature, for example, but growing up as I did on crews like Drexciya and UR (operating in the shadows at all times), in Jungle's case it just seemed to be some cats who wanted to let the music speak for itself. And speak for itself it certainly does. Yet when all of the 2014 end-of-year polls rolled around, I couldn't find it even mentioned in a single list that I checked! What gives?
This was without a doubt my favorite album of the year, and one of a handful of occurrences that made me want to return to writing about music. I planned to fire this site up in late October just to talk about the record, but various real world concerns pushed that plan up until January. Then, as the year wore on and I got back in groove of writing once again, it just never seemed to be the right time. I caught them live again a few weeks ago, and realized just the other day that it had been a year since Jungle first dropped... so what better time than now?
Jungle quietly inhabits a place all its own on the sonic spectrum, seemingly formed from a single slab of onyx and then submerged in quicksilver. The songs within seem constructed from pure atmosphere rather than any formal structure or notation. You want to reach out and grasp at its amorphous surfaces even as they seem to slip and slide just out of reach. Its beats threaten to crumble to the touch, often seeming to stagger sideways even as they commence to propel the grooves ever forward. The soundscape seems a blur, smeared against distant lights on the horizon, until you squint to notice the intricate details found within. Worlds within worlds, a dream within a dream.
In a sense, its methodology reminds me of Dâm-Funk's Toeachizown in the way they both seems to spool out widescreen sonic vistas sourced in some half-remembered dream. Drawing both on years of his own g-funk sorcery and the atmospheric boogie of his youth (things like Mtume's Juicy Fruit and Kleeer's Tonight), Dâm-Funk wove moods and grooves from the deepest recesses of machine funk and stretched them across five LPs — a sprawling canvas of two hours and twenty minutes — to create a monument to these dreamtime soundscapes, previously essayed only in fleeting glimpses on b-sides and the odd album cut, resulting in a stone cold slab of perfection.
Jungle's sound itself is different, and the record's length far shorter, but it seems to spring from the same drive to build a world of its own from some dream half-remembered. The experience of listening to this record is like nothing so much as that moment when you absorb your surroundings for the first time in a strange new city: it seems wholly distinct and yet there's nearly always something that will make you say déjà vu. A cul de sac or stretch of road, a building or bit of hillside that almost feels like some mirror image of home. This record embodies that feeling, coming on like some solarized vision of the world you've known.
On one hand, its tempting to compare Jungle to groups like Hot Chip and The Junior Boys — and maybe that's not a bad thumbnail on the face of it — but those groups always seemed to be coming at dance music from an indie rock mindset, much like Scritti Politti or Orange Juice did in their day. Neither does Jungle's music truly sound like any of those groups. You'll also often hear allusions to neo soul when describing the group's sound, but that's a red herring as well. This music is soulful, no doubt, but its sound seems to spring from somewhere else entirely. Like Escort and The Sunburst Band, this is post-disco dance music through and through. The only trouble is, Jungle don't really sound like those groups either.
What the record immediately made me flash on were the spaciest passages of the Metro Area LP, especially its lush second side (Soft Hoop and Caught Up, in particular). Those tactile, spongy basslines, the sense of longing stitched between the glistening lines, and that same overwhelming sense of four-dimensional ATMOSPHERE. Loping grooves half-lit in neon, a lone street lamp and the moonlight. Jungle operate in a similar dubbed out terrain, even as they extrapolate it out into a cinematic scope that makes the most sense in big rooms or under the open night sky. It's perfect that this came out on an imprint like XL, with its well-documented roots in rave culture.
The other comparison that I would make, appropriately enough, is Chicago's Jungle Wonz. A collaboration between Marshall Jefferson and Harry Dennis (also of The It), Jungle Wonz dealt in ambient house before the phrase had even been coined. Records like The Jungle, Time Marches On and Bird In A Gilded Cage fused three-dimensional bass pulses, lush cascading synthesizers, environmental sounds and dreamlike vocals to establish a mood of endless longing. Where Harry Dennis was a street poet, expressing his ideas in spoken word, Jungle trade in fragile falsetto (I'm occasionally reminded of the Fine Young Cannibals' Roland Gift).
Marvin Gaye's Trouble Man OST, a recurring Parallax favorite, is the third and final comparison I could make. That may seem to contradict my earlier dismissal of the neo soul tag, but bear with me. What I hear in Jungle is a similarity in atmosphere to instrumentals like "T" Plays It Cool and "T" Stands For Trouble; an atmosphere that threatens to overwhelm the songs themselves even as it's kept in check by beats and synthesizers tapping out a steady pulse. Chords press on in the face of a hard life, the odds stacked against at all times. One is reminded of Bobby Bland's immortal words: Ain't no love when you're living in the city.
Album opener The Heat, with environmental sounds of the street bleeding into the mix, illustrates this point perfectly. Right on time, backed by the beach... still gon' bring the heat. An organ runs resolute beneath the beat, pressing forward as a falsetto intones pure longing. Distant sirens run throughout. Something strummed, not an instrument but pure atmosphere strummed from some combination of sources. Or formed, perhaps, from the depths of some machine? Conjured from thin air, even. That amorphous sense of sound permeates the whole of this record, cloaking its every corner in a veil of illusion.
The pacing throughout is perfect. Absolutely perfect! Accelerate comes on like some downcast permutation of The Heat. Can I get the car to jump start, please?, intoned in desperation. Everything just seemed to happen at once. Sentiments that I've understood well, and I suspect you have too. I just can't push on any further, won't you cut me a break just this once? Sari told me that it always makes her think of me. That woman knows me too well!
