This music combines rainy days, lonely nights, and dreary winter mornings into one brilliant package. The music of Low is soft, plaintive, melancholy, desolate, and a tad disturbing. Sometimes it’s plodding, sometimes it just seems to flow, and the rest of the time, it just rings on and on. The most dominant instrument in Low’s sound is the bass; it adds to that “lowness” of the music, no pun intended. It just seems to weigh you down, like a thick, warm blanket. Meanwhile, the gentle, echoing guitar ring out into the silence. The striking, yet minimal percussion provides a stark contrast.

Everything about Low’s music screams “minimalism.” Low will not hesitate to play the same chiming note over and over, the beat unwavering, while the bass just flows on. At first, it’s easy to dismiss this approach with a flippant “anyone can play a single note for 5 minutes.” However, listen to Low’s music and you’ll see why it’s so successful.

The music just seems to meld together, with subtle changes as the reverberating notes combine and clash with eachother(“Lullaby”). At times, the approach reminds me of The Cure’s Faith. The result is far from boring; it’s wondrous and engaging, drawing you in as the music surrounds. The lyrics are very simple and stark, keeping in mood with the music.

Alan Sparhawk’s voice is hollow and worn, which fits perfectly with the conjured atmosphere. However, the true effect doesn’t hit you until his wife, Mimi Parker, joins in with her wispy, eerie voice. The full effect of their harmonies makes the music all the more powerful, especially on the opener “Words.”

I love listening to Low. I find it to be the perfect music for those lonely nights in my apartment, which are quite frequent. This music is perfect when you just want to be alone, the lights turned down, while the world rushes around you. This music is not for everyone, but provides a rewarding listen for those who are willing to hear.

This album is intensely both weird and cool. I own it, and listen to it over and over. It is not as good as “Gold” or “Americana,” SF59’s newer albums, but it still is extremely well-done. It has a noisy, distorted, space-rock kind of sound, like feedback-static buzz.  The rocking sounds of “Blue Collar Love” and “The Dungeon” are just awesome.

I can’t describe SF59’s sound in words, you HAVE to listen to it. It is like not very many other bands. Perhaps My Bloody Valentine or Morella’s Forest, but it is superbly unique. One of my favorite albums of all time. Jason Martin is a genius.

Written by Andrew Olson.

You’ll probably find “Propagation” in the “New Age” or “World” section of your local music store.  But mind you, “Propagation” is neither.  Although it has earmarks of those two amorphous genres, it is much much more.  But it’s not really ambient, either.  The music is not spacey or dreamy in the usual “ambient” way.  The songs on here are actual songs, with definite melodies and rhythms.  The beauty of this is that this album easily stands up to active listening, as well as serving as a sleeping and relaxation aid.  But it doesn’t mean they’re any less atmospheric or haunting.  The music of “Propagation” sounds as if it were recorded in ancient temples, buffeted by alien monsoons and overrun by rainforests.

Rich’s music is often dark and forboding, but it also sounds completely natural and familiar.  Part of that comes from the environmental recordings, called “glurp” by Rich, that are so prevalent throughout the album.  Sounding like a mixture of bodily sounds, primordial goop, and various bubbling and frothing matter, “glurp” flows through the music on here like a thick river, serving as organic, unifying element.

Throughout the music, flutes and guitars soar over dense electronics and complex rhythms, played on traditional forms of percussion.  These instruments achieve rhythms that no machine could ever duplicate.  The result is eerily organic, rising and falling in timbre and sound with fluid grace.  Fretless basses add a smooth, jazzy feel and Rich’s bank of synthesizers and samplers slowly unfold the atmospherics at just the right pace.

The album culminates in the 11-minute “Guilin”; a zither plays a seemingly random melody against a backdrop of organic sounds and electronics.  Slowly, one by one, various gongs begin to chime in.  With one deep, sonorous tone, everything coalesces together into a beautiful cascade.  The dancing rhythms of the gamelan are underscored by a mournful violin melody, forming an exotic dance that’s as sensual and mysterious as the concepts of life and procreation that Rich discusses in the liner notes.

The most distinctive and memorable thing about this release is Williams’ voice and lyrics.  Musically, the 3 songs hover around the periphery of industrial-tinged gothic rock.  Both “My first exposure to David E. Williams came in the venerable Soleilmoon catalog, comparing Williams to the likes of Douglas P (Death In June).  Now that I’ve heard Williams’ music, I can say that comparison is pretty accurate… if Douglas P were to pull that monkey out of his arse.

Like his other release, Hello Columbus, A House For The Dead And A Porch For The Dying is full of tales of misanthropy-as-love, twisted religious icons, and lyrical wit so sharp and pointed, you might get a papercut just opening the case.  And that’s all fine and dandy.  However, unlike, Hello Columbus, A House… is a full-length album of this stuff.

I like twisted lyrics and black humor as much as the next guy… which probably explains why I think the end of “A Boy And His Dog” is one of the most perversely genius moments in cinematic history.  But for all of his plays on words and clever rhymes, Williams seems to be too clever.  And I can only listen to so much of the album before becoming sick—not because of the rich decadence of Williams’ songwritings—but that it’s just laid on so thick.  After awhile, dark and twisted humor loses its punch and flavor and becomes, well, just dark and twisted.

I can only take so much of songs about dead mothers (“Shadowy Lesbian Photograph”), incest (“Widower”), and bitter lovesongs so vengeful as to be cruel (“In Sickness And In Sickness” and “Severed Hand Holding Daisies”).  After awhile, you just want to hear a sweet little lovesong where everything works out between the boy and girl, without him turning into a “Prince of Fiends” and her into a “prostitute who somewhat resembled a kidney.”

I liken it to a David Lynch film.  Lord knows they’re as bizarre and freakish as all get-out, but there’s always a few moments that get you grinning, that let you know there’s a cleverness going on.  And I catch glimpses of that on songs like “Little Sap And Varicose.”  And to his credit, as much as Williams writes about twisted (how many times have I used that word in this review), broken characters and the blasted world they inhabit, I don’t get the feeling that he’s doing so to be cruel or shocking, no matter how much his lyrics reflect that.  It almost seems comical, in a Mervyn Peake sort of way.  Still, I’m afraid to ask where Williams gets his inspiration.

As with Hello Columbus, if you’re of a sensitive disposition, you won’t like this album.  Trust me.  And even if you have a thick skin, some of the imagery is still quite, ah, disturbing.  Even musically, with Williams’ booming, drunken sailor vocals over heavy electronics, post-punk guitars, and a curious pop sense, it’s a bit much to take in.  If anything, I do enjoy the fact that even as his album is bound to labelled gothic, Williams skirts that genre in a way that’s much more lyrical and witty than the normal stereotypes associated with the genre.

I just wish I didn’t get a queasy stomach listening to the whole thing. Columbus” and “Listen Somewhat Awkward” range from harsh noise and programmed drums to intense synth dirges and piano melodies.  The oddball track, “Not A Gear At All” (which is the best track on here), sounds like what The Cure had hoped to accomplish on their disappointing “Wild Mood Swings,” with it’s playfully melancholy keyboards and synth strings.

But like I said, it’s the voice and lyrics that really stick out in my mind.  Vocally, Williams sounds like an odd cross between Tom Waits, Nick Cave, and Brian Healy, if the three of them got drunk together and started singing on the bar.  His voice is