In discussion with Chris Hobson on “Aaltopiiri” by Pan Sonic (2001).
Pan Sonic go quite a long way back in the history of modern electronic music, being formed in 1993. How and when did you first become aware of their music?
I didn’t start listening to electronic music until around about 1997. I was introduced to Pan Sonic in 1999 by one of my best friends. We discovered and taught ourselves electronic music together. He put me onto Pan Sonic and it immediately had a huge impact. It was only in time that I made my way through most of their back catalogue.
Why did you opt for “Aaltopiiri”? Can you describe what makes it so special for you?
I chose ‘Aaltopiiri’ precisely because it was the first Pan Sonic album I bought. I had one or two of their earlier albums on cassette or CD perhaps, but this was my real route in. In terms of music itself, it probably isn’t my favourite release of theirs, but it is the most important for me. This album was central in a kind of sonic renovation my ears and head underwent around 1999 – 2001, the effects of which I can still feel today. What Pan Sonic really taught me is what techno could be. It broadened my mental horizons in quite radical ways. Beyond ‘Aaltopiiri’ being a key moment for me in this regard, what I like about it is that personally it has the right balance of Pan Sonic’s noisier side and its more bleepy and drone sounds. Some of their later stuff has been a bit too noisy for me, here there is a pretty good weighting between the two.
I picked this because of the extraordinary lyrics, which reappeared eventually in the house scene. Kerri Chandler did a version of it. And there are some rhythm patterns that you use as well. It was also a hit in the gay house scene. There are many house tracks based on this tune.
Personally, I really like Nina Simone a lot. I think there have been a lot of really bad remixes done of this track. For example, the Masters of Work remake added a really cheesy synth pad over her, so it’s really been bastardized a lot. But I think that’s part of the whole schmaltz of the gay house scene as well. That it has this way of reducing things to a cheap standard.
I think there’s a way in which it’s complicated to play music that verges more on gospel than soul in the club environment. And I think that’s something that Nina herself would like in a weird way. She identified herself less as a jazz musician, and more as a folk musician. And felt that she was channeled in the jazz corner by the industry. In her biography, she talks about being—if anything—a folk musician. That kind of cross-categorization is really interesting to me. And there’s also this idea of “How could her music get worked into a DJ set?”
Especially with this contrast between the euphoria of her live performances that is associated with her work, and her audience’s reactions to her work. She’ll play something like “Mississippi Goddamn,” this sad, tragic song. And the audience is like, “I love this song!” They’re cheering like idiots.
I think the same goes for this song. The way that she sings this song is not cheerful at all. That contrast struck me in that gay house context as well. It’s not the same sort of material that you ordinarily associate with it.
For sure, that’s something that I identify with in my own music. I often produce it from a perspective that people don’t sympathize with particularly. Or they approach it from an angle that is different from where I produce it from. They want to turn it into something, despite the complaints, that is energizing for a party. For me, I’m totally not concerned with this type of energy.
I really have a respect for her. I can empathize with this idea of immigration, of leaving the United States. It was under different circumstances, of course, but as an American who emigrated to Japan I feel a kind of simpatico with her.
Would you basically say that this streak in your work, where you reference things like this, is that you try to remain faithful to the original vibe of the material?
No. I don’t believe there is an original, or that there is something to be faithful to. I don’t believe in faith at all, in any form. I think this is important to clarify. That doesn’t mean just being kind of aloof or naïve about the connotations either. It’s about thinking about them in a way that allows for complications or recontextualizations as opposed to simply doing an homage or a tribute. Nina Simone has had enough tributes, you know? It’s OK if we don’t tribute always.
Gary Numan – Cry, The Clock Said (Beggars Banquet) 1981
Your Rubato series where you do piano renditions of Kraftwerk, Devo and Gary Numan. It struck me that all three of these acts have this weird relationship between technology and humanity. Was that your purpose with it?
Yes, of course. The purpose of the series was to investigate the techno pop icons that were the seminal acts of my childhood. And to think about how it polluted or influenced or channeled my own productions, as well as my own politics. And, of course, techno pop is very phallo-centric, Mensch Machine, so I wanted to also complicate the homo eroticism of this musical world that almost exclusively prevents the entry of women. Which makes it either a misogynistic or gay space. Or both. Or neither.
