Archive for October 2010

Vertigo   Leave a comment

Great tune. Somewhere I have this record:

Posted October 29, 2010 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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Have Some Fucking Responsibility…   Leave a comment

This is my pal and mentor Felix Kubin:

Greenwhich-Um

This is the cryptic advice he offers me (ignore the bit about air conditioners):

FANS

But earlier I was reading this article about how the Aphex has 6 albums worth of material completed, and actually getting annoyed with Our Rich. Took me ages to see the irony!

This post is kinda for Dave. Can’t sort the formatting out cos of the voodoo but try and follow the gist for the grist….

Cows Are Just Grist.   1 comment

The man cowsarejustfood wrote some stuff about a little package of my chewy work I sent up there. Big up cows for taking the time and for really doing a ruminant’s job on the thing and telling me some stuff I don’t usually put into words in my head about my involuntary culture sector work. Be sure to check the comments section too for what “John” has to say. Call me paranoid (I am) but I’d only just linked that from my Facebook page when that popped up! It’s just grist on the grist though.

I’ll cut&paste the text below but check the link if you can because Cows put up some sound&vision bobbins to contextualise the mastications. At least two of those MP3s sound a bit gnarlier than they usually do this end but fuckit.

And the full line is:

It ain’t a plane, it’s a flying bomb
It ain’t a poof, it’s Elton John
It ain’t working, you and me
I can see it why can’t you see?

and it was dropped onto the brokenhearted 2008 tape-gore from a dictaphone tape recorded circa 1997, and to me that’s important, okay?

(pete) um: giraffe / bumskipper / the path of least resistance

um…

yeah. pete um. or just um. um… yeah.

ahem.

i know little of peter beyond his take on cw mccall’s convoy. consequential to not very much. other than maybe i’d like to hear him do a country album on those crumbling things he makes music with, on, to and over. he could y’know. given his preponderance for entertainment, words, absurdity and musical mulching.

some touchstones: a pocket-money concrète radiophonics (particularly the derbyshire/bermange dreams melange). seriously. kindof. but not. chris morris’ blue jam. the uber-edited mixture of monologue and musical / linguistic non-sequiturs. the woozy scattershot hippop of anticon’s clouddead and why?’s oaklandazulasylum record.

things that share the liminal, dreamy, fractured narrative. so his ouvre, sorta like a scrapbook in a hundred pieces; the song as paragraph or as burroughsian flash fiction. the song as haiku or tanka. or the sedoka, the butcherly translated whirling head poem which seems real fucking apt. or katauta, the poem fragment. not to overfragrance just y’know give you the gist of where i’m coming from… eating too many skittles, too many smarties, watching at the wrong speed, listening half cut.

anyway it’s all veined with cartoon whimsy, english eccentricism, goofy humour. like if oliver postgate worked with the residents rather than vernon elliott. and bassoons, aye. his music’s so many things and none. master of no trades, jack of all.

gotta dig down otherwise all his shit’ll pass you by in a thirty second muttered blur. so swish away the foosty magnetic-tape-reek of open university cardigans, mustaches, dandruff; poke yr thumb through the rotten fruit soft skin to the sweet analogue meat beneath, to the pips and seeds that these digital triffids grow from. pips and seeds both physical and metaphysical. part man, part machine, part aetheric receiver.

so he sends me three discs of varying shapes and sizes, with *bits* inside, physical and metaphysical. recurring themes: clothes, age, doubt, loneliness, apathy, micro-crises, self-referential, self-aware meta-somethingorother, music, performance. oh and booze.

generalising:

giraffe’s the pop record. like some early/late period anticon release left to rot in the rain and warp in the sun. getting vibes of mutant cap’n beefheart’s sketches and phone jams, where van vliet’s never seen the desert or heard the blooze. instead, weaned on cheap cider, raised on fisher price r&b and shut-in electro he spunks out acoustocrunk for the ghosts in his head. s’all hiccuppy instrumentals, real and (re)imagined and singsong chatter. who are you talking to fella? who?

bumskipper (…) offers something more textured. crunchy and chewy like a toffee crisp. y’know the caramel and ricey bits smothered in sonic chocolate and unfidelity abstraction. these are more nonsongs, washed rinsed and faded till only nebulous radio muck remains, an a.m. transmitted effluence, lapsing into drunken gripes, chipmunk tunes, charity shop vinyl samples and modem noise. hearing the sound recordings from john carpenter’s prince of darkness but it ain’t satan’s return they warn of, it’s delia fucking derbyshire.

