Category: Album

The Tallis Scholars – Victoria Requiem, 1987

This endless, drizzly winter has put me in a major early choral music rut, and it’s been so good that I almost don’t want the sun to come out. If you’ve never stomped around slushy Brooklyn subway stations in too many layers listening to this stuff in headphones, I’d highly recommend it–it’s a very easy way to lend some potent saintly gravitas to whatever you’re doing and thinking about, however trivial. Along the way, I’ve decided that Spanish Counter-Reformation composer and priest Tomás Luis de Victoria’s requiem, written in 1605, is one of my favorites.

I will say that because this was written right along the outer edges of what’s defined as “early music,” it shows a lot of early baroque tendencies, which is to say that it’s lacking the stark, alien-sounding movements of really early polyphony, like Pérotin. This Requiem is more along the lines of the traditional, baroque kind of prettiness that sounds pretty familiar to 2018 ears. I don’t think that’s at all a bad thing, but if you’re after more brutal, ascetic medievalism, this isn’t it. This is gorgeous, gut-wrenching, deeply pleasurable harmonies all the way. It’s remarkably versatile, too–if you want to make whatever you’re doing at home feel very important and beautiful (reading! writing! washing dishes! brushing your dog!), pop this on. You won’t regret it.

Note that the first ten tracks are Victoria’s Requiem in its entirety, and the last track,  “Versa Est In Iuctum,” was written by Alonso Lobo, one of Victoria’s contemporaries. For more early sacred choral music, including more work by always great Tallis Scholars, see here, here, here, here, and here.

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Haruomi Hosono – 花に水 (Watering A Flower), 1984

In recognition of today’s vernal equinox, I wanted to share a cult classic from the Hosono catalog, originally commissioned in 1983 as background music by Muji shortly after the opening of their first storefront in Tokyo. The tape was packaged in a box set with an 80 page booklet, including photographs, an interview with Hosono, haiku, and work by Nakazawa Shinichi (who I assume made the cover art, though I’m not sure). The story goes that Muji only used one of the tracks for in-store purposes (presumably “Muji Original BGM,” previewed below), and while the tape is still hyper-rare, since then the music has circulated widely online, most famously on YouTube, and has been presented with several different track listings, some including two different versions of “Talking.” I’m including all four tracks here, though the original tape ostensibly only included “Talking” and “Growth.”

Sonically, these tracks are exemplary of Hosono’s brilliance with motif, minimalism, and movement. Those who are familiar with his records Mercuric Dance and Paradise View might find Watering A Flower to sit squarely between the two, both in terms of textural density and mood. The songs are sparse, to put it lightly–bare bones, really. They’re not as neutral, or even chipper, as one might expect for storefront use: they willfully stray into eerie, dissociative territory, suggesting hypnosis and foggy, dreamlike states. Dreamlike in the more honest sense of the word, as I think dreams are often more illogical, dry, and bizarre than the word “dreamlike” gives them credit for. Though the whole tape is beatless–a sacrilegious suggestion for the 2018 retail environment–“Talking” is marked by the insistent chiming of a metronomic tone; whereas in “Growth” the chime is slowed down and flooded with reverb, suggesting underwater sonar. Hosono doesn’t hesitate to lean into dissonance and atonality, and it’s plenty disorienting.

Still, by the time the appropriately drily titled “Muji Original BGM” arrives, Hosono has reminded us that he’s very good at making things that are very beautiful. For sixteen minutes the song cycles, mantric, through small variations on two different phrases, one much moreso than the other, and it’s weightless, unhurried, deeply affecting, and perfect. I’d love to go shopping for minimalist home goods in this world, though I’m not sure that I’d buy anything. Enjoy, and happy spring!

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Sally Oldfield – Celebration, 1980

Such a cool record. There’s a lot here for Kate Bush fans: expertly written bombastic and theatrical piano-driven pop-rock. A prolific songwriter, pianist, and singer, Oldfield has an excellent sensitivity to groove, which shows up on Celebration as driving four-on-the-floor disco in opener “Mandala,” breezy reggae-lite on “Celebration,” and tropical lounge-jazz on stunner “Blue Water” (it’s previewed below; wait for the break about four minutes in–I promise you’ll be glad you did). Smoldering sunset slow-jams like “Morning of My Life” and closer “Love Is Everywhere” are too gut-wrenching and powerful to read as saccharine piano ballads, even though that’s sort of what they are–she’s just that good. Marked by her signature restless vibrato, Oldfield’s voice is a daredevil, taking acrobatic leaps and jumps effortlessly, but with a distinctive conviction in every choice she makes.