So all of the piano was composed on the computer, which I felt kept the technological association with these original artists and what I feel their vision was for using technology, but also to have the result be this neo-romantic piano solo that wasn’t a Muzak version, but going towards an avant-garde piano that—unless you were a big fan—you might not be able to pick out the melodies.
Sexuality this genre seems really warped in a way. As you said, like with Kraftwerk. The only time that they explicitly dealt with sexuality was on Electric Café on “Sex Object,” which is a really weird track.
Yeah. They had it in Computer World , they also had “Computer Love,” though. But it’s always about either the machine or the woman is the object. Always objectified. “Sex Object” has a very weird elementary school approach to gender.
Everybody likes to think of Kraftwerk as being very much in control of their image, but if you look at their catalogue, it’s a total mess. You have this Krautrock stuff. The Ralf und Florian album, that was cut from the catalogue for a long time because it didn’t fit in. They are much more eclectic than they want people to think.
I think their concept is also much more open than many people think. They left some leeway.
I think a lot of it is due to the record company. I’m coming at Kraftwerk as an American, and which records were distributed to us there may have been different than what was sold in Europe. So things like the first ones with the pylons were never seen until I was in New York. And they were, like, a million dollars. It was Autobahn , Trans Europe Express , Radioactivity , Computer World , Mensch Machine and that was it. If you could track down the Tour de France EP, it was a miracle.
How would you place Gary Numan in this? He also played with these ideas, but it always had a bit of a tragic note to it.
I think that the Dance album… Remember when you interviewed me about the Dazzle Ships album, and I talked about it being a kind of crisis moment when an artist is trying to figure out their own artistic direction, and they’re faced with the pressures of the major labels that they’re signed in and locked into. Dance was right around the same time, and I think it was Gary Numan’s crisis with the industry. When you look at it in relation to the kind of progress of the sound of his work—and at that time he did have a very linear channeling of what he was doing—this was the album that was the peak of this weird electronic Latin percussion thing. He had people from Japan working with him. His next album, Bezerker, was this more industrial thing. It was samplers and all this sort of stuff. For me, though, Dance was the height of this certain kind of sound that he had control over, but also dealing at the same time with pressure from the label.
Image-wise, what he did up to Dance certainly served him better than what he did after. I remember this sleeve of Warriors … Maybe the image that he portrayed earlier wasn’t exactly original, but it served his voice quite well. And his persona.
For me, the conflict of something like the Warriors cover, where he’s standing in this S&M gear, all leathered up with a baseball bat as though he’s some kind of bad ass road warrior guy, is that he has this posture that is totally faggy and limp. And the bleached hair. And then he’s not queer-identified. He’s straight-identified. He plays with gender in his lyrics, but he makes it clear in his interviews that he’s not. For me, it’s this contradiction between the kind of costume play that you could find in a gay club, but for me it was also a mismatch…like the leather bottom.
It also has to do with being a nerd that is really into science fiction. He also has this nerd component. His lyrics are all about Philip K. Dick and Blade Runner . He was totally into that stuff. And I think that’s also what drew me to him. And it also made me repress the impact that he had on me. By the time you reach 18 or so, it’s too tragic to say that you’re a Gary Numan fan. People react in this horrible way. But he, more than Devo or Kraftwerk, was really influencing me.
I used to plagiarize his lyrics and enter them into the school district contest and get ribbons for it. And when my father was upset with me about music and things, it was my Gary Numan records that he would lock away in the closet so that I couldn’t get at them. There was a lot of battle around Gary Numan in my adolescent life.
I think that’s why the “Cry, The Clock Said” has such a special connection for Comatonse. Because the first EP was basically a dub remix of this song. Read the rest of this entry »
Im Gespräch mit Paul Frick über “…And The Circus Leaves Town” von Kyuss (1995).
Kannst du Dich noch daran erinnern, wie Du auf Kyuss gestoßen bist? Ist diese Musik eine lange Liebe von Dir?
