Category: Album

John Martyn – Piece By Piece, 1986

Edit: At the time of originally sharing this post, I was unaware that John Martyn had a history of perpetrating domestic abuse. I recognize the implications of embracing his work in light of that, and will do my best in the future to be more thorough in my research on the artists I write about!

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Piece By Piece is not for everyone. But what makes it such an exemplary slice of sophisti-pop, in my opinion, is that every time John Martyn toes the aesthetic line (is this too much saxophone? does this sound like late night lonely hearts suburban radio? are these lyrics actually just bad?), he redeems himself tenfold with startlingly gorgeous instrumentation and perfectly plump, high-gloss production. It continues to surprise after repeat listens, and is extra generous in headphones.

Backing up, though–for the unfamiliar, John Martyn was a British musician and songwriter who initially came up as a precocious folk scene giant but, as is well-evidenced here, branched out into much more exploratory territory. His body of work is as big as it is diverse, so much so that I still haven’t really wrapped my head around it. It’s been suggested that it was this very proclivity towards experimentation that kept him just shy of the mainstream success that he clearly deserved. He sadly passed away in 2009. He was a truly brilliant guitarist, he loved fretless bass, and his inimitable voice could turn from wistful sweet to inhuman growling on a dime.

While Piece By Piece might be an odd place to jump into his very rewarding discography, I think it’s appropriate in its own way. “Angeline,” for example, is exemplary of Martyn’s particular breed of strangeness: at first it seems like a Toyota dad ballad, but its repeating out-of-sync broken drum sample acts as a reminder that there’s got to be more, and sure enough, the “chorus”–which isn’t really a chorus at all–breaks open so pleasingly into gorgeous washes of reverb in which the vocals disappear into dissonant synth and vice versa. Oh, and for the fretless bass die-hards, it’s all over the record in spades. A deep purple and navy blue world of a record that feels so good to live in for 41 minutes: moody, wickedly smart sophisti-pop, with more and more to say for itself at every turn. Ideal night-time driving music.

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World Standard – World Standard, 1985

Another one from the understatedly brilliant Soichiro Suzuki, aka World Standard. This is a completely different beast from the last of his records that I posted–it’s effectively lyricless, and is less a pop record than it is a somewhat anonymous amalgam of different folk traditions (though there’s plenty of Japanese folk in here). Hosono provides production and sounds; Hosono would later go on to release Soichiro Suzuki’s also excellent World Standard II on his then new FOA label.

This record is deceptive, heartbeaking, and again, understated–I think I probably heard it two or three times before I properly listened to it. It doesn’t command attention, but once it gets its hooks in you, they’re stuck. A slew of string instruments from all over, very tasteful percussion, and gorgeous wordless vocal layering courtesy of Pizzicato V (!) and Sandii (!). Alternately playful (opener “太陽とダァリヤ,” which, in perfect Hosono form, has an abrupt Beach Boys-esque reverb vocal harmony breakdown), moody (“逝ける王女のためのパヴァーヌ” is an appropriately cinematic version of Ravel‘s “Pavane pour une infante défunte”), and deeply emotive (“水夫たちの歌声” has left me in tears a few times). There’s something reminiscent of Penguin Café Orchestra–the music is pastoral and very evocative, but it’s not totally clear of where or what, and it feels oddly timeless. Weightless and heavy-hitting. If it’s for you, it’s definitely for you.

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Laura Allan – Reflections, 1980

Pristine, jewel toned celestial new age from personal hero Laura Allan, who, in addition to being a gifted songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and singer, also made instruments for the likes of Joni Mitchell and David Crosby. Allan sadly passed away in 2008 after a six month battle with cancer. I’ve been enjoying reading through threads of comments written by those who knew and loved her:

Laura Allan was a true talent, could pick up any instrument and play it, and had a voice that only an angel would dare to have.

Getting ready for our 40th high school reunion, I saw Laura’s name on the list. I remembered in an instant her mesmerizing face as she played her kalimba out on the grass where we all hung out at lunch. Inspired, I went out and bought one which I have treasured and still sits on my bookcase. We became friends and she took a bamboo flute which I had with holes punched in some of the strangest places (no wonder it wouldn’t play) and she taped up the ones that shouldn’t be there until it found its voice. Laura was a very different and enchantingly beautiful friend who made a lasting impression on me.

