The sophomore record from Germany’s Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble did not receive much press stateside on its release, but its ominously toned, slow-burning post-jazz indelibly burrowed itself into the psyche of the few brave North Americans willing to venture its uncertain shores. The title of Here Be Dragons literally means dangerous or unexplored territories, in reference to the placing of mythological creatures in blank areas of medieval maps. Certainly, the record captures that sense of taking bold chances in the name of progress and discovery, albeit in the realm of music. From its roots as the duo of electronic manipulator Jason “Bong-Ra” Köhnen and drummer Gideon Kiers, TKDE has since expanded to a seven-piece collective. Naturally, their recordings have come to reflect this, as the comparatively obvious sound of their 2005 debut has developed into a supremely textured, vividly cinematic tour de force. Here Be Dragons is an intelligent and nuanced record, full of swells and sighs, utterly epic yet incalculably subtle, existing somewhere between keen, intuitive live improvisation and the best-laid plans of mad scientists. Experimental music is rarely this consistently captivating.
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About three seconds into Monoliths and Dimensions you know exactly what you’re getting into. Well, maybe not exactly, but I would guess most listeners have decided within a minute if this album is for them. The opening “riff”—a bass note so low and with so much feedback it’s origin could be Cthulu itself—drones on for longer than most pop songs. The vocals (however sparse) are from a man possessed, guttural and foreign and terrifying. Even seemingly innocent instruments like the trombone are warped and twisted into a nightmarish audio assault. But unlike most metal, this album’s slow burn—no more than a candle flickering on a dark horizon—will drown you under it’s weight. Four songs. 53 minutes. Only one track (just barely) under the 10-minute mark. This is an album that locks you up and throws away the key.
Townes is arguably the quintessential Americana album. Townes Van Zandt is Americana—not the culture industry’s Statuettes of Liberty and Fourth of July parades, but its people, especially its millions of restless outcasts. His songs conjure a culture’s icons: forlorn Edward Hopper loners, restless Melvillean vagabonds, and downcast Bukowskian couples. They often cite the geography to which they belong and are fleeing, from Texas and New Mexico to Cleveland and Greensboro. Their melodies and rhythms are as plucky as they are distraught. Americana is Steve Earle, too: an ex-con and an ex-junkie; an anti-death penalty, anti-landmine, and anti-war activist; an actor, writer, and singer. And Townes Van Zandt, dead in 1997, was Earle’s close friend. This album is a musical eulogy from one great U.S. singer-songwriter to another. It’s partly Van Zandt in his own words—his recurrent bewilderment with the universe and his small but surprisingly sustainable consolations in highways, smiles, wine, and one-night-stands. Yet it subtly interprets, expands, and salutes its subject through Earle’s signature scruff vocals, familiar repertoire of arrangements, and excellent vocal contributions from Justin Townes Earle, Tom Morello, and Allison Moorer.
2009 was no slouch year for Raster-Noton, with excellent releases from label stalwart Alva Noto and Atom™’s (satirically) pretentious tribute to German electronic music. Best of them all was SND’s comeback album, Atavism, in which the glitch duo posed the question: just how minimal can minimal techno get and still be groovy? The answer, as it turns out, involves stripping away the reverb and percussive detritus that often marks the genre, instead focusing solely on a drastically limited palette of harshly digital sounds. Yet from this small bag of pads, kicks, and other hits, SND produced an album that becomes undeniably infectious through its obsessive repetitions. These 16 untitled tracks are the cleanest, sharpest edges in any electronic music ostensibly for dancing—everything has been sanitized and computer-sequenced. But, to paraphrase Carl Craig’s reaction to the similarly stark Kraftwerk, this is so stiff that it’s funky.
A considerable part of Serengeti’s outsider appeal has always been his choice of subject matter that exists under, or completely beyond, other rappers’ radars. It therefore seems fitting that Terradactyl achieves such excellence through using “off the grid” living as a creative premise. To execute the concept, Serengeti is joined again by Don’t Give Up collaborator Polyphonic, and the mixture of lyrical and musical/production chops is even more successful and cohesive this time around. A rarity like Terradactyl is especially precious at a point when the evolution of so-called underground hip-hop has resulted in a surfeit of rhymers saying nothing meaningful over quirky, lifeless beats. Beyond its superiority within the genre (and Anticon’s quality dominance in general), Terradactyl is significant for the many sociopolitical realities it reflects. Bearing the insight and expressive sweep of a city symphony documentary, the album is the year’s best use of hip-hop as a means of reflexive sociology, with Polyphonic’s production offering surprises around every corner of Seregeti’s vividly realized lyrical landscape.