Ich weiß noch, dass ich bei “City Music” am Ku-Damm im Metal Hammer geblättert hab, und dass das Vorgänger-Album “Sky Valley” dort Platte des Monats war. Das war 1994, mit 14 oder 15. Im Review stand, glaube ich, etwas von einer “Metal-Variante von Pink Floyd”… Das hat mich dann wohl geködert. Ich hab es mir angehört und war sofort von dem warmen, bassigen Sound eingenommen, und von dem unterschwelligen Blues. Sowohl “Sky Valley” als auch “…And The Circus Leaves Town” waren dann eine Zeit lang der Soundtrack meines Teenager-Lebens… Ich habe damals auch einige ihrer Songs und Riffs auf der E-Gitarre nachgespielt.
Warum hast Du Dir ausgerechnet “… And The CircusLeavesTown” ausgesucht? Was macht es zu DER Platte für dich?
Ich würde zwar nicht sagen, dass es DIE eine Platte ist, aber von meinen diversen All-Time-Favourites ist “…And The Circus Leaves Town” eine der wenigen, die ich immer ähnlich stark gespürt habe, die für mich auch eine Art innere Konstante über 15 Jahre hinweg darstellt, während sich mein Geschmack und meine Art Musik wahrzunehmen des öfteren stark geändert haben.
Den persönlich nostalgischen Faktor mal beiseite genommen, würde ich hervorheben: Den unglaublich organischen Sound. Die tiefen Bass-/Gitarrenflächen klingen so körnig und lebendig, und bei aller Verzerrung überhaupt nicht “hart”. Wie ein in den Tiefen kondensierter Blues. Josh Hommes Gitarrenspiel wirkt nie technisch oder virtuos, sondern hat bei allen Psychedelic-Anleihen immer etwas Reduziertes. Er und auch der Basser Scott Reeder bringen sehr intensive Stimmungen mit nur wenigen Tönen hervor, sind Meister der Andeutung. Alfredo Hernandez’ Schlagzeug ist wunderbar warm gespielt und aufgenommen, Lichtjahre von mechanischen Metal-Drums entfernt. Die fast ständig durchzischelnde, dreckige Cymbal-”Fläche” ist sehr charakteristisch für Kyuss und frequenztechnisch quasi die Ergänzung der tiefen Gitarren. John Garcias tolle Stimme ist grandios leise gemischt, manchmal eher eine Art sehnsuchtsvolle Andeutung in der Ferne… Man höre “El Rodeo”!
Der eigene Kyuss-Klang kommt auch besonders durch die Repetitivität der Stücke zur Geltung. Vielleicht ist diese Vertiefung in den Klang andersherum auch eine Konsequenz dieser Repetitivität. Eins ist hier jedenfalls ohne das andere nicht denkbar. Da wären wir eigentlich auch schon beim Thema Club-Musik…
Die Stärke dieser Musik liegt für mich im Zusammenspiel. Es können keine Songs sein, die einer schreibt und als Mastermind umsetzt. Es sind Kondensate aus langen Jams, aus einer gemeinsamen Stimmung im Raum (oder natürlich – wie die Kyuss-Legendenschreibung sagt – in der Wüste…) Für mich war und ist diese hypnotische Melancholie unwiderstehlich. Kyuss’ Musik ist extrem energetisch, ohne sich punktuell und forciert aufzudrängen.
Im Gespräch mit Justus Köhncke über “Play Loud” von den B-52’s (1979).
Kannst Du Dich noch daran erinnern wie und wann Du auf die B-52’s gestoßen bist? War die Band eine prägende Jugendliebe von Dir?
Absolut. Anfang 1980, als ich 13 war, kam meine 2 Jahre ältere Patchworkfamilienschwester Corinna von einem zweijährigen Intermezzo bei ihrem leiblichen Vater in Berlin zurück in unseren mittelhessischen Provinzschoß der Patchworkfamilie (die derzeit ja noch lange nicht so hieß) – nicht ohne die heiße Ware ihrer Mauerstadt-Teenieclique: Ian Dury, The Specials, The Police (tja, auch) und: The B-52’s „Play Loud“. Ich war gerade dem Hitparadeausdemradioaufcassettemitschneiden hin zum Cooleleutehörenjaalbenvontollenkünstlern entwachsen, da kamen mir diese Empfehlungen gerade recht. Tatsächlich kann ich noch heute viel für die erste Specials, „New Boots And Panties“ von Ian Dury & The Blockheads und unser Thema, „Play Loud“, tun. Corinna liebe ich nach wie vor heiß und innig, sie ist Wissenschaftlerin des psychologischen Fachs in Heidelberg, und findet poptechnisch nurmehr Abba, die Carpenters und Anett Louisian gut, von der sie meint, ich müsste die doch auch toll finden, wegen der einfühlsamen deutschen Texte, woran ich mich ja auch versucht hätte. Aber das nur am Rande.
