17.3.11

Producer Series #1

This collection is not about songs, or even music, but about sound:




There are certain producers, studios and record companies best known for being producers (Phil Spector, Lee «Scratch» Perry), studios (Sun Studios, Studio One) or record companies (Motown, Factory Records), with a distinct sound overriding the individual talent. But most producers flit around from album to album, band to band, record corporation to record corporation. With some albums selling well and others rarely if ever to be heard, and few of the bands likely to appear on the same record, most people miss the connection. The producer's contribution goes largely unrecognised, which is why Toilet Guppies is launching a series of comps collecting the scattered work of such sound whisperers.



If you listen to the various projects a producer has overseen in one set, you'll appreciate how a good producer makes his mark on the work, guiding the listener through the music by way of the mix, challenging, pushing or manipulating the emotional state of the performers, adding (or subtracting) arrangements… A producer worth his mettle becomes an artist in his own right, bringing to the mix his own textures, philosophy, judgment, demands and perhaps instruments. Thus George Martin was known as the «fifth member» of the Beatles, &c. &c.



The subject of the above comp is the «sixth member» of an English environmentalist art rock-techno prog group that has pioneered Internet music distribution. He has also worked with the finest folk/hip-hop mixer upper to come out of the Church of Scientology; an offensively bland but eminently competent French duo applauded for their interior design muzak (such as their robotic, paradoxically sexless hit about a sexy boy); the actress daughter of a legendary Judeo-Gallic fun boy; a knight of the realm who once used to be in the best known rock/pop group of all time; a slacker alt. rock band inexplicably adored by the sonic youth underground mafia as if they were deities; some blips on the hipster radar that vanished like UFOs; and Travis.



Regardless of the merits of the artists he has produced, what this musician and sound engineer brings to the mixing table is sublime: The crisp and warm synthesizers, the glockenspiel punctuation and those languid strings he coats the music in all make you feel like someone's gently spreading honey laced with opium across your eardrums.



And the mixing! There's always something happening. Details abound, tickling your cognition, yet nothing ever competes for space or attention. Everything in its right place. Not afraid of noise, he's also deft at somehow making something loud and uptempo come from a place of great sensitivity, almost delicate. And unlike the unimaginative polish applied to hits, there's not a boring sound in this guy's sonic universe. There's a kind of futurism to his craft: If Kraftwerk succeeded in conjuring the music of an unconscious, mechanical machine, this bloke predicts what an artificial intelligence might one day compose.



Enjoy.

14.3.11

A Secret Rendezvous Between Folk, Classic Rock & Indie, or, «hit the road with a gun in the boot»

Blackberry Songs [.zip]

If today's Toilet Guppies mystery primer isn't your bag, then I must profess ignorance as to why you're even visiting this blog in the first place. In fact, it's hard to imagine anyone not liking this artist's music. But then I suppose that's what Usher thought about Justin Bieber, so that particular argument goes out the window…

Anyway, this singer-songwriter is not only a finger-picking sensation in the tradition of John Fahey; a lo-fi indie rock arranger making Sonic Youth et al. sound decidedly unadventurous; an occasional dabbler into atmospheric noise and electronica; and a pop sensibilist shamelessly inspired by the classic '70s FM radio rock of the Boss, Bob Seger(!), et al. He's also one of the most wry lyricists you're likely to hear anytime soon, making you chuckle at workaday griefs, relationship challenges and good ol', all round people hatin'.

This guy knows how to appreciate the unintentional poetry in overheard snippets of chatter, as well as in throwaway comments of near and dear ones who inevitably go through moments where they despise you, every now and again. A fine guitarist but a middling vocalist, he turns this drawback into an advantage by acting more than singing, drawling—deadpan and Dylan-like—everyday phrases pregnant with passive aggression. There's a slight air of melancholy, but don't worry: it's not the insufferably maudlin and exaggerated kind peddled by, say, Nick Drake. Call this non-pathological blues. Never before has a songwriter been so self-pitying and managed to stay this unpretentious. And rarely has a lyricist so bitterly comedic managed to avoid clever irony, salvaging his sincerity all the way…

The best music is usually a tightrope walk: Inconspicuously balanced, seemingly unremarkable and deceptively boring, staying well clear of the bombast and cheap tactics of the extremes, it just keeps on giving, new shades revealing themselves upon every listen. As an old chum said, this music will make you want to «hit the road with a gun in the boot». Give it a twirl, bub, then go buy his albums.