the path of least resistance is a messy inbetween (there’s that liminallity again…) at a mere twenty four tracks not quite as nano as giraffe. but does feature the stupid clever slo-mo skronk of river ayler. legible instrumental scrawls, bit of structure, bit of melody and the odd wonky couplet: it ain’t it a plane its a flying bomb, it ain’t a poof it’s elton john.

yup.

mumbling like a bargain books will self. where yr not exactly sure what he said, what kind of sense it makes (if chuffing any). hell even if you misheard it, go with it. make yr own fiction: i should ebay my tumbleweed (or) yr talking to me like yr pissing in a phonebox (or) jovian bowel shock… does it mean anything, contextually or otherwise? does it need to? and stumbling through the charming buffoonery you’ll hit something as wearilly succinct as:

it’s just an indication of the tired human spirit when everything sounds like a bad lyric

listening over sixty seven collaged audio midgets s’like he’s trepanning his skull and harvesting the electric-ecto-drip of too fucking many ideas. a production inversely proportionate to track length. none of which is meant in the pejorative. like, i suspect, the man hisself, a rum cove, it’s an occasionally baffling, willfully bewildering unreconstructed shuffle through the noise inside someone else’s head.

myspace / umbusiness

This entry was posted on 11/10/2010 at 9:50 pm and is filed under mp3, music i listen to, video with tags bumskipper, giraffe, music, music review, noise, pete um, the path of least resistance, um. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
2 Responses to “(pete) um: giraffe / bumskipper / the path of least resistance”

1.
John Says:
12/10/2010 at 11:31 am

I can’t help but think that both you, the critiquer, and he, the artist, have taken far too many mind-altering substances to find any kind of musical value in that terrible fucking noise. There may be a social narrative to his lyrics, but frankly I’d rather listen to a tuneful nazi child molester. Possibly the worst thing I have ver heard in my life
2.
marxsbeard Says:
12/10/2010 at 2:15 pm

heh… i have a certain admiration for people who take the time to slate something they’ve no interest in. so thanks for stopping by and commentating. do you have any recommendations from the tuneful nazi child molester micro genre?

in answer to yr query: whilst i can’t speak for pete, i was on the brown ale and ketamine while listening and writing.

cheers fella!

Philms   1 comment

Phil’s been grinding with some shit lately and when they did this video apparently it was sort of an exercise in enforced happiness, or trying to evoke a sense of potential goodtimes in the face of a wall of bummers. Hence the film has a nuanced tang to it, or something.

And here’s a clip of a video Phil made airing on Belgian TV:

And the evergreen Joyce, since I’m posting MFU fillums.

Doozer blog.   1 comment

There’s a new Doozer blog.

Check it here.

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Posted October 23, 2010 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

Tagged with , , , , ,

Hype Williams etc.   1 comment

Cutted and pasted from http://www.crushingdeath.com/

Crushing Death & Grief

ONES-TO-WATCH-Hype-Williams_header_image

Next Event
HYPE WILLIAMS + HONG KONG IN THE 60S + PETE UM
Nov
24
8:00 pm

VENUE//The Portland Arms
TIME//8pm
TICKET//£5 adv from here / £6 on the door
HYPE WILLIAMS

Named after the guy who directed loads of pretty wild hip-hop and R&B videos in the late 90s/early 00s, Hype Williams are a somewhat mysterious duo of “illegal immigrants” based in Berlin. D. Blunt and Inga Copeland are resonsible for a series of very limited (and already sold out) vinyl releases on Carnivals and Second Layer which fuse somnambulist synths, clipped, spectral beats and disembodied, syrupy vocals. Utterly willing to dive into the slickest of 80s R&B, HW scramble back out of the shimmer, adding their own layers of fuzz and haze with a nice line in lo-fi dub bass to round things off. Perhaps understandably lumped in with a lot of the US hypnagogic pop scene, such as Pocahaunted and Sun Araw, Hype Williams’ more sexualised, European approach to 25 year old sounds has seen them lauded by everyone from 1Xtra’s Benji B to The Wire’s Joseph Stannard.
www.myspace.com/hypheewilliams
HONG KONG IN THE 60S

Occidental/Oriental, multilingual, all- Casio three-piece from London and Cambridge who recently collaborated with The Advisory Circle. Influenced by early electronic pop, 1960s Chinese music and Italian film soundtracks HKIT60s combine bittersweet pop melodies and atmospheric electronics to create subtly lovely nuggets of sub-zero musical wonder.

www.myspace.com/hongkonginthe60s
hongkonginthe60s.com/
PETE UM

Romsey Town’s foremost H Gee scholar, international record dealer and grist utiliser. The original, original sufferhead.

www.umbusiness.co.uk

The Kid on Ritalin.   Leave a comment

Kid Shirt wrote a great bunch of splurt about this record here.