Warum hast Du Dir ihr Debüt „Play Loud“ ausgesucht? Was macht das Album so wichtig für dich?
Wichtig ist natürlich, siehe oben, die (pop-)frühkindliche Prägung mit 13, aber andererseits nenne ich hier ja nun auch nicht „Regatta De Blanc“ (von Police, aus derselben Tranche). Denn „Play Loud“ ist für mich über die Jahre einfach nur gewachsen als besonderes Gewächs, das sie ist, diese Platte – später mehr dazu.
1988 brauchten die Videokünstler Mark McLean und Colin Scott musikalische Untermalung für eine dieser visuellen Blendgranaten, die im Nachhinein so ulkig gealtert sind (siehe auch X-Mix), und Brian Dougans dachte sich dafür „Stakker Humanoid“ aus. Das Ganze erschien dann im selben Jahr auf Morgan Khans notorischem Label Westside, und hinterließ sogleich übelste Verwüstungen im ersten britischen Summer of Love. Und das lässt sich auch über zwanzig Jahre später noch gut nachvollziehen. Der Track unterschied sich erheblich sowohl von den funkigen Acid-Prototypen aus Chicago als auch von den eher poppigen Sample-Überdosis-Varianten, die man von der Insel aus entgegensetzte. Über einen ungelenken Electrobeat rumort es gefühlte Ewigkeiten unten- und oben herum, und dann kommt diese herrische Stimme aus dem archaischen Computerspiel „Berzerk“ (überhaupt die herrischen Stimmen von Acid House!), und über die bis dahin brutalste 303-Bassline bricht ein Inferno bis dato ungehörten Ausmaßes los. Man kann es noch so oft gehört haben, diese Stelle kommt einfach immer unerwartet. „Stakker Humanoid“ blieb jahrelang ein viel gespielter Querschläger im 4/4-Bereich, doch gerade in den Händen der Breaks-Szene nach der klassischen Drum and Bass-Hausse erwies sich das visionäre Potential des Tracks, und auf Jahre hin wurde sich mit unzähligen Remixen und Mashups daran abgearbeitet. Dougans, der Humanoid nach Zwist mit den ursprünglichen Auftraggebern 1989 nach ein paar weiteren Tracks aufgelöst hatte, war da schon längst woanders. Mit Garry Cobain gründete er die legendären Future Sound Of London und andere Projekte, und setzte mit „Papua New Guinea“ und zahlreichen anderen Tracks, etwa auf Jumpin’ & Pumpin’, der noch taufrischen Breakbeat- und Raveszene der frühen 90er seinen Stempel auf. Seitdem hat er mit Cobain als FSOL und Amorphous Androgynous wesentliche Entwicklungen des Internets und anhängiger Multimediafortschritte früh aufgegriffen und dann großzügig liegenlassen, allerlei spinnerte Interviews und Statements abgegeben, und fortlaufend ungemein unterhaltsame eklektische Radioshows aufgenommen, welche die meisten Bemühungen der jüngeren Post-Disco-Psychedeliker in obskurem Inhalt und epischem Umfang noch gut in Schach halten können. Irgendwie auch beruhigend, dass man nach Jahren umfassender, zukunftgerichteter Soundforschung in diesem Feld irgendwann doch wieder bei Hawkwind landet.
Im Gespräch mit Stefan Goldmann über “Devotion” von John McLaughlin (1972).
Was ist Deine persönliche Verbindung zu John McLaughlin? Wie und wann bist Du auf ihn gestoßen?
