Severed Heads - Cuisine (1991)

 

Back in the late eighteenth century when I took to recording my own music by bouncing tracks from one wax cylinder to another, I had a vision of perfect pop music recorded by unorthodox means, which is probably why I couldn't pay people to listen to my stuff. It was partially inspired by the first two Eno solo albums being so beautifully infectious as to make the Beach Boys sound like that album Lou Reed made with his washing machine, yet with the sort of weird depth you'd find in a decent novel or painting; and by depth I don't mean the cobblers usually qualified as deep - mathematical musicianship, references to Tolkien, and anything else that sounds great when you partake, if you know what I'm sayin', man. The eighties explosion of bands who read books and played synths suggested that maybe I wasn't the only one to have the same idea; and then when I eventually stumbled across a copy of the Severed Heads' Rotund For Success, leading to my immediately buying every record I could find by them, I recognised something seemingly akin to what I'd been trying to do except about a million times better because it worked. I've never trusted anyone whose entire identity is their love of some band, but for a couple of years at least that could have been me with the Severed Heads.

Cuisine came out, which was exciting until I realised there was to be no vinyl release. I'd assumed those fancy new compact discs were some audiophile deal limited to mostly classical material, and we'd otherwise be carrying on as normal. Puzzling sightings of CDs by Kylie Minogue and Chas & Dave gave me cause to wonder if maybe I had it all wrong, and then suddenly no fucker was buying vinyl apart from me. I didn't know what to do. Foetus released a couple of CD only albums and my enthusiasm began to wither until, a couple of years later, my friend Eddy got so bored of my whining about there being nothing on vinyl that he gave me his old CD player. The idea took some getting used to but I eventually tracked down a copy of Cuisine in an effort to get with the programme. It was good but the moment had gone, like some weirdly uncomfortable interaction with an ex-lover. Of course, I eventually got over it when I discovered the Discman, even though my listening habits had wandered off in another direction by that point.

Thirty-five years later and we have Cuisine on vinyl as nature intended at long fucking last, and somehow it sounds like I'm hearing it for the first time, as the successor to Rotund for Success rather than merely some other stuff they did. I'm not sure I ever bought the idea of CD being necessarily superior to vinyl, nor the one about vinyl being somehow warmer or summink, but Jesus fuck! this record packs a punch of which I was somehow unaware. Severed Heads make sonic technological precision sound as human as even the most ruthlessly authentic blues guitarist captured with the sound of someone frying chips next to the microphone. It's what they do with the technology - deep intestinal bass, heartbeat percussion, and tunes which manage to feel both rapturous and traumatic at the same time. Emotionally, it's a rollercoaster - if you'll pardon my borrowing a phrase from persons who describe things as rollercoasters: the peaks and troughs of an overwrought teenager on some bipolar jag with plaintive lyrics bordering on Dadaism. A good Severed Heads record will make you feel great and tear your heart out at the same time, and this one is no exception because there's no such thing as a bad Severed Heads record - nothing they ever released has left room for improvement.

I know the above reads as self-indulgent hyperbole. These are just the words that came out when I sat down to listen to this album. The short version is that Cuisine is fucking great and you probably need to hear it.

Cloth Ear - 一 (yī) (2026)

 

I assume this to be the work of Peter Hope, it having been hustled forth by Wrong Revolution, but I'm otherwise mostly in the dark given the lack of information on either cover or Bandcamp page. It could be the first album from his milkman for all I know, but let's assume it's the man himself, being consistent with Hope's sonic aesthetic which allows for noise, distortion, and things occasionally sounding like they were captured on a mono-portable tape recorder in 1974 - allows for without it being the entire point such as you tend to find with young bearded men who curate things involving 'vinyls' in coffee bars. Instruments feature, or at least there's a guitar providing scraping noises, meandering bass notes on some kind of primitive synth, percussive sounds which are probably cardboard boxes and bits of wood, and everything dominated by a delay, possibly a WEM Copycat by the sound of it. It chugs, whines, hisses, screams, drifts from place to place, and what we lack in anything you'd call a tune or even a groove is compensated by the slow repeat and decay through a dirty echo box; so it becomes hypnotic and absorbing fairly soon. I don't detect any significant element of nostalgia, but the mains hum, technology, and general mood hark back to those brief seven or eight months before anyone described anything as industrial, and all we had were rehearsal tapes of Throbbing Gristle, Cabaret Voltaire, Deviation Social and hardly anyone else; and we didn't really know what the hell it was except that we liked it. The repetition of the delay is what makes sense of this material as something powerfully musical and after a few plays you begin to anticipate certain sounds and noises just as you'd anticipate the chorus of something more obviously structured.

