An Acute Case: 26 August 2022

(It's My) Life during wartime

070 Shake: You Can't Kill Me
Fluent in the beatwise grandiloquence developed by her label founder, the constituent parts of these richly textured sonic statements could do with something more than generalised depressiveness to help them converge into songs. * (‘Come Back Home’)

Brasil Novo
Afro-Brazilian deep cuts from two well-intentioned London DJs turned curators. Of special interest to those tracing the development of Samba de Coco over the last fifteen years. Of slightly less special interest to those who like their background music with a wiggle. * (‘Opanije Xaxará’)

Chronophage: Chronophage
Belonging to a genre known as "crust" (which doesn’t sound remotely like it should) these eleven bric-a-brac songs start in bits but fall together often enough that their ambivalence to structure must be a feint. Just to make sure you know they know what they’re doing, they throw in a few that stay in one piece for the duration. The thin recording quality is an avoidable flaw. Or maybe that's just crust. * (‘Black Clouds’)

Kabza de Small and DJ Maphorisa: Scorpion Kings (2019)
Amapiano is the South African version of deep house characterised by loungey syncopation and FL Studio-enabled “log drums”. de Small is one of its pioneers, Maphorisa a slightly less consequential producer. This was their first hook-up. Opening one-two’s whatever comes between holiday languor and actually falling asleep in the pool. Then comes ‘uDriver’, which surges into life midway through with a throbbing bassline. That energy continues into the more trad ‘Dubai’, then eases off for the title track, a pattern—not especially pronounced because few things here are—that repeats for a further hour of rangy dance music that prizes expanse over destination and possibility over purpose. From what I can tell, that’s standard Amapiano. So are runtimes upwards of six minutes. Consequently, you might catch yourself wanting more purpose, which I expect will be right around the time the Scorpion Kings spring their next surprise, whether foghorn, computer glitch, drum freakout, pan pipe, farty synth, or disembodied vocal from one of their many guests. Because they offer their peculiar drum patterns with a shrug, you might also catch yourself taking them for granted. So make a note not to and stick it on whatever gadget you use to play music. Rhythms like these don't come round often. A MINUS

Kabza de Small, DJ Maphorisa, TRESOR: Rumble in the Jungle (2021)
Log drums still loggy only now they’re treated with an oiliness that’s simpatico with the addition of a euphonic lead singer. As the Scorpion Kings border on amelodic, introducing a walking topline like Tresor Riziki was a risk, with all but the three-song run starting with ‘Angelina’ originating with his vocals. While pathos is his bread and butter—when he gets worked up, he sounds positively bereft—I’m not gonna shout about emotional resonance. Like the beats, his performance is texturally and substantively cosmetic, so you’ll welcome the faint gristle in his lower register which keeps him sounding human. Plenty of the lyrics are in English, but besides an opener that hints at a backstory that goes “teenage Congolese orphan scrapes a living in Durban” they’re mostly about heartbreak and not worth listening to for the words half as much as for his power and grace. When that doesn’t hold your attention (the second half) the push/pull of airy synths and tight, gateless drums will. This could be gilding the Amapiano lily doesn’t need, but in small doses (just joking—it’s an hour and three quarters) there’s something to be said for beauty for beauty’s sake. B PLUS

Drive-By Truckers: Welcome to Club XIII
After twenty-five years as a professional rock and roll outfit, the Truckers present their survey of self-destructive zones seen and survived. Starts with a Honda full of girls stuck up a tree and Klansmen standing by a flaming dumpster. Moves through drug casualties and the band’s funny-only-in-retrospect mismatch with an unreceptive hair metal audience at the only venue that’d give them a gig in the early days. Closes with dumbstruck disbelief that they’re still standing, even if “there is no comfort in survival but it's still the best option that I've found.” As Mike Cooley’s rambles are knottier than Patterson Hood’s epiphanies, his gift for titling comes in handy—the phrase “Maria’s Awful Disclosures” is just about brilliant enough to make sense of that particular narrative. The longer cuts contain some of their best sound-scaping, led by lyrical guitars and one-step-at-a-time bass. Gauzy backing vocals from Margo Price and Schaefer Llana add the daydream textures Hood and Cooley’s earth-bound voices can’t. Assessments are made: “It’s the season of our discontent.” Thanks are given: “It’s a miracle that you’re still walking.” Wisdom is shared: “Everybody needs a friend. Everybody needs a fuck.” A MINUS

S.G. Goodman: Teeth Marks
Smart and tender folkie leans heavily on warbly vocal mannerism and more reverb than you might expect? “Little Thief” would be dismissive, which is not how I feel when she’s rocking out but is how I feel when she goes a cappella. So let’s go with “Little Big Thief”. ** (‘Work Until I Die’)

David Murray Brave New World Trio with Brad Jones and Hamid Drake: Seriana Promethea
Mostly the sound of one sax laughing, though Brad Jones and Hamid Drake chip in with a few jokes of their own. After starting with Murray's best new melodies, it finishes with a cover of Sly's 'If You Want Me To Stay', which they play straight because why would you do anything else. In between, they lose more tunes than they find, but the search swings anyway. *** (‘Seriana Promethea’)

Selo i Ludy: Bunch One (2019)
Slim run-time aside, I suspect this is what Eugene Hutz had in mind when, apropos American weddings, he asked "Where are the musicians that last three days?” And with hundreds of not-this-one-agains still to cover, I bet these Ukrainian dervishes would do the full 72 hours if you paid whatever multiple of the $1,500 fee listed on Gigheaven it'd cost. And, you know, got them out of the country. Like Hutz, they only know fast and faster, which may be why half their picks have a distinctly metallic taste: AC/DC, Alice Cooper, and two (!) Rammsteins. Because those aren’t ready-made wedding playlist fodder, half the thrill is hearing them turned into it. Just see how quickly granny hits the floor once ‘Du Hast’ has been given the antic accordion and balalaika treatment. The half that aren’t headbangers turned into cornball are cornball turned into headbangers, and thanks to guttural frontman Alexander Goncharov’s unending exuberance, both are nothing less than a hoot. If cornball puts you off, consider this a wartime win for poptimism the poptimists will ignore, despite the lagniappes dotted throughout—some named, like ‘Sweet Seven Nation Dreams”, some unnamed, like ‘Forever Young’ rearing its head at the end of ‘Take Me On’. A

Tank and The Bangas: Red Balloon
In her attempts to emulate the generational reach of hero Stevie, Tarriona “Tank” Ball recalls nothing as much as a children’s entertainer. Her all-rounder skillset includes cartoon rap, soaraway soul, and poetry slam earnestness. As the loose framework here is a ‘TATB TV’ channel complete with ads, continuity announcements, and a Questlove endorsement, it’s clearly a look she’s cultivated. The effort behind her effortlessness shows the longer she sticks at one bit, which is rarely two songs in a row and often not even a whole one. But as much as I love her changeability on, say, ‘Oak Tree’—which mixes Noname’s hopscotching flow with Lil Wayne’s cadences before dropping down to the quiet mat for a sing-song hook—I’m pleased to report that when she commits to one style, like the full-on gospel-soul of ‘Communion In My Cup’, or the mortality pensée that closes a second too beholden to Fulfillingness’ First Finale, the groove is sustained, even if you can see her sweat beading. Following her slip-sliding moods wherever they take her, Joshua Johnson's breezy drums keep her from overheating, with extra ventilation provided by clicks, whistles, recorders, and plenty of brass—anything that swings. Coming out of New Orleans, I expect nothing less. And if you’re wondering what’s making Tank so restive—same thing as you: "I wake up early in the morning / Hot from global warming." A MINUS