Als ich 14-15 war und meine Ferien wie immer in Sofia verbrachte, war plötzlich Jazz das ganz große Thema bei meinen Freunden dort. Die anderen waren 2-4 Jahre älter als ich und ich ließ mich gerne beeinflussen. Als ich z. B. 9 war, kam ich so zu Iron Maiden, dann zu Led Zeppelin und Pink Floyd, und schließlich kam ich eines Sommers wieder und die waren alle ganz versessen auf das, was sie für Jazz hielten. Also Hauptsache virtuos – da wurde dann John Coltrane genau so gehört wie Al Di Meola oder die Chick Corea Elektric Band. Der Name McLaughlin fiel da auch schnell. Zurück in Berlin ging ich also zum Virgin Megastore und schaute mir die Kassetten an. Das war das Format, das mich interessierte, weil ich keinen eigenen Plattenspieler hatte, dafür aber einen Ghettoblaster und einen Walkman. Im Laden hatten sie die “Devotion” sowie die “Love Devotion Surrender” mit Carlos Santana. Sonst nichts. Als angehender Jazz-Snob hab ich natürlich die „Devotion“ mitgenommen und mich nicht mit irgendwelchen Rockern aufgehalten. Interessanterweise war dieses Tape die Lizenzausgabe von Celluloid, was später eines der wichtigsten Labels für mich werden sollte. Es hatte dieses super Coverdesign von Thi-Linh Le, der die ganzen legendären Celluloid-Cover in den 80ern gemacht hat. Ich kam hier also gleich mit zwei sehr wesentlichen Dingen in Berührung. Als ich damals auf einer Skifahrt in Tschechien war, konnte ich damit ganz gut die Mädchen beeindrucken, weil das selbst für die offenkundig so viel besser war als der Spaß-Punk, den die anderen Jungs dabei hatten.
McLaughlin war ja an sehr vielen bedeutenden Alben beteiligt. Warum hast Du Dir “Devotion” ausgesucht?
Gut, allein die ganzen Miles Davis Platten, auf denen er mitspielt sind eh der Wahnsinn. „Bitches Brew“ ist für mich sicherlich das bedeutendste Album überhaupt. Nur ist “Devotion” für mich einerseits der Einstieg gewesen, anderseits ist es in mehreren anderen Aspekten wirklich bemerkenswert: Es ist ein Album, das jemand in ein bestehendes Genre hineingesetzt hat – und dieses völlig übertroffen hat. Das ist ein wichtiger Beleg, das so etwas möglich ist. Es gibt immer diesen riesigen Vorteil, der Erste zu sein, der etwas Bestimmtes macht. Also ich denke da an Jeff Mills oder Plastikman, die einfach als erste wahrnehmbar ein kompositorisches Niveau erreicht haben in einer Musik, die vorher eher nur raue Energie war. Solche Leute haben auf Jahrzehnte einen Vorteil gegenüber jedem, der erst später dazukommt. Es ist ein zentrales künstlerisches Problem, wenn man innerhalb irgendeiner bestehenden Kunstform arbeiten will: was kann ich eigentlich noch beitragen? Die Möglichkeiten sind halt entweder den Rahmen zu dehnen oder es einfach deutlich besser zu machen als alle Anderen. Und Letzteres hat McLaughlin mit “Devotion” einfach gemacht. Da kommt einer aus England nach New York und nimmt den kompletten Laden auseinander. Die “Devotion” ist der klanggewordene feuchte Traum jedes Hendrix-Fans, nur das Hendrix das nie hingekriegt hat. Auch nicht mit “Band Of Gypsies”. Da kulminiert Etwas, was die ganze Zeit als Erwartung in der Luft lag, nur von Niemandem vorher eingelöst werden konnte. Dieses Energieniveau war einfach damals unbekannt. Und sehr viele spätere Sachen fußen darauf – sowie auf Lifetime, der Tony Williams Band mit McLaughlin und Larry Young.
In discussion with Martyn on “Fear Of Music” by The Talking Heads (1979).
What got you into the Talking Heads? Can you remember the time and circumstances you first became aware of the band?
My father was an avid vinyl collector, he was a football player and played in the UEFA cup tournaments at the end of the 70’s and early 80’s. Wherever he played he managed to find a record store and buy new music. I’m not sure where he picked up “Fear Of Music” but I’m quite sure he bought the record when it was released (in 1979). In 1984, when I was 10 years old, my dad bought “Stop Making Sense” and I remember both that album as well as “Fear Of Music” being played at the house many many times. “Stop Making Sense”, a live album, came with a booklet with pictures from the live show, so I browsed through it whenever the album was played. I loved the “Fear of Music” sleeve as well, as it has an embossed pattern, it was the only record I had seen at that time which had that.