It wasn't that I didn't have expectations of this album but I didn't have any idea what it was, relying on the House of Hope to come through with the goods as usual; as indeed it has, and this may even be my favourite Wrong Revolution release, or at least it's up there with the best.

ABK - Hatchet Warrior (2003)

 

Here's a late submission because I assumed I'd already written about it on the basis of its top shelf status. ABK, or Anybody Killa, was an affiliate of the Insane Clown Posse and this was his first album released through their Psychopathic label. Anyone already rolling their eyes should probably fuck off now.

Those rolling their eyes were most likely doing so due to the Juggalo association. Juggalos dress as nightmare versions of circus clowns and make regular pilgrimages to massive events, mostly ignored by mainstream media, drawn by the music of ICP and others which might be characterised as gangsta rap with custard pies. I'm not into clown paint, tattoos, piercings, or stage diving, but the Juggalos strike me as one of the few youth adjacent music based movements which isn't full of shit, which has never pretended to be anything it wasn't, and which truly looks after its own. The cool kids never liked Juggalos, but then once you get past the award-winning haircuts, the cool kids are nearly always arseholes.

ABK ticks a few of the familiar Juggalo boxes, notably the slapstick horrorcore and ghetto testimony, but on his own terms with his own unique voice and take with the added perspective of his Native American heritage; and if there's a cartoon element, as with many Psychopathic releases, it takes a back seat - or is at least riding shotgun, I suppose. The music, mostly produced by Mike P, is  flawless, banging hard and funky with one foot in Parliament, one in the boom-bap New York sound, and with a third mutant foot (possibly where a hand should be) tippy-tapping across genres ranging from the obvious rap-metal to Native chants without ever quite being just one thing; so it all sounds like it should be familiar except it kind of isn't. ABK tells stories, cracks jokes, and delivers an emotionally powerful account of life as was in 2003 with all the obligatory references to mucho screwing and smoking oneself into a coma, yet without turning it into one of those stoner rap deals drawing from Bill and Ted's Unwatchable Adventure more than anything which ever attached a turntable to a light pole in the park; and whatever you may think of his testimony, it feels real and from the heart; and regarding ABK's credentials here, it's telling that no lesser authority than Paris drops a blistering verse on Ghetto Neighbor. The album is loosely pinned together with references to Walter Hill's Warriors of 1979, which has become a common fixation in hip-hop, but it's done exceptionally well here, fitting dialogue to tracks with what feels like a certain logic even if it's not always obvious what that is, then ending with a faithfully anthemic rendition of Joe Walsh's In the City as closing credits - which could have gone so wrong but is a triumph on all counts.

Whine all you like, clutch those Quest albums until they snap in two, but this was a rap milestone even if you were too important to listen. It's an album that does you good, like a full meal on an empty stomach. Whoop fuckin' whoop!

Northstar (2004)

 

As usual, I'm late to the show and since recording this debut album, one of them is dead while the other lives on despite having chopped off his own penis during a failed suicide attempt, so I think I'll pretend it's still 2004 for the next couple of paragraphs if that's okay with the rest of you.

Northstar were one of a couple of west-coast acts incorporated in the Wu-Tang's extended family alongside Royal Fam, Shyheim, Killarmy and all of those guys. I first noticed them stood heads above the rest on the Ghost Dog soundtrack, then making similarly outstanding showings on other Wu-related compilations. Suddenly, a mere quarter of a century later, I rushed out and bagged me their debut album and here we are.

More than anything, Northstar have always stood out thanks to Christ Bearer, one of those MCs you could never mistake for anyone else. There's a unique skip or twang to his delivery meaning he sounds like no-one else and you can't help but listen and be drawn in. It's the same deal as you get with Paris. Although rhythms and subjects may differ, it feels similarly urgent, even important. As a bicoastal fusion, this may seem like a bit of a novelty deal, but the blend works beautifully. Where the RZA produces, his beats are cleaner than usual, less cluttered, working well alongside other material, notably the magnificently cinematic Luv Allah from Armand van Helden. We have the sort of lyricism you'd expect from Wu-affiliates over a westerly version of the beats you'd anticipate, so maybe closer to the Alkaholiks than Westside Connection - not much gunplay but no backpacking either, and certainly no filler. It doesn't jump out of the player as an obvious classic album during the first couple of plays but after a week or so I'd rate this one as at least in the same ballpark as Tical or Supreme Clientele. Christ Bearer really seemed to be a unique voice, but Northstar would hold your attention even without his involvement. They should have been huge.

