Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - The Specter at the Feast

The Riddle of the Specter at the Feast

 The fifteen year life span of the Psychedelic, Shoegaze Garage Rock collective, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (BRMC) has been fraught with trials and tribulations that would spell certain doom for nearly any modern group of musicians. Despite all of this, Robert Been, bassist and dual vocalist opposite Peter Hayes, guitarist and equal handed mastermind of the group have delivered consistently impressive albums that have earned them a dedicated fan base across the globe and in doing so, have developed an entire realm of genre bending sounds that keep us guessing with each new release. The rebel duo were out a drummer after nearly ten years of discord with Nick Jago who was distracted with personal difficulties. The beautiful and talented Leah Shapiro has taken up the leather in his stead and her feral drumming instincts bring new ferocity and life to the trio, born anew.
It was during touring for their fifth full length release, Beat The Devil's Tattoo, that irreparable tragedy had struck the band. Robert lost his father, Michael Been of the 1980's New Wave Rock group The Call, to a heart attack after a Belgian music festival. He was the acting sound engineer, source of wisdom, inspiration, and more or less a parent figure to Peter who practically grew up beneath the same roof. It was a heavy blow struck to the ribcage of a band that had just picked themselves up off the dirty floor. A three year hiatus ensued.
Luckily for the music world, there is nary an earth shattering tragedy that can break the brother-like bond of the two core members. Their pitch rebel spirits colligated stronger than ever before and with their new drummer present to sear their agitated nerves with a mind for constructive ventilation, the trio embarked upon what would manifest as their utmost seasoned, cimmerian and at times savage efforts to date. This operose undertaking would bring to question all of their previous accomplishments, as well as their future aspirations and what, if anything, it would mean to continue on with their music at all. For three years it was a shapeless apparition that refused to take any form, but lingered at their table―ever taunting with questions that couldn't be answered. The album was thusly titled Specter at the Feast.

The first track "Fire Walker" is a moody slow burner that simmers with long-steeped agitation as if wandering cautiously through a house of mirrors. Robert's words are wincing and clinched as if biting the insides of his cheeks until he can taste blood. This sort of bitter dramatic bravura is little-known in BRMC's albums. They've played around with ambience and mantra-esque segues in their self-titled debut album B.R.M.C. and one of my favorites off Baby 81, "666 Conducer," but it wasn't of this ilk. It serves as a very appropriate post-script to their hiatus and a mood-setter for the album.
This leads us into their single and all-too-appropriate cover of The Call's hit single of the eighties, "Let The Day Begin" with its manic introductory drumbeat and a sharp dressed nineties British Rock makeover. Been doesn't try for a moment to channel his father's David Byrne-esque vocal style but instead makes the song his own. This leads us into softer, more remote territory with "Returning" and "Lullaby," both markedly toned down for the casual BRMC fan, yet still bearing their unmistakable skull-and-crossbones branding.
The beauty of BRMC is that it's like a conjoined twin hood of music. Some may call it imbalanced, others may think of it as bipolar musicianship―I dare say it's simply satisfying all taste buds. The first portion of the album is composed and coordinated largely by Robert. By this point, many faithful are no doubt questioning the album's direction and whether or not they can accept this shadow of the BRMC they once knew, and that is when Peter pours on the gasoline with "Hate The Taste," and in fine, full bannered Rock & Roll form! This is where barn burners come raping and pillaging our eardrums with the grinding Blues-laced barbarism of BRMC-past and not a moment too soon.

The album continues much in the same way. They maintain a balance between hair-raising, riff and whammy infused Fuzz Rock―some of which may even spark hazy memories of Grunge and the unkempt angst that made it so attractive, and then somber works like "Some Kind of Ghost," which will invoke visions of robed congregations slowly wading through murky swamp waters in search of the salvation only sweet southern Gospel can provide. Truly, I cannot think of a solitary band principally attached to the Psychedelic Rock & Roll scene with such a wide scope of sound. This is precisely why music is supposed to be an exciting frontier without cages or limits. Not at all a signed contract standardized by record labels who have the final say in what can and cannot be tolerated.
It can't be said that this is their most seamless work to date, but it is an irrefutable shotgun blast into the air announcing that they're intent on sticking around and I couldn't be happier about that. The specter, that which has lingered not just with the passing of Robert's father, but within the shadow of much of the afflictions they've endured for so long, seems to have been cast away at long last. I just sincerely hope we aren't left waiting another three years to see what comes next

Siddhartha - A Trip to Innerself

Siddhartha - A Trip to Inner Self (Trail Records, 2009)