Why did you opt for “Fear Of Music” over other of their albums? What makes it so special for you?
Musically, I remember liking “Stop Making Sense” better at that time, it features a lot of the big Talking Heads tracks like “Psycho Killer”, “Burning Down The House” and “Once In A Lifetime”, and although I knew “Fear of Music” practically by head, I revisited it many years later and came to appreciate it more. My dad didn’t own the other Talking Heads albums, but he did have Tom Tom Club’s first album. I started buying vinyl around 1982, with my first allowance money. It started with pop music obviously, and my own collection started to grow and grow. Later, when I got into late 80’s / early 90’s hip hop, I started digging in my dad’s soul and funk records (as hip hop used many of those to sample from). I left all the new wave and 70s/80s pop for what it was at that time, but about 5 years ago I went back in big time, to Roxy Music, David Bowie, ABC, Human League, Ultravox, and some of the New York bands like Talking Heads. I was moving houses a lot and dragged my vinyl collection everywhere, for some reason I felt that some of my dad’s records needed to be in the collection just to carry a part of my “home” with me. Even now that I’ve moved to the US, I had some of my favourite records shipped over and some of those have indeed been “in the family” for 30+ years, including “Fear Of Music”.
Right, we’re going to set it off with “Set It Off”. Basically with “Set It Off”, growing up in New York in the 70’s and 80’s, I grew up with my parents and my brother – my brother being a DJ since 1980, and there were a lot of musical roots in my household. I was always around music. Mostly disco and electro, stuff like that. Growing up with my parents in the 70’s, they were really big on disco and I was hearing everything from “Ten Percent” by Double Exposure to so many underground disco records, like from 76, Jimmy and the Vagabonds, or Crown Heights Affair. Old school disco. I always had roots in the family. My father also had a pretty big rock collection from the late 60’s – Sabbath, Zeppelin, psychedelic rock. That was played probably when I was really younger, but 74/75 my parents were already getting into disco at that time. The roots of the music were always there with me and I would buy records on the occasion. I remember buying Fatback Band’s “King Tim III” which was pretty much the first rap record, Michael Jackson – “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough”, “Let’s All Chant”, stuff like that. I was like 7 or 8 years old buying this stuff but I was never really into DJing at this time. My brother was the DJ. He was the one buying the records and DJing. He knew what was going on musically. I would say when I really first started to pay attention to music a lot, but I still was not a DJing, was around 83/84, and I was around 12 years old at the time and I was getting into graffiti which I was actually documenting on subway trains by photographs. I was travelling from Brooklyn to the Bronx. I was going everywhere with a camera – all four boroughs that had a subway system. The records at that time were a lot of electro stuff that was being played. A lot of freestyle like C-Bank’s “One More Shot” or “Al-Naafiysh” by Hashim. I still didn’t really know who the artists were and stuff like that, but I knew the records and heard them all the time on the radio. Around 84 I went to a break dancing club at a roller skating rink to watch a bunch of people battling, and I heard “Set It Off” for the first time. I don’t know what it was with that record but it fit all the movies I liked at that time: New York movies like The Warriors, Death Wish. It was just this dark record that was kind of like the soundtrack of New York City at the time, when New York City was just like in urban decay. On my way somewhere with my parents you would see all these abandoned building like in Berlin in 1945 in certain areas. Then taking the train to the South Bronx and seeing that…I have such a vivid memory of being on the Pelham subway line going to see one of the most famous Graffiti writers in New York called Seen, who was in the documentary Style Wars, and I befriended him when I was probably like 13. He used to airbrush t-shirts in a flea market. I don’t know why music always has a place in a moment that you can remember a certain situation. I can remember being in that flea market and then playing that track. It was just like the track of tracks. It was the soundtrack of graffiti, of New York, the rawness. When I got into techno in about 1990 and I went to trace back all the records that I’d been collecting and I would go back and listen to that record it just sounded so current. Not current to what techno was, but on the production level. When you listen to other electro records or freestyle records from that time, nothing has that 808 feel like “Set It Off” does. That production is just sick. The bassline. There’s really no other record from that time period, apart from maybe “Hip Hop Be Bop” or “Boogie Down Bronx”, that should have been the soundtrack to The Warriors. It’s just an amazing track. The irony of whole record being my favourite record is that it was produced on a label located in Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn, so that record was made probably two miles from where I lived. I guess Walter Gibbons produced Strafe, but it was made in Brooklyn. It’s a 100% Brooklyn. That record… the build up, the vocals, just everything about it…I could listen to it over and over again on repeat mode.