In fact I’m going to quote it in full here:

I AM THE NON- CANONICAL KID SHIRT

Saturday, October 16, 2010
NOCHEXXX: “RITALIN LOVE”

If Nick’s twelve seems to play around with ideas of spiritual / technological attenuation, signal drift, futures-past, faded love-affairs with / hatred for The Machine (whilst also suggesting possible strategies for boosting the signal and re-establishing contact – restarting old dialectics and making The Ghost solid once more – without resorting to full-on nostalgia or squirm-inducing Hauntophilia), then Dave’s twelve comes to the table (the dancefloor? the bed?) from the opposite side of the Man-Machine interface and reminds us of what it could once do when it was all domesticated and tamed back in the Futurity-embracing 80s – when the Fonkmaschine was still a benign and sexy idea and CCTV only existed in Cabs videos and we’d let the music grab us by the short n wiggly quarter-inch jacks and its guidance-system would make sure our pelvic phallodonics were nicely lubricated n ready for a bout of zero-G post-human luuuurve. Baby.

My, what a long sentence.

Nochexxx reccids’re are misshapen, hairy, leery, squirty, shiney, chunky, hunky, squeaky, drunken, smiley, lumpen, bumpy, (cont. page 94). He turns strut into a syncopated lager-stagger (and vice versa); his beats sound like bones swivellin’, drunken muscles flexing, like a mechanised digestive-system squirting a mix of acid n enzymes into a bolus of musical chyme; he inverts The Fonk, The Jack, The Schwing into something more… willfully slap-happy and haphazard – there’s a gleam in his eye; a glint of cheek; but he’s a romantic at heart, really…

On “Ritalin Love” he ramps up the rude noises, the parps and the phat, rumpy-pumping bass. The snares sound like a slapped arse. It sounds awesome on vinyl. I don’t envy any DJ who plays this record: they look up from their instamatic-mix-beat-counter, only to find that Essex has turned into West Hollywood. There’s a parade – an infinite limbo-line stretching through 4-dimensions (back and forward in Time simultaneously) – marching past the DJ-booth: Fonk-Freaks and She-Things with different-length’d legs, hands on each other’s hips, swaying like land-locked sailors limping on their pegs, as they stagger-dance past the DJ – an endless parade of physically-remixed extras from old colour-saturated Peech Boys promo-films waving neon-tubes, wearing lurid woolen leg-warmers over unshaven legs, a sackcloth-and-ashes dress from Patsy Climate tm, zircon-studded headbands, just beggin’ you to get it on, baby, one last time….

“There But For The Grace of God Go I…”

“And I knoooooow,” sing-says a sample-that-knows-it’s-a-sample (it’s a sad sample, see? Sad samples always know they’re just samples trapped on a hard-drive, on a reccid), “Whoooooo gets your love….” And it’s heartbreaking to hear it talk like that; it’s like an old flame asking for one last chance. A regret entombed in an 8-bit waveform.

In one way, Dave’s and Nick’s records are strangely similar in that they both allow the Past to access the Present; they let the Dead draw breath again and look at the world with fresh, newly-grown eyes.

Both these records are the musical equivalent of breaking The Fourth Wall. Unlike – and let’s try and be truthful about this rather than unnecessarily cruel – so many contemporary artists who produce work that’s merely a form of sonic re-enactment; puppeteers who just put old tropes through their paces again and pass xeroxes off as Spontaneous Generation or Oujia-Board conjuring – but here, here I get a sense of Music Wanting To Be heard Again, of Musician-Producer-as-Conduit, of voices-from-the-other-side willing themselves back to life.

Life loves Life. The universe rebuilds itself from peco-second to peco-second; newness springs constantly from collapse, from Quantum Uncertainty, from Death. The Past inhabits us; our nervous-systems are like antennae. The Dead speak to us; they force our hand, force us to make them new again. Old forms and cultural themes perpetually rise within us like dormant viruses.

I don’t care it you don’t get that, or don’t hear what I’m hearing. It’s not important.

I’m not a critic, just a listener.

I believe in these things so that you don’t have to.

It’s my right to be wrong.

But this…this is on white vinyl, sucker.

And it’s nice to see somebody playing someone actually playing Dave’s music in a context other than, you know, in my room or on Dave’s teal speakers or whatever.