8.3.11

Net Nuggets 37: Vile Promotion

Kurt Vile: Vile Promotion [.zip]

There are ten tracks on Kurt Vile's new album, Smoke Ring for My Halo, out today. Five of them are great.

That's a respectable 24 minutes and 20 seconds out of a total 45 minutes and 48 seconds of uncomplicated music for complicated emotions. Unpretentious down home classic rock feel, perfect for Sundays. Swirling acoustic melodies with odd drips of cocoon noise psychedelia to fully secure the introversion of compositions penned by a guy who does for serious heterosexual males with periodic bouts of social phobia and/or disabling misanthropy what Blondie or Joan Jett did for girls who just wanna have fun and who have to ask, «What does 'misanthropy' mean?»

So, if you're full of sadness and frustration as brought on by friends, lovers and other enemies, get Smoke Ring for My Halo now. As the man sings on the album opener, «I will never, ever, ever be alone / 'cuz it's all in my baby's hands… / I get sick of just about everyone / and I hide in my baby's arms / 'Cuz except for her, you know / as I've implied…»—be that «baby» drink, drugs, work, a hobby… or music, such as, say, the songs on Smoke Ring for My Halo. Hey, whatever gets you through the day.

If you're a cheap Charlie and need even more coaxing before parting with cash for Vile's new record, here's a little compilation of various more or less recent Internet radio & TV recordings of the troubadour plugging this and his previous album (the equally worthwhile Childish Prodigy)—though I'd go with the official studio releases, if I were you:
  1. On Tour
  2. Jesus Fever
  3. Amplifier (a/k/a You Was Alone)
  4. The Hunchback
  5. Overnite Religion
  6. He's Alright
  7. Dead Alive
  8. Red Apples
  9. Runner Ups
  10. Ghost Town (a/k/a Sad Ghost)
  11. In My Time
1, 2, 9 & 10 with the Violators, live on Pitchfork's Don't Look Down
3 & 6 with the Violators, live on WXPN's Free At Noon
4, 5 & 7 live on QTV (4 & 5 with Robert Robinson)
8 & 11 live on WFMU's Best Show
Happy International Women's Day, by the way:

5.3.11

Net Nuggets 36: Clara Engel

Clara Engel: «Lick My Fins» [mp3]

Sometimes, it's hard to tell whether the spiritual impulse of religion is really the lust to be one with the world beyond your lonely self—like those medieval nuns visited at night by ecstatic visions of the «light» of Jesus «penetrating» them—or whether you're just a single minded, one track degenerate for ever thinking so in the first place. Pervert.

Regardless, scripture is a great source for loophole pornography—suggestive literature heavy with similes and symbolism from a time when people were too bashful, prudish or classy to be outright and crass about it. Because, you know, like Sparks sing, «Chicks dig dig D-I-G dig dig metaphors / Use them wisely, use them well / and you'll never know the hell / of loneliness». I'm sure a lot of those guys who penned the Bible got laid. They would've been the rock stars of their day and age.

And why not? As any fan of gospel music can attest to, the raptures of religion and of rumpy-pumpy are closely related. The Bible's Song of Solomon, for instance, is one long, bawdy allegory for wanting to be one with God, trying to convince us faith can feel as good as fucking. Turning this onto its head are singer-songwriters who show us that fucking can feel as meaningful as faith. And what better metaphor than the Holy Ghost, with its tongue and tendency to fill people?
Let the Holy Spirit lick my fins
I want to crawl back to the ocean
For you
Lose my limbs and my lungs
My agility of tongue
For you
This sultry little couplet is sung by Canadian cabaret mermaid Clara Engel. Imagine if burlesque was still innovative and alive and relevant as an edgy art form, sexual once again and not just kitsch, quaint and cute, this is the type of song you might hear at a show. Far more literate than the old Betty Boop-oop-ee-doo/«teach-me-tiger» schtick, it would actually stir something in you.