Would you say they produced a prototype with this? It’s a lot darker than most of the electro productions around that time.
I think it’s definitely the prototype for a lot of the future electro stuff that was coming out through the techno scene in the 90’s. Anybody making electro music at that time had to know that record. You have “Planet Rock” and you have “Clear” by Cybotron but that record just stands out for me. It’s such a better record. I love the other records but when I hear “Set It Off” the goose bumps come up. It sounds like something from a John Carpenter movie. It could be from “Assault On Precinct 13”, even if you can’t mess with that soundtrack. It is in the same mode as that. It gives the same feeling, and the same vibe and mood. Those eerie chord strings in the back and the bassline. You can’t mess with it.
> Ryuichi Sakamoto – Riot In Lagos
The next one is “Riot in Lagos” by Ryuichi Sakamoto.
This is an interesting track that Bones had turned me onto in probably sometime in the early to mid 90’s. He was refreshing my memory on records that were on when we used to go to roller skating rinks, and one of the other records was Kasso’s “Key West”. I remember he was playing all these records and I was like flabbergasted by the sounds and the music and how futuristic it was for 80’/81′. The thing was when I got into techno and I realised what electronic music was, and I’m hearing Bones and Lenny Dee – this is the 808, this is the 909 – trying to get my head around all these machines, and Bones was playing me records later on saying “these are the first 808 records, or 909 drum rhythm records”, and I never looked at the music I was listening to in the early 80’s, like Kraftwerk, as electronic music or acoustic music – I never made that difference in my head. I never sat there and thought “Oh, I like music with synthesisers”. When I heard this Sakamoto record, I kind of recalled hearing it but it didn’t really ring a bell in a big way for me. But it did ring my bell. [laughs] I was like “Whoa! What the fuck is this?” because I guess it’s got that Eastern, Asian kind of melody sound to it. That is a one of a kind record. There is nothing that sounds like that. I have never, ever heard another record ever sound like that. It cannot be copied.
It even sounded different to the sound Sakamoto was doing with Yellow Magic Orchestra.
Yeah. There is another Sakamoto record that I got a little later on, once I realised who he was, that is quite rare. Not many people know it, it’s called “Lexington Queen”. It’s amazing. It was released as a 12” and also a 45 as well. I probably should have been digging a little deeper on Sakamoto stuff, when I was doing my East kind of record shopping ten years ago, when I was looking for all this 80’s stuff. But I heard a few things by him that didn’t hit me the way those two records hit me. But “Riot In Lagos” is just a special record, what a special piece of electronic music. It’s up there with Kraftwerk.
It is pioneering electronic music, but from a very different angle.
Again, it’s got that Japanese sound to it. Whatever Japanese electronic music was in the 80’s, I don’t really know much about it, but this is a brilliant track. Read the rest of this entry »
In discussion with Todd Burns on “Celebration Of The Lizard” by The Doors (1968).
This song has quite a special status in the Doors back catalogue, could you elaborate on why you choose this over other of their songs?
“Celebration Of The Lizard” does have a special status in the Doors back catalogue, largely because it was never released. The group ended their first two albums with very long, epic songs—“The End” and “When The Music’s Over”—and, as I understand it, this was supposed to be the song that concluded their third full-length. Unfortunately, for one reason or another, the group couldn’t get a take that they were happy with and had to substitute a few other tunes instead to fill out the record. As someone who is rather fascinated by the history of music, I’ve always been fascinated by failures and coulda-beens. “Death Of A Ladies Man” is my favorite Cohen album, I collected bootlegs of The Beach Boys’ “Smile” sessions but never listened to the one that Brian Wilson eventually released a few years ago. This song from The Doors is in that same vein.
There is plenty to choose from as far as rock history’s classic groups are concerned. What makes The Doors appealing to you?