Siddhartha have created something special for us. They’ve forged the true psychedelic pill that Neil Young attempted in 2012, meant in all purports to transpose us from this chaotic world to the domain of our subconscious mind and whatever transcendental enchantment or terror that may lie within it. It’s a truly bold and bronzy experience—a symphonious expedition that I felt a pinch of hesitancy to dive into. It takes a strong stomach and able mind to endure an album like this from front to back, there can be no denying that, but the end result is very rewarding and you’ll wish you’d have taken the ride a lot sooner. And your first ride will never be your last.
For those unfamiliar, Siddhartha was an influential book written in 1922, published within America in 1951 and is the inspiration for many Buddhist philosophizers in reckoning of transcendence and renunciation (1). It is obvious the artistic intent of this album then; to transport us from one living world to the next. They achieve that with musician’s virtuosity and progressive rock’s paint brush; dabbling in many colors that coat sprawling, mile-long corridors and assembling numerous soundscapes that are minimalistic and maximal, hushed and deafening with a six band member base, not to mention the upward towards five on-and-off guest musicians. The tracks flow seamlessly together in large Rock-orchestral movements, creating a solid sense of cohesion in the journey with minimal interruption or time to reflect until the entire trip has slowed to a halt. The infrequent silences that do fall are curious; hardly ever at track's end, but falling within the lifespan of a ten minute opus and setting a new musical direction. The entire experience encourages one to slow down and (forgive the clichéd expression) smell the roses, for this is a truly unique treat from a band that has very sadly dissolved as of 2001.
Turkey has, to my surprise, been the source of a great score of skilled psychedelic groups throughout the years, but none so coordinated and focused in their intent as what Siddhartha have put on display here. Their album has been greeted with top honors as the "4th edition of Prog Awards album of the year in 2009.” A Trip to Inner Self has been re-issued in a limited collector’s edition as of 2012 (2 ). My advice is to pick it up while it lasts because nothing this good ever lasts for very long.

1 - Hesse, Hermann. Siddhartha; [New York]: New Directions, 1951. Print.

2 - "Trip to Innerself [Import]." Amazon.com: Trip to Innerself: Siddhartha: Music. Amazon, n.d. Web. 07 Mar. 2013. .


Review written by Hunter Gatherer
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The Psychic Ills, live @ The Doug Fir Lounge March 2nd

The Psychic Ills, supported by Föllakzoid and Kinski

March 2nd, 2013

The Psychic Ills have given us One Track Mind in 2013, an album that can be considered fairly more accessible than much of their previous work. That isn't a negative attribute in the least. In fact, on the contrary. I believe this album sheds light on the well rounded adaptablity that the entire band harnesses. There is restraint exercised that sharpens the psychedelic-pointed ambition of their music; it truly must be experienced live to really feel the chilling impact of these new songs they have constructed. That is testament received first hand by yours truly because my first run through One Track Mind was very forgettable at best. The very same day I saw them perform most of the songs ten feet before me and I felt an immediate urgency to return to the album so that the flame their performance sparked would be re-ignited. Now there is no turning back. I listen to it at least once a day in order to preserve my sanity.

Before I divulge too much, allow me to set the stage for that March 2nd evening. There were two opening acts of some renown; Föllakzoid from Chile and Kinski from Seattle, Washington. Two bands with two drastically different approaches and ideas in the vast world of Psychedelic Rock and Roll. Föllakzoid was interstellar, galaxy hopping break-out-the-joints Rock and Roll to the furthest degree that can be defined, while Kinski played a very primordial, brutish, breakneck set that got the crowd worked up more than The Doug Fir Lounge is probably used to with the malaise of their usual soft hearted Indie Rock fare.

Both bands were prime appetizers, but it's always a thrill to watch a lead act take the stage knowing they harness everything you're craving but with seasoned variety, expertise, and the headliner's allotted time to let their music quake their fans' hearts and souls. Their set was a very appropriate blend of their earlier droned out experimentations in sound and the melodically attainable newer works, much of the time passing in and out through one another seamlessly. They pleased old fans and forged new ones, such as the out-of-town Seattle couple my wife met, whom were celebrating their 30th year anniversary with a trip to Portland and a spontaneous show featuring a completely unfamiliar band. Judging by their dancing and the elated faces around the venue it was quite a successful evening. This reviewer approves of any future Psychic Ills endeavor as long as they keep their heads in the right place. Keep on keepin' on!

Clann Zú

Clann Zú

It's rare that an EP can convey so much experience and depth within a band's potential, but Clann Zú, a collaboration of Australian and Irish musicians steeped in roots of Classical, Punk, Electronica, and very much Progressive Rock, achieved something spectacular with their self-titled EP. Self-released in 2000, the four-piece collective divulged five tracks that exist as organically unique from one another as could be imagined. 

The first track, "Of Course It Is" unfolds gently with deeply colorful guitar that washes over you in an oceanic blue haze. It swirls around your ear cavities and blooms with eventually subtle accompaniment from percussion and a whirring violin in a complete three-sixty radius, building in gloriously atmospheric intensity until the crescendo makes your hairs stand on end and you melt into euphory. Nothing is rushed. Everything is allowed to unfold in its own sweet, precious time.

The plethora of instrumentation is key to the epic full bodied nature of this work. The strings are a loving ode to the power and majesty of man's symphonic tradition, which verily has an absolutely necessary role in today's music as is demonstrated. The vocals are multilingual, which lends a mystical, free roaming spirit to the work as if they refuse the boundaries that our powers-that-be have set before us. They are strong and reach Olympian, spine tingling heights, yet maintain a honey coated lacquer that make each verse, every refrain a sugary treat for the ears.

There are nods to numerous walks of worldly influence, Jazz scented percussive bursts, electronic samplings lending a varied facet to their harder leanings that nearly shout Rage Against The Machine, but fueled by Irish injustice and years of bottled angst. The work closes with a call to arms and the sampling of an activist making her denouncement known to the world: "the richest people in the world; there are less than two thousand people that control six billion...This planet belongs to all of us."

As I stated originally, I haven't been moved by five solitary tracks in this way for quite a spell of time. Clann Zú have very sadly disbanded in 2004, but we were left with this, and two full length works. Will they match up? This work was so thoroughly good, I'm actually afraid to find out.