Sally Oldfield is also sister to Mike Oldfield, with whom she made a very renn fayre-core baroque folk record in 1968 overseen by Mick Jagger under the name The Sallyangie, recorded when she was 21 and Mike was just 15. The project was a complete flop, so obviously I completely love it. Since then, her solo catalogue has grown enough that I still haven’t heard quite a bit of it–a few years ago I had a bad time with one of her records and never bothered to venture further into her work after that, but Peter (thanks Peter) recently encouraged me to give her another shot, and I’m so glad he did. Since then I’ve also developed crushes on her swooning Celebration follow-up Playing In The Flame, which will probably show up here eventually, and her late 80s record Femme, which, given its massive stadium pop-rock quality, probably won’t show up here. I’ve also developed a crush on this outfit. I hope there’s something here for you to connect with as well!

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Luna Set – Art, 1982

Wow! This one came out of left field for me and has quickly become a precious favorite, serving as a reminder of why music hunting is exciting in the first place: as finding unknown and wonderful full-lengths becomes less and less frequent, finding a record that instantly feels like home becomes all the more rewarding.

Though I often presuppose these posts by mentioning that there’s little available information about the artist, this one feels unusual in its total lack of context. Though they released two of their LPs on the German label Jupiter Records, a major hub for disco singles, none of the names associated with the project have led me to any names that I recognize, and I can’t really figure out who their peers were. Still, the first thing that comes to mind is the subdued lo-fi post-punk of Young Marble Giants (a very good sign), complete with coy vocals that, in spite of their shy hushed deliveries, are anything but naïve. But there’s a flattened minimal synth aspect here, that kind of lizardy quality, that suggests minimal wave favorites like Carol and Solid Space, or even the dark drum machine slink of Lena Platonos. There’s also a playfulness, those unexpected flirty details, that make me think of Leda (another excellent record that I hope hasn’t gotten lost in the archives).

But there’s plenty that defines Art as entirely its own, perhaps most notably its use of saxophone. Opener “The Way It Is” starts out with thirty seconds of free jazz sax riffing, echoed again later in the song in a remarkable use of sonic space, moving from a far echo to a dry forefront only to disappear into a puff of reverb. Brass shows up unexpectedly all over the record, always tasteful and always effective. Combined with gorgeous vocal treatment and sharp, restrained songwriting, this is a deeply sophisticated record. Though I haven’t yet spent enough time with Luna Set’s other two full-lengths, this is by far my favorite of the three, striking an ideal balance between minimalism and playful textural interest.

Note that there’s one noticeable glitch in the opening track–this is still the best quality rip I can find, but I’d be thrilled if anyone can share a cleaner version!

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Motohiko Hamase – Reminiscence, 1986

Peak malletcore, except here fretless bass gets a little closer to center stage, dripping all over dense towers of avant-classical synthetic strings. A die-hard fretless enthusiast, Hamase has written several books about the subject and is perhaps most famous in Japan as a coveted session bassist. He’s worked with a daunting lineup including Jimmy Murakawa, Yasuaki Shimizu, Seigen Ono, Isao Suzuki, and Yas-Kaz.

Reminiscence was recorded at Tokyo’s Sound Design Studio, famous for being the home base for most of Kitaro’s giant catalogue. Despite its reputation as an ambient record, Reminiscence doesn’t adhere to stillness in the way we might expect. It moves freely and often in steep, vertical shapes, pulling just as much inspiration from avant-classical experimentalists as from gamelan and its subsequent American minimalism devotees. Though there are many moments of unflinching beauty, Hamase is unafraid to wade out into the deep end, moving seamlessly between woozy, noodling dissonance, transparent puffs of synthesizer rising like early morning fog, and tunneling tonal percussive segments. It’s a bit disorienting, in a good way. There’s a lot to chew on here, and thankfully Reminiscence only continues to open up with increasing generosity upon further listens. This is a longtime favorite of mine, but I only recently got ahold of a good quality rip, so I’m thrilled to be able to finally share it. Enjoy!