Other than the burlesque-esque jazz of the arrangement, the composition hints at Middle Eastern melody and so, by extension, the crazy Judeo-Christian religious frenzy that is, despite everything else about it, actually quite sensual… Hips swaying, bellies dancing, pelvises grinding, slow and determined… Thankfully, the backing band is more focused on sonic texture than on squeezing in as many notes and rhythm changes as possible. It's jazz as played by perverts, which is exactly what that particular genre needs more of, cerebral and stuck in a time warp as it is.

Women routinely go weak at the knees just at the thought of a man who can sing or play the guitar, but it's not often a man is given cause to go weak at the knees upon hearing a female performer. Sure, there are men drooling over hit list divas given music video make-overs, but that's not about the vivifying music, mesmerising charisma or shimmering eloquence as much as the lighting, clothing (or lack thereof) and Photoshop. So it feels good to hear the powerful, confident singing of a succubus challenging and perhaps even scaring you a little bit with the sheer force of her voice and convictions, sensual to the point of obliterating mysticism. Personally, I haven't felt a sensation quite like this since I heard PJ Harvey command me, through the speakers, in no uncertain terms to lick her legs.

And tell me true: Is there any sexier image than that of a woman crawling on her hands and knees through the hot sand towards the beckoning waves and slow ebb of the undulating sea? This woman wants to go back all the way to the birthplace of life for you… to seek out the original life force for you… go bathe in the primordial soup with you…

Don't you want to go with?

[«Lick My Fins» is from Engel's 2009 album, Secret Beasts.]

24.2.11

Mixtape for a 25 Year Old's 29th Birthday

Mixtapes… the nerd's favoured method of seduction and surely the most awkward form of communication between lovers, next to the lazy and unfair question, «What are you thinking?»

But then I knew you loved music. And now, every once in a while, I hear music I think would've tickled your bubbly and contagious fancy. Stuff you never got to dig. Here's some of it:


There's your beloved wild style delinquent juvenile rockabilly 'tude… silly lyrics… vitriolic lyrics… sing-along melodies… wretched fuzz scuzz… kitsch psych & '70s riffs… go-go syncopation… rugged male voices… sultry female voices… Chris-Isaak-making-sandy-love-to-Helena-Christensen style surf lounge guitar… head bobbing rhythms… at least one hippie punk Manson Family reference… the odd pop hook—even a soft hearted ballad. (You weren't fooling anyone, with your stinging wit and feisty opinions.) There are some of your trusty heroes—the boys and girls who fired your imagination (amongst other things)—and some songs and artists you'd never heard… A couple of your favourite melodies, in new renditions… A couple of songs that, quite frankly, make for guilty pleasures for me—but then you always recommended not being guilty about any kind of pleasure.

This comp encapsulates the joy you taught: It's OK to have fun, your mind doesn't have to be switched on all the fucking time, and happiness is allowed. So, with these insignificant little songs old memories stay alive, even when the songs are new. They invoke instant images, questions («What would you have made of this?») and the old in-jokes, so in now that only I am still in on them.

You're not all gone, then. Let's celebrate the day you came in to the world. Chin-chin…

21.2.11

Friendship vs. Music!

