Like no other. Scuzzed out leftfield basement oddity. DJ Shadow famously called this “hairy forearm disco,” and while I’m not sure how much of that has to do with the album cover, it definitely fits the warped, wonderful, pervy weirdness that Jonny Trunk calls “walking a strange line between the asylum and the dance floor.” Ranging from the relentless, ten minute long title track of gnarly, psych-streaked lo-fi disco, to my favorite “I See Her,” which could easily pass for a forgotten Pet Sounds demo, to the closing five minutes of meandering slo-mo-funk and bird screech on “Jungle Talk,” this record has earned its cult following. Apparently this was a favorite of Doctor Demento. Big ups to the excellent Trunk Records for making this heavily sought-after record available to the masses.
Another one from the canon. Song Cycle is deranged. It riffs on all things Americana: gospel, bluegrass, orchestral ballads, folk, show tunes, marching bands, movie scores, ragtime, waltzes, girl groups, and pop rock, but it never settles into any of these shapes. People call it impenetrable, but I think it’s, ahem, too penetrable, too open and slippery and rife with forks in the road. It’s psychedelic insofar as every measure seems to want to tug away and break off into several different songs, leaving the listener in many places (and times!) all at once, volatile and hanging off of a musical precipice. It’s nauseating, beautiful, and a tiny bit misanthropic.
As a teenager, my first dozen listens left me unable to remember anything about what I had just listened to, what had just happened, and yet despite it being so elusive, you can’t stop listening, trying to grab hold of it. I’m sure this is a pretty typical response, and Parks himself sums it up best in this anecdote:
When I played the album for Joe Smith, the president of the label, there was a stunned silence. Joe looked up and said, “Song Cycle”? I said, “Yes,” and he said, “So, where are the songs?” And I knew that was the beginning of the end.
A massively expensive commercial flop, the record was originally supposed to be entitled Looney Tunes, and it does feel cartoonish and larger than life. Most of it is accompanied by Parks’s reedy, androgynous vocals–he sounds like a jaded, aging chorus girl who’s smoked a few packs too many, singing sardonically to an empty theater. Clearly he’s amused by this whole thing. The opener, “Vine Street,” is Steve Young covering a Randy Newman song, and it fades in midway through the song and fades out before it’s finished. Track six, the cheekily titled “Van Dyke Parks,” is a minute long clip of a gospel hymnal, almost completely masked by what sounds like a helicopter making a water landing. The closer, “Pot Pourri” (probably another joke title, given that it’s the least hodgepodge track in the cycle), finds Parks alone with a piano, padded by a thick hiss of room tone, and the song doesn’t exactly end so much as stop–presumably leaving it open-ended and the cycle unbroken, ready for another go round.
Selda Bağcan got real big in the 70s as one of Turkey’s most well-known politically-minded musicians, and from what I understand, became somewhat of a household name. Her sound was a progressive wash of psychedelic guitar funk and angular synth heat, applied liberally to Turkish folk songs as scorching backdrops for her emotive, razor-sharp vocals and political critiques. Unsurprisingly, she was thrown in jail three times and was stripped of her passport, but was eventually freed and went on to tour extensively. She resurfaced again in 2006, when Finders Keepers reissued her self-titled LP with some previously unreleased tracks.
That’s when I first heard this record–my sister gave it to me, and it just about blew my 16-year-old brain open, since I didn’t have much of a grasp on the roots of psychedelic music, or what Turkey was. This record is a classic for many, so I hope this serves as a friendly reminder that it’s still bubbling hot (with the exception of string-infused weeper ballad “Dam Üstüne Çulserer,” flecked with fountain sounds and spiny percussives, which is more of a slow-burner). Note: I’m posting the original album, without the rerelease tracks and with the songs in a different order. It sounds better than ever, almost 40 years later. Enjoy!
Ooh boy yes. This record. These records. I’ve been jamming these albums for years, grinning whenever passing it onto folks, knowing I was passing along some transcendent holy grail to bring friends to the next level.
I downloaded this rip off of Mutant Sounds back in 2007 while depressed and studying abroad in Paris smoking entirely too much hash alone in my room and letting my hair grow out to the point where my host mother had our program supervisor sit me down and ask me if I was feeling depressed. I remember that the first night I listened to this was after I had my first experience buying hash from someone on the Seine River. French friends told me to just wait by the Seine and someone would come up and offer, so like a naive boy I waited at the river for 40 minutes until two guys walked up and asked ‘T’veux du shit?’ which basically means ‘u want sum weed?’ After I said yes one of the guys sat down next to me, looked all around, then took his left shoe off and put his hand in, pulling out a long, thin, lump of brown what? and showing it to me, asking for 20 euros. I had no idea what was going on but I handed him the 20 and then his friend came up and said ‘Fait-le payer trente!’ which was saying I should actually pay 30 for it. He backed away with the brown what? and my 20 euros demanding 10 more, which I readily and angrily supplied, sure I was getting duped and that it was bunk stuff I was buying. Turned out hash was good tho mmmmm
Dig in to this dynamic duo for a cosmic journey by Acid Mothers Temple members Higashi Hiroshi, Ayano, and Kawabata Makoto. 100 copies limited edition CDR. They proudly state on their website: “No synthesizer, no sampler, no programming, —– only guitars!!” so know you’re getting into some ‘legit’ vibes here. These Japanese psychedelia masterminds have shown me the way.
Black Devil’s Disco Club falls in the heavily mythologized, mysteriously resurrected music-of-nebulous-origin category, in the vein of Lewis or Charanjit Singh. Purportedly released in 1978 by Bernard Fevre under pseudonym “Junior Claristidge” (cool), Disco Club went completely unnoticed–was the world not ready for deep, dark, sublime disco hypnosis?–until Aphex Twin rereleased it on Rephlex Records in a series of 12″s in 2004, to the sound of critics tripping over themselves to make sweeping statements about this being one of the most important electronic records ever released, et cetera. The music was so ahead of its time both in structure and in production that many cried foul, suspecting an Aphex-Twin style hoax. Fairly so: I’m still skeptical of the release date every time I hear it. It’s too tasty, too prescient and too perfect.
All six of these tracks are similar in length and feeling, differing in a few BPM, shifting drum patterns, and vocal lines–but several of them move seamlessly between each other, making this a half hour disco meditation track rather than an album. You can hear “The Chase”-era Moroder all over this thing, but this is (dare I say it) less cheesy, slicker, and with a contagious, restless percussive spinal chord stretching throughout. So much dark Italo-style disco is trampled by heinous vocals, and gleefully so, but Disco Club‘s vocal treatment is restrained, effectively lyricless, and often totally absent, excepting a mantric chorus of skittering “dee-dee-doo-doo”s. Everything is exactly where it should be, fleshed out in high-resolution with heart-racing textures, laser-sharp synth pads, and thrilling percussive ornamentation. There’s a huge, dark, beastly thing throbbing just beneath the surface that never quite rears its head. The tension is there, simmering, and in hopes of exorcising it all you can do is hit repeat again and again.