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Baffo Banfi – Ma, Dolce Vita, 1979

Guest post by Peter Harkawik

I recently found myself in line at an airport Starbucks, earbuds pumping the second and standout track on Giuseppe “Baffo” Banfi’s excellent 1979 album, Ma, Dolce Vita. The scene was transformed. I watched as headset-clad baristas twirled in a choreographed dance of whipped cream and chocolate sauce, gleeful panache emerging in their faces. Glowing QR codes passed under holstered laserbeam scanners. Boxes of soy milk changed hands in time with symphonic Moog crescendos, and petulant children spun on Samsonite between rounds of stereophonic cabasas. Such is the power of great music: to transform the ordinary into the sublime. I’m no expert in prog, Berlin School, Italian Library, or anything that qualifies me to write about this record. I just like it.

Banfi was a member of the hallowed Biglietto per l’Inferno (“Ticket to Hell”). As the story goes, Klaus Schulze took an interest, but when Trident folded in 1975, leaving their second album in limbo, the group disbanded. Banfi went on to release several solo albums on Schulze’s Innovative Communication label. Ma, Dolce Vita, the entirety of which is reprised on the compilation Sound of Southern Sunsets, is his second, and I’ve been able to find out very little about it. The cover suggests an Archizoom kiosk, half a Joe Colombo or perhaps something made by the German artist Rebecca Horn. (Apparently it’s a photo by Ezio Geneletti.) It is an album that very quickly outstrips its hazy psychedelic trappings.

Dolce Vita opens slowly with “Oye Cosmos Va,” which, like much electronic music of its era, would not feel out of place in a Carl Sagan special. Its plodding, trippy synthesizer loops quickly give way to the more expansive and exuberant sound of “Sweet Summer on Planet Venus.” A driving beat propels this airy, probing melody through multiple sonic landscapes. It’s a jubilant effusion of interleaved percussive elements that resolves quickly as the gas runs out on each layer. It will always leave me wanting more. “Vino, Donne E Una Tastiera” picks up with a syrupy, rattlesnake swagger, suggesting the dim saloon of a spaghetti western. “Astralunato” employs a contrapuntal bassoon-like sound that I’ve only heard used to such great effect by the British armchair duo Woo. It gives the song a sort of self-satisfied, delirious schmaltz that ambles along at its own pace. The album’s final track, loosely, “Fantasy of an Unknown Planet,” is a dark, arpeggiated voyage, accompanied by tentative high-hat and ersatz flute. 18 minutes in length, it builds steadily to a climactic bass line dropout and melodic redoubling.

If last year’s Blade Runner sequel is a testament to the enduring sound of the synthesizer, then Ma, Dolce Vita, like the original film, reminds us that the 1970s still sound like the future.


David Casper – Crystal Waves, 1984

Another gem from private issue new age icon David Casper, one of the later follow-ups to his excellent Tantra-La. Like that record, Crystal Waves manages to blend a laundry list of instruments (cello, played by Jami Sieber; marimba, played by Scott Cossu; ch’in [yuequin, aka moon zither, played by T’ao Chu-Chen], h’siao [Chinese bamboo flute], ocarina, crystallophone) into something that never sounds at all busy. That unhurried spaciousness is even moreso the case for this record than for Tantra-La. While a very careful and thorough use of acoustic environment brings to mind open landscapes rather than large rooms, and while there’s definitely some highly detailed multi-tracking going on, the precision and directness of the sounds seem to belie their numbers–which is to say, Crystal Waves masquerades as a very effective minimalist line drawing until you stare at it for awhile and realize it’s a full-color impressionist oil painting. It’s rendered in tones that are so delicate, translucent even, that you might not realize right away that they’re there.

This is particularly the case on the second side of the cassette, which, for our purposes, is the “Crystal Waves I-IV” tracks 4-7. It’s composed entirely of tuned crystal glasses:

Each glass was played individually with meditative attention and recorded, grouped, and re-recorded in a lengthy blending process. In order to attain a broad spectrum of sound from a simple source, tape speed, equalization, and harmonic balance were changed to produce sounds reminiscent of bass and cello, flutes and horns, organs, bells and gongs, and other sounds suggestive of electronic synthesis. Sometimes as many as thirty glasses may be heard at once, each with its own pulsation and timbre, produced acoustically by finger on glass.