Reflections is exactly as it should be, veering in between lyrical, devotional folk (“As I Am”) and more cosmic new age spirals (“Nicasio”). Though there are synth lines tucked in around the edges, Allan’s zither takes center stage, and as such there’s an acoustic roughness to this record that I love. I also love the reverb quality, particularly that on Allan’s vocals. Featuring Paul Horn on flute (he really goes off in “Passage”), Steve Halpern executive production, and Geoffrey Chandler on synth (you may know him from his excellent Starscapes, released the same year). Dappled with sunlight and pale green, Reflections is prime summer new age. Ideal for fans of Dorothy Carter and David Casper. Thank you Andy for the reminder about this!

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Kid Creole & The Coconuts – Tropical Gangsters, 1982

For fans of The Coconuts who haven’t yet dug into their origin story, this is an excellent place to start. Kid Creole was the brainchild of August Darnell, a Bronx-born composer and an absolute genius with big band sounds, Latin jazz textures, and cuttingly clever lyrics; The Coconuts were the band’s trio of backing singers. It was difficult to choose between Tropical Gangsters and their excellent 1981 release, Fresh Fruit in Foreign Places, but this record includes some of my favorite singles from the group, including the stupidly good “Annie I’m Not Your Daddy,” previewed below. Elsewhere, find stomping, four-on-the-floor disco (“I’m A Wonderful Thing, Baby”), samba-funk breezer “I’m Corrupt,” and closer “No Fish Today,” a smirking account of class struggle cleverly packaged as a breezy tropical funk sailboat soundtrack. Steel drums, lush string arrangements, irresistible percussion, and an omnipresent sense of humor, this is ideal May listening.

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Di Melo – Di Melo, 1975

Following in the steps of Jorge Ben, who began incorporating elements of funk and soul into samba music in the early 60s (eventually creating whole new genres that became integral to Brazil’s Black Movement), Roberto Santos (aka Di Melo, “tell me”) didn’t enjoy the international name recognition that many of his more prolific peers did. Perhaps it’s because until 2016, Di Melo was his only full-length release. Still, if the measly two copies of the record currently available on Discogs with a starting price of $732.56 are any indication, the record has since attained its well-deserved holy grail status.

Santos was born in the Pernambuco region of Northeastern Brazil, moved to São Paolo in the late 60s, and was signed to EMI/Odeon in 1974. Other than that, I haven’t found much information about him, and it’s not totally clear why he didn’t continue to release music on the heels of Di Melo, as he’s written more than 400 unpublished songs. From what I gather, he was in a severe motorcycle accident in the 80s that almost left him a paraplegic, after which there were widespread rumors that he had not survived, which might have contributed to his long hiatus. There’s a short documentary about him here from 2011–though it doesn’t have English subtitles, it’s well worth flitting through even for non-Portuguese speakers for its amazing archival footage, as well as some beautiful contemporary footage of him serenading his small daughter in their kitchen.

Sonically, Di Melo is rich and complex, effortlessly winding between funk, samba, tango, jazz, soul, and regional folk. Hermeto Pascoal (!) contributes, though it’s not clear in what capacity. Eight of the twelve tracks are original compositions. It’s a wildly ambitious debut effort, and, as seems to often be the case with Brazilian musical wunderkinds, it succeeds at all of its efforts. I’m far from an expert on Brazilian music, so rather than make uninformed statements, I’ll encourage you to listen to it–it’s a pleasure from the enthusiastically syncopated, brutally grooving opener “Kilariô” (which, as I understand it, was the biggest hit at the time of Di Melo‘s release) all the way to the sunny, cowbell-flecked cakewalk closer “Indecisão.” In between, the unbothered, sinewy “Se O Mundo Acabasse En Mel” (previewed below) is my personal favorite. Ideal warm weather listening.

Thank you Silva for the reminder about this terrific record!

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Maurice Ravel – Ravel Plays Ravel, 1994

For a torrential spring. I love Ravel for his humidity and his drippiness–swerving, suffocating greens, sometimes saturated and vibrant, sometimes murky and choked with algae. It feels appropriate for this time of year in New York, with bursts of spring euphoria, violent last gasps of winter, and water.

I’m not completely sure of all of the details surrounding this collection of tracks, but as best as I can understand it, these were recorded in 1994 from a series of reproducing piano rolls made between 1913 and 1933. The rolls were mostly played by Ravel himself, with at least five of them performed in London on June 30, 1922 on a Duo-Art reproducing piano. (For context, here’s a picture of a refurbished 1929 Duo-Art Steinway with a roll in the playback mechanism.) Though this wasn’t the first time Ravel had been able to listen back to himself performing, it was one of a small handful of known instances of such “recordings,” and as I understand it, there might be some suspicion that not all of the rolls attributed to him are actually his performances. There are four tracks by other prominent pianists of the time, and just to make this even more confusing, I’m using the album art from a 1965 collection of recordings, presumably from some of the same rolls, because I can’t find the art from the 1994 collection included here.