Mysterious Kitchens (1980)

 

More recently reissued on CD by Klang Galerie, Mysterious Kitchens was a Terse Tapes compilation cassette from way back in the depths of the Precambrian. Terse Tapes, as you will doubtless recall, was the Australian organ from which the mighty Severed Heads didst squirt forth. Featured artists include Pissy Relay Switches, the Nobodies, Wet Taxis, Mr + Mrs No Smoking Sign, Lamington Lady, Holiday Funn, and Mindless Delta Children amongst others. As you may have guessed from the fameproofing of the names in combination with this being a cassette from 1980, what we have are weird noises recorded on cheap equipment by a subs bench of about ten persons working in various combinations under different names. Mr + Mrs No Smoking Sign may be vaguely familiar as an early incarnation of the Severed Heads, which it is, although Tom Ellard and Garry Bradbury are each involved with half of the other named artists on Mysterious Kitchens so it's six of one, half dozen of the other, and Pissy Relay Switches actually sound closer to Clean or Ear Bitten. Standouts include the Nobodies, seemingly the only act failing to share its membership with anyone else from what I can tell, who fall marginally closer in sound to early Cabaret Voltaire or Devo, for want of a better comparison; also Garry Bradbury's Wet Taxis who notably managed something of a career beyond this compilation. Primitive rhythm boxes, cheap keyboards, tape loops, hiss, and one effects pedal between the lot of them accounts for the sound, generally speaking, although there's plenty of variation, with Tom Ellard's involvement betrayed by his luxurious Pre-Raphaelite melodies which sound gorgeous even when recorded on what may as well be one of those little plastic records you used to find in the back of your talking Action Man.

One for the kids there.

Mysterious Kitchens is rough as fuck but has a joyous peculiarity that elevates it way above the standard photocopied industrial collections of its day - closer in spirit to the Residents and their like than any of the Gristle bunch; and honestly it's a lot more fun and interesting than many of its more technologically adept successors.

+DOG+ - Rural Highway [After Hopper] (2025)

 

Even given the apparent limitations of noise, they continue to surprise. Here we have four tracks, two recorded live and two which sound as though they've been recorded live - live here implying someone in the audience with a tape recorder, so it has the ambience of something released on Broken Flag back in the day with none of the usual high definition clarity of oscillators suffering in some digital hellscape. The sound, as ever, is difficult to identify beyond the roar, aside from the element of workshop percussion, drums and cymbals going way beyond free jazz into the territory of someone hammering nails or taking a chisel to something on a lathe. This kind of noise has accrued such associations that one might assume something fucking appalling happened on this rural highway, but that's never what +DOG+ have been about, and being committed to a sort of pastoralism I have to conclude that this is presented as a different form of beauty. Not everything in nature is pretty or lends itself to sentiment, which isn't to say it's necessarily ugly either, and I suspect that may be what +DOG+ strive for unless I'm simply overthinking this one.

To take a massively self-indulgent digression in furtherance of my point, some years ago I made a wood frame to cover our garden pond so as to protect the plants and fish from raccoons at night, because nothing fucks up your garden pond like a raccoon. I made the frame by bending wood into a kidney shape and covering it with wire mesh. The frame has done well over the years but is now in such a state as to oblige me to construct a replacement. One problem I didn't foresee is a wooden structure built at one end, a sort of open-ended box which rests in and covers the water where there's no protective mesh and so allows frogs and toads to come and go, built deep enough to prevent raccoons reaching in and yanking out the plants, as they tend to do. This box structure, being partially submerged some of the time, had rotted free of where it was attached to the frame.

Bear with me. I'm getting there.