The depth of field and texture Casper achieves with glass alone is remarkable, as is his gift with drawing heat out of sounds that might otherwise be predisposed towards frostiness. He’s just as skilled with his treatment of strings as he is with glasses: in spite of the wide openness of these songs, there’s a direct suggestion of reassuring warmth that I find myself feeding on over and over in the wintertime. I also just realized that it’s been a year almost to the day since I posted Tantra-La, so clearly these records are seasonally significant to me. I hope you love this as much as I do.

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Michael Stearns – Planetary Unfolding, 1981

A cosmic touchstone. Highly influential and ahead of its time. For the unfamiliar, Michael Stearns’s work was regularly featured on the Hearts of Space radio show, and his large catalogue of output includes scores for movies like Chronos and Samsara. In terms of purity of spaciousness, I can’t help but think of Steve Roach’s Structures from Silence (and unsurprisingly, the two went on to collaborate on several projects), but this is much denser and more detailed, filling in the gaps between broad instrumental strokes with many smaller layered sounds. It’s gorgeous stuff, and having realized that it’s been awhile since I posted anything in this wheelhouse, I think this is the most polished return to form I can think of. Try it in headphones!

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Sebestyén Márta & Szörényi Levente ‎– Szerelmeslemez, 1985

Gorgeous interpretations of traditional Hungarian folk songs, fleshed out in full color with synth and drum machine textures. Effortless vocals predominantly by Sebestyén Márta, a folk singer, composer, and actress who has also worked with Deep Forest (!). There’s something Virginia Astley-esque about the deliberately innocent quality of her voice, though perhaps that’s  a typical affect of traditional Hungarian folk singing–I sadly wouldn’t know. The prolific musician and songwriter Szörényi Levente contributes some vocals as well (presumably in addition to much of this instrumentation, though I can’t find full credits anywhere), and his brother Szörényi Szabolcs produced the record.

I’ve listed the song titles in Hungarian followed by their English translations where applicable. There’s a lot to love here, texturally: rolling, churning synth and drum machine on tracks like “Segélj El Uramisten” and “Szerelem, Szerelem” that reminds me of Sakamoto; more abstract chirping sample play on “Este Lett;” but the centerpiece is the floating, sinewy stunner “András,” previewed below. Impressively, Szerelmeslemez (“Love Record”) only gets increasingly generous with additional eartime. Enjoy!

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The Coconuts – Don’t Take My Coconuts, 1983

The Coconuts were an offshoot project of Kid Creole and the Coconuts, the brainchild of August Darnell, a Bronx-born composer who’s an absolute genius with big band sounds, Latin jazz textures, and cuttingly clever lyrics. The Coconuts were initially the trio of backing singers in Kid Creole & The Coconuts, but went on to release two full-lengths on their own, with production from Darnell (who was married to Adriana Kaegi, member of The Coconuts and co-founder of the original Kid Creole lineup. Less relatedly, I just excitedly realized that Fonda Rae was at one point a member of the Kid Creole band).

Don’t Take My Coconuts is killer song writing, fully fledged arrangements, and charismatic vocals together in full force. To be clear, the ladies of The Coconuts (Kaegi, Cheryl Poirier, and Taryn Hagey) were creative powerhouses in their own right–their vocal delivery is razor sharp and manages to be seductive even while covering “If I Only Had a Brain” (this is my second Wizard of Oz-related post this week, so make of that what you will). They were incredibly strong performers, able to stay in impeccable character while flawlessly executing fairly complicated choreography in perfect unison. The video for “Did You Have To Love Me Like You Did?” is a showcase of amazing outfits, spot-on choreo, and some, uh, monkeys–it’s embed disabled, so it’s different from the video previewed below, but you can watch it in full here.

I still haven’t found any clear origin story for “Ticket To The Tropics” (no relation to the Gerard Joling song, as far as I can tell), which has a different melody but the same lyrics as the Cristina track of the same name. I can’t find detailed credits for either of the two songs, but given the overlap in sensibilities I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some personnel cross-pollination going on in there somewhere. Enjoy!

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