I have a dark poetic past. And Jim Morrison’s poetry always appealed to a teenager that was prone to such flights of fancy. People often laugh at Morrison’s writing today, but I’d argue that he’s a much more interesting figure than what we have nowadays in popular rock music. Then again, I have my doubts that a group like The Doors would be on a label much bigger than something like Sub Pop in 2009. Also appealing to me was the music. It’s hard to overstate how strange and wonderful some of The Doors music sounded when placed alongside their contemporaries. Organ player, flamenco guitarist and jazz drummer and American Poet over top of all of it? And they even wrote some pop songs along the way? Yes, please.
In discussion with iamelectron on “Don’t Fight It, Feel It” by Primal Scream (1991).
This single is an outtake of Primal Scream’s seminal “Screamadelica” album. What is so important to you about this track that you chose to discuss it, and not the whole album?
The album as a whole is an amazing creation (excuse the pun) but it’s “Don’t Fight It, Feel It” that means the most to me. Every time I hear it I’m back in 1991 and it still gets the hairs standing up. It’s one of those songs that I’ll never be able to disassociate from the state, time or place I was in when I heard it.
How do you have 1991 in mind, especially compared to the years shortly before and after? What made that year special?
The summer of 1991 was a major point in my life. It was when I decided to pack in Art College and give the DJ game a serious go. I’ve been around electronic dance music in one form or another for quite a while. I was, and still am a huge fan of New Order, and some friends and I started a Joy Division/New Order cover band at school called Funeral in Berlin. I had the bass and the pony tail so I was Hooky, haha! Then I got involved in a Goth Disco band. Don’t laugh! We covered Dead or Alive, Sylvester, The Fine Young Cannibals and our Hi-Nrg version of “Jolene” was legendary (to about five people). So I was really into the sound of drum machines and synths. But it wasn’t until I went to Edinburgh Art College in ’89 that house and techno really hit me. I stayed in halls of residence for my first year. In the room around the corner from me was this guy from Aberdeen and he was always with this girl from college that I had the major hots for but was too shy to approach. So one day I went up and introduced myself to him in the hope that he’d introduce me to said lovely lady. I never got the girl, but I did get introduced to Acid House. My new friend lent me copies of “The House Sound of Chicago” and the first Jackmaster compilation, and I was blown away by the rawness of it. So I started hunting down more records. I’d done a few bits of DJ’ing before, playing at indie disco things with a few electronic tracks thrown in; Factory releases, Tackhead, Nitzer Ebb, early Ministry/Revolting Cocks, The Residents that sort of stuff – and now I was sticking in these new House tracks, completely unmixed I must add because I had no concept of how to put two records together at that point. I started to meet more people at college who were into the House scene and we’d head down to nights like UFO; a short lived weekly party in Edinburgh that Optimo’s JD Twitch ran before he created the infamous PURE night (with his DJ partner Brainstorm).
Then in 1990 Glasgow became the European City of Culture and with that came late licensing laws and Atlantis at the Sub Club (with residents Harri and Slam) so we’d head over there and got to catch the first touring DJ’s like the Boys Own and Flying gangs. Then a friend and I started driving down from Scotland to London to go to clubs there. I was being consumed by House! By now I’d completely lost interest in actually getting a degree and to my parent’s dismay I moved back home (home being St Andrews, a very small, very insular University town on the East Coast of Scotland) to ‘take a year out’. I’d unintentionally timed my move with the opening of a night in the nearby city of Dundee called the Rumba Club, and from the spring of 1991 to Christmas of that year it was absolute chaos! During those eight months Weatherall played three times – and on his second visit he dropped “Don’t Fight It, Feel It” as his very last song. I had never heard a reaction to a record like the one he received that night – and I don’t think I’ve heard a reaction like it since. When the whistle noise, stuttering percussion and that wobbly bass line started the place erupted – it was madness!!! I’d love to hear a recording of his set because I’m sure he was mixing both sides; starting with the A side and then moving onto the “Scat Mix”. When that deep, deep, bass noise he briefly uses in the track came on the place went up another gear. So I’m on a packed dance floor going nuts to “Don’t Fight It Feel It”, surrounded by all my friends who are going nuts and whack – epiphany time! Sod college, sod everything else…I want to do what he (Weatherall) is doing! So I left the club that night…“and he was never the same again”. Yip, 1991 and this track will always be really important to me.
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