Those guitars that creep in during the tune's second half seem to recall the mood of Roxy Music's Avalon, only heard from within a dream. The masterful Crumbler seems to channel that same vibe through the prism of Love Inc.'s Life's A Gas — shot through with that same sense of ambient bliss — even as those great churning synth figures rev like an engine beneath the whole thing, rushing and overflowing before sinking into the ether again.
This record is above all a mood piece, but there's a couple relentless club burners hiding in its depths. Julia builds up from skeletal verses into the all-out assault of its chorus, tension ever escalating. Busy Earnin', which seems to be the biggest single so far, for some reason always makes me think of the opening sequence in Rocky II, in which Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed are rushed to the hospital after the big fight. Its sentiments do seem to capture the prevailing mood of today. Feeling like nothing so much climbing out from some abyss, every beat — every step — taking you closer to the surface, those horns (not horns) climax in a fury.
Platoon follows, once again illustrating the absolutely perfect sense of flow and pacing in this record. A downcast mirror image of Busy Earnin', it pushes forward on a low key Reese bassline and some siren song that could be vocal or synthetic in origin... or perhaps something else entirely. The driving pulse of its buildup ever unfurling into gentle pools of texture before eddying into another glimpse of the divine. That's the secret of this record: even as it reaches for the epic, it manages to never come off as forced or bombastic, everything remains undercut by a sense of longing. Dread even. Each step may take you closer to where you're going but then the destination seems to be moving too.
There's this whole other aspect to this record that seems to key into that same headspace that much of the greatest trip hop did (think Terranova's awesome Tokyo Tower). Drops' crawling beat staggers along, barely keeping together. Textures unfurl gently, the creaking of a door somehow worked into the rhythm. Barely keeping on. Indeed, as the record staggers toward its denouement, this spirit really does seem to tip over into dread. Son Of A Gun seems to struggle to press on, threatening to collapse at any moment, often cutting the beat to retreat into its gloomy refrain.
The flipside of the coin: no matter how bleak this record may turn on you, there's always a glimmer of hope hiding somewhere between the lines. Lucky I Got What I Want seems to have an almost zen-like acceptance of the passing of time, submitting to the way of the world. It's elegiac refrain simply asks Don't you forget about me, before ultimately drifting into the ether.
Lemonade Lake slips quietly into view like something from Warp's Artificial Intelligence series, unassuming keys playing out right there in plain sight, before exploding into lustrous moonlight. Sequences run up and down the spectrum as this river of pure sound, lush as you could possibly imagine, flows steady beneath. This is the sound of the night's own internal logic working itself out, however it may transpire. The record ends on an electronic hymn, and then silence.
One day, out of the blue Sari noticed that a group called Jungle were playing at The North Park Observatory. But was it the same group? It seemed unclear. Being such a die-hard fan, she sprung for the tickets anyway. It turned out to be the same Jungle after all, and we would get to see them once more. Before the show, a DJ warmed up the crowd. I heard him spin The Bottle from outside the club. We made our way inside. Without the presence of an opening act, Jungle took the stage.
The group began to fill the venue with the Morricone-meets-Get Carter-meets-Moroder inflections of Smoking Pixels, the record's lone instrumental. With the group's casual, eerie whistling, the room filled with anticipation. Massive lamps cast their figures as stark silhouettes against dazzling colors shining down from the rafters. I was reminded of the time I saw Secret Machines perform at Soma back in the day (Fall 2004, if memory serves), where they had these massive lamps blasting white light into the crowd from behind the band. The effect made it feel as if you were in the closing scene of Heat. Jungle's seemed to recall American Gigolo, or even Drive, cloaking the room in that same sumptuous palette.
The Observatory show was, if anything, even better than the one at The Belly Up. Their stage show had graduated in scale without sacrificing any of its intimacy. Passages in the songs opened up into new avenues. There was a point, in Drops I believe, when the sequencers took over and began spinning fractals out into space. Sari had it pegged as sounding like Tangerine Dream circa the Thief OST. The group encored with Time, the record's latest single, its endless cascading waves of sound — bass resonating on three separate planes, each morphing into the other — a perfect note to close on. It turned out that this was the final date of their North American tour.
I can't think of a moment in my life in which, had this music existed at the time, I wouldn't have been blown away. It seems to exist in a space all its own, hovering just out of reach between any number of sonic possibilities that I've called home. Indeed, as we started to file out of the Observatory, a thought that had been materializing in the back of my mind for months finally came into focus: this is exactly the sort of record that Larry Levan would have caned at The Paradise Garage.
The DJ played Water Get No Enemy as we walked out into the streets.
I get an email today telling me that It's back with an image of a T-800 staring back at me. It's from Woebot, announcing that his blog has reanimated. This is the man (bot?) that inspired me to start writing about music in the first place — tuning me into loads of great music in the process — so needless to say I'm excited for what the future holds over at woebot.com.1
Over at Blissout,1Simon Reynolds had been compiling a whole brace of songs about music (the joy of, etc.) over the last month or so. I kept expecting this one to crop up from some quarter, but it never did and I'd thought everyone had moved onto other things. The moment had passed...
Well, we haven't and it hasn't, so consider this2 the Parallax entry in the canon. Gary Bartz says it better than most, and it just so happens that Music Is My Sanctuary too.