Better than Friends—A Sampler for Friends of Toilet Guppies [.zip]

Are you ever awoken at night by calls from friends with thoughts of suicide? Or some impossibly drunk friend cursing you and telling you, amid the unintelligible sounds barely qualifying as syllables, that she hates you, only to call you up the next day to apologise for anything she might have said or done that she can't remember anyway? Do you have some arsehole friend who is, after all, your friend, but who nonetheless needs to be endured as he disrespects your friends and everyone and possibly even you? Or worse, up to several friends too stupid to be liars as such, their disappointing untruths and rash, unkept promises based on lack of insight into self rather than devious cunning (which at least would've hinted at some intelligence)… One friend who dares you to «take it outside», another threatening to kill you? Maybe you visit an old friend, only to find an alcoholic shell of the charismatic, handsome daredevil you used to know? Or see a past soulmate, fat from medication and for some reason toothless now, spending his days riding the bus, trying to pick up the 14 year old girls with incoherent sentences punctuated by unnervingly unmotivated bursts of ecstatic laughter?

People come and go. All those people… Cleaning out your things, maybe you come across an old letter by someone you once had a crush on, a lifetime ago, but whose existence you're reminded of only now. Or someone tells you about the recent activities of some long estranged friend. Or chance throws you into the path of some stranger, soon to be calling you at all times of the day and night with their nervous breakdown. Maybe you're wondering if you should call that person who once used to be so terribly close to you, but who both of you know is better off without you? Or perhaps you are the one to receive a cold call? Perhaps you're nursing a guilt for not making that one phone call to your friend in need, all those weeks ago already? (Everything just seemed to «get in the way».)

Can you keep track of all the people entering and exiting your life? Is there even any point in trying to hold on to anyone, when this door just keeps revolving? Friends that drop away and friends that won't go away, friends that annoy, friends that cheer you up, friends that sacrifice, friends that abandon, friends that just can't help it, friends that die, friends that cling, friends that use, friends that give, friends that can't, friends that forget, friends that are forgotten, friends that misunderstand and friends that are misunderstood. Strangers who step up, acquaintances who bring grace, professionals who help out. Friendship is a concept, but people are real, and in abundant supply. You'll never be alone, though you'll always be alone.

This is the secret allure of music, forgotten by fame whores, but understood by those who know to truly appreciate the medium: Whether you're all by your lonesome self or you're surrounded by people and somehow it still doesn't take, the right music can always bring you home. Music is more reliable, forgiving and giving than people. (Than the people who make it.) It's more understanding—and comforting, if need be. The other day, I saw a mother putting her wailing baby to sleep, a spontaneous melody slipping unthinkingly from her throat. And it worked!



So, to all friends present, past and future, here's something no friend and at least not this one could ever give you: The languid, almost mystical solace—when most of the people populating your life are sources of drama and upheaval and you have no one to turn to who isn't already a stone—of one of the most soothing, yet in no way escapist voices Toilet Guppies knows of. She used to sing in a legendary cult outfit of the '90s, and has been the go-to voice of the Jesus And Mary Chain, Massive Attack, the Chemical Brothers, Death In Vegas, Air, Vetiver, Bert Jansch and Le Volume Courbe. But where many of those artists foil the intimacy she's capable of with layers of grandiose and alienating strings, samples and beats, her own two-man band with her husband (the drummer in an equally legendary '90s band) is the perfect antidote to a restless, wallowing mind. A helping hand for whenever you should raise your mitt up from under the choppy sea of all this consciousness.

This is music for when you're coming down at sunrise, everyone too tired to converse… road music for when you don't feel like dealing with the fellow passengers anymore and all those questions and bad jokes… music to transform a desperately lonely night into much needed alone time, whichever bed you're sleeping in this time into a womb, rendering the past and the future into something entirely OK to just leave where they are, and do you really need anyone anyway?

This music could be your BFF. Get it here, now.

16.2.11

Mp3 Killed the Vinyl DJ 11: Sister Grimm

Larkin Grimm: Selections from «Time Is a Spiral #2» 10" [.zip]

Here's a vinyl rip of the highlights from an obscure, vinyl-only EP by Larkin Grimm, recorded live in studio for the Dutch radio station VPRO in 2006. I've already written too many words, words, words about Grimm on this blog. Enjoy the songs:
3. «Little Weeper»
5. «Bollweevil»