Regardless of the details, it’s pretty special to hear this collection (which includes some of my favorite Ravel compositions) performed in a way that we can assume is more faithful to the styles in which they were originally written than many more recent recordings, and it’s even more special to imagine Ravel himself tearing through some of the more torrential moments. Happy spring!

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Thomas Leer – Letter From America, 1982

Ideal “first day of spring spring” soundtrack, released on the legendary Cherry Red Records. If you like Martin Newell, you’ll love this. Aside from the obvious comparisons–a diligently lo-fi DIY ethos, jangly guitar, spronky synth pop, cassette culture, etc.–there’s a similar tendency to couch really pretty and smart songwriting in a playful, totally unserious affect. (For the record, Leer is much funkier.) A part of me wonders if Leer and Newell sold their brilliance short by taking this approach, but at the end of the day I think this was the most truthful language that they could speak. This wasn’t just the way they chose to tell their stories; it’s an important part of the story itself. His world is far from simplistic, though. More whimsical-sinister tracks like “Gulf Stream” and “Soul Gypsy” paint a picture of imagined travels through Leer’s warped version of the world. And that quietly smirking, scuffy, faraway-in-a-big-room thing (“Choices”) clearly evidences Leer’s love of krautrock, but Letter From America is sunsoaked and, well, accessible, or at least I think so.

Still, in spite of its lo-fi trappings, Letter From America (later issued as 4 Movements) is surprisingly dense and elegant up-close, almost sophisti-pop in sensibility. Tracks like “Tight As A Drum” are full of gorgeous washes of sound, with such thorough care for spatial depth that it becomes difficult to disentangle one instrument from the next. As such, be forewarned that this record really suffers in bad speakers–it actually took me a couple years to fully enjoy it, because it took me that long to listen to it in headphones and realize that it was a lot more than tinny, scronky, dude guitar pop (sry guitar dudes). Miraculously, Letter From America keeps opening up with increasing generosity and wit with every listen. Happy spring.

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Fernando Falcão – Memória Das Águas, 1981

The first of three records by Paraíba-born poet, percussionist, and composer Fernando Falcão, recorded in Paris in 1979 and released independently two years later. I realize that I’m a broken record, but this one is truly uncategorizable–and while that word can frequently connote records that are too challenging to be fully enjoyable, too ambitious for their own good, or just plain incoherent, Memória Das Águas is an utter pleasure from beginning to end.

“What?” you will think to yourself when you listen to it, which you should. “Who is this guy? Had he been quietly making music for decades under a pseudonym before releasing this? How else does something this orchestral in scope spring out fully formed on the first try? Why does he share a name with a Northeastern municipality?” you will ask after you’ve Googled him. “How’s his poetry? Is this a hoax? When is this getting reissued?” These are all questions I also have, which is to say, I’m sorry, I have no answers. All I have for context is that Fernando Falcão makes an appearance on the very good Outro Tempo compilation, which I suspect is how I landed here in the first place, but I’m not sure, as this record has been sitting in my “things to listen to” folder for months.

Memória Das Águas is a trip, moving seamlessly between swathes of avant murk, African polyrhythms, cinematic ambient flecked with field recordings, exuberant Brazilian jazz, maybe some Balinese Kecak influence, and a stripped down percussive number that, even in 2018, still sounds like the future. (I’ll say it again: 1979.) Instrumentally, that means cabasa, tumba, pandeiro, ganzá, contrabass, horn, flute, piccolo, piano, sax, timpani, violin, jug, and several different vocal ensembles. Functionally, it means this isn’t background music. Sometimes it feels like Geinoh Yamashirogumi; at others, it brings to mind the outside-of-time alien quality of Nuno Canavarro–and it is very much unlike either of those things. Try it–if you’re here, you’ll probably love it.

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Per Tjernberg – They Call Me, 1990

An ambitious and highly effective combustion of ambient jazz and a slew of musical traditions, whirlwinded together with dizzying, almost violent enthusiasm by Swedish jazz percussionist Per Tjernberg. Gamelan textures, Indian tabla, Aboriginal didgeridoo, Gabonese and Cameroonian sanza and mbira humming, Japanese strings, African flute, oud, and drums from too many countries to name.

While writing this post I realized that Tjernberg is also responsible for this reggae-pop treat (released under the wink-wink pseudonym Per Cussion) that I’ve had in my “tracks to do things with” pile for years. That he succeeds at such wildly different efforts (which are equally unabashed in their proclivity towards cultural borrowing, or, you know, appropriation; call it what you will) is a testament not just to his musicianship (though They Call Me is his first release under his own name, he was already well-seasoned in other projects) but to the grace with which he applies textures outside of their traditional contexts and shapes them into landscapes that sound simultaneously very terrestrial and slightly alien. (Relatedly, he’s also touted as the first Swede to make a rap record, which he did with the aid of American rappers, and about which I have nothing to say other than that I like the kalimba.)

There is, as you might expect, a lot going on here, but They Call Me shifts comfortably between wild freeform jazz and more subdued textural motifs, and I (predictably) think its strongest moments are when it leans into the latter mode. The title track, as well as “Didn’t You Know…Didn’t You Know” (previewed below) are very high highs. The closing track, “This Earth: Prayer,” is stunning in scope, managing to do so much with what is, for much of the song, just a didgeridoo, a lone brass instrument, and some light percussion. It evokes whales and also something even more cosmic, and I’m reminded strongly of Deep Listening every time I hear it. I don’t know that this record is for everyone, but if it’s for you, it’s definitely for you.

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Peter Garland, Aki Takahashi & Essential Music – Another Sunrise, 2002



Guest post by Peter Harkawik

For the past few years, I’ve been fascinated by a certain thread of post-minimalist music that has taken the form away from its challenging, austere roots and more toward the melodic, etherial, and uplifting. Daniel Lentz, Mary Jane Leach, Paul Dresher, Elodie Lauten, and Andrew Poppy (whose Lost Jockey LP remains criminally out of circulation) have all made contributions in this direction. Wim Mertens is as responsible as anyone, publishing American Minimal Music, a text that helped introduce Europe to minimalism, in 1983. Perhaps my favorite though is Another Sunrise, a piece composed by Peter Garland for Aki Takahashi and Essential Music in 1995.

Another Sunrise continues a long intersection between Native American and minimalist music. Harry Partch and Moondog both constructed instruments inspired largely by those of indigenous peoples; the latter spent a summer in 1948 camped outside a Navajo reservation in New Mexico in a failed attempt to interest them in his music. Garland studied composition and ethnomusicology under Harold Budd and James Tenney at CalArts in the early 1970s, making extended stays in Mexico and eventually settling in Santa Fe in 1980, where he directed a performance ensemble. Sunrise benefits greatly from his long friendship with Aki Takahashi, a gifted and prolific avant-garde pianist who has collaborated with Tōru Takemitsu, Morton Feldman, Alvin Lucier, and Carl Stone. She is joined by Judith Gordon on piano, and four percussionists, apparently the product of an arrangement previously set up for a Paul Bowles piece.

 Another Sunrise is, from its first note, a showcase for the marimbula, an instrument of the Caribbean that shares a heritage with the African thumb piano. Its opening five bars form a simple theme that is the piece’s primary generative element. The titles of its short segments offer formal clues: mariachi, ballad, rumba, bolero, coda and finally, gospel. Vibraphone and marimba declare themselves halfway through “Ballad,” joined by dueling pianos. If it were not for the supreme beauty of the melody, Takahashi’s playing here would be almost violent, an urgent reminder that the piano is, after all, a percussive instrument. “Rumba” borrows only rattles and tempo from its namesake, followed by a quiet interlude in “Bolero.” Another Sunrise makes powerful use of its silent passages, and its circular, modal nature make for many moments when the piece feels it has concluded, only to continue in a thrilling steel drum crash. This is most true in the coda and final “Gospel Medley,” a deeply moving summation that calls to mind a congregation of enthralled worshippers. Part of my love of minimalist music is its ability to reveal itself upon repeated listenings, making it the ideal soundtrack for work that requires long stretches of sustained concentration, and this is certainly true here.

Sunrise is accompanied by two other Garland works, “Dreaming of Immortality in a Thatched Cottage” (1977, recorded in 1997) and “I Have Had to Learn the Simplest Things Last” (1993, recorded in 1995). “Dreaming” is a somber polyphonic work, beginning with a naked vocal harmony and slowly introducing an Indonesian angklung, marimba, and harpsichord. This marks Garland’s return to working with orchestral instruments after a period of abstinence apparently inspired by a brief friendship with Partch. “Simplest” was composed shortly after the death of John Cage in 1993, and is the collection’s most pared-down, most direct piece. It is broken into four segments that feel like a single supposition with divergent conclusions. Its final component, titled “I Found Them Like Seashells On The Beach (J. Cage)” is a passage of startling and profound quietude, and a fitting end, both for its subject, and this collection.