I took the structure out, this assemblage of rusted screws, algae, and wood eaten away by fish, snails, and insects. It was junk, but I'd put a lot of work into screwing and gluing the thing together and I couldn't quite bring myself to chuck it out. On close inspection I found the decay fascinating, quite beautiful in its own way, and so decided it was art. It's not quite a Dadaist readymade because I made the thing, but it comes close in spirit. I've churned out a great many paintings over the course of my existence, and even a few sculptures back in my twenties - or assemblages which I called sculptures - and it occurred to me that this belonged with them more than it belonged in the garbage. It's 13" x 10" x 4", made of wood, screws, and organic matter, and vaguely resembles a model of some primitive neolithic dwelling. The form speaks to me, although I'm not sure that what it says is worth writing down, and any future archaeologist digging it out from wherever it ends up will have no fucking clue why I assembled the thing and may even conclude that it's art. I'm not planning on exhibiting it, selling it, or even telling anyone about it beyond this paragraph, but there it is. I put it together and natural processes did the rest.

Returning to the point, whatever it is I see in this piece - which is how I'd refer to it if I took myself even more seriously - seems akin to what I hear in +DOG+, and particularly in this album  referencing the art of Edward Hopper. It's neither a flower nor a beautiful sunset. It's noise and decay and relics which have lost natural purpose over time, or patterns in bark, or a storm, or things found under rocks before we've given them meaning and declared them beautiful or otherwise. The noise, the howl, and the sonic scream is a celebration, not a herald of destruction, and this is in the ear of the beholder, just as it has always been. As a celebration, there's something very liberating about this noise, almost refreshing, even if not everyone is going to hear it.

We now return you to your normal programme.

Buy from Love Earth Music.

Laibach (1985)

 

Laibach's first album has recently been reissued in a box with all sorts of fancy extra stuff. Typically I finally found a decent quality copy that I could afford, or almost afford, about a month before anyone said anything about a reissue, but never mind. The pleasure of bagging this one is undiminished. While I can appreciate their more recent work, engaging with capitalism and consumerism using the same methods with which they once dissected totalitarian ideology (amongst other things) I still feel it steers too close to the wacky cover versions of the later Residents, at least for my tastes; and although Milan Fras growling be yourself brings me great pleasure, I remain drawn to the mystery of the earlier material from before the wall came down. I remain drawn to it because it's incredibly fucking powerful and I'm still trying to figure it out and whether or not this says anything unfortunate about me.

Thankfully, my recent reading of Alexei Monroe's Interrogation Machine has answered pretty much any question I had, additionally confirming that my questions inevitably arose as a result of not having been born in Slovenia and being largely ignorant of its history. Laibach are surprisingly straightforward once it's explained, as is their preference for ambiguity even where the ambiguity leads to disturbing conclusions such as maybe they really mean it; but this isn't a discussion which is served by reduction to soundbites or disclaimers so you'll just have to read the book if you care that much.

Laibach's initial musical campaign reveals common ground with Test Dept, 23 Skidoo and the like, founded in intense rhythms and the sort of manipulation of sound heard before anyone could afford a sampler. Rekapitulacija 1980-84, issued the same year, better represents their first formative steps, with this debut as an arguably transitional album - still with someone playing a bass guitar amid various electroacoustic sounds, but they're moving towards neoclassical bombast of the kind which inspired a thousand other marching up and down bands, few of whom managed anything more than a dubious karaoke turn. Laibach here recapitulate the sound and imagery of totalitarian power according to its own strengths, its ability to reach down to our most primal selves and grab them by the metaphorical bollocks, because this approach is arguably more effective - and less insulting to its audience - than mere parody, or Billy Bragg bravely punching a Nazi with one fist while giving us a comradely thumbs up with the other. Crucial to this is what is said, and whether this repetition of noise and light actively says anything at all, because much of the totalitarian rhetoric is stripped of its meaning, leaving no identification of scapegoats (a popular theme with ideological types), nor even anything more coherent than a nebulous hymn to some kind of progress couched in retrograde terms combining early modernism with the folk art so beloved of authoritarian regimes. Should anyone still be bothered by how any of this fits together, or unduly bothered, I'll close with an excerpt from Françoise Thom's Newspeak: The Language of Soviet Communism as quoted in the aforementioned Interrogation Machine.

Confronted by the terror of nothingness which ideology brings, man instinctively seeks refuge under the wing of some tyrant, unaware that in so doing he is handing himself over to the very thing he fears. Compared with sheer nothingness, tyranny always looks like the lesser evil.

Just keep thinking about it, if you're still not sure. I'd argue that Laibach create true art of tremendous intellectual and emotional force in summary of both the essence and the sheer scale of the problems of civilisation, and if you still get them confused with Skrewdriver or Ayn Rand or any other ideology driven shitbag, then you're almost certainly contributing to that problem. I'm not saying that this record will scare some sense into you, but it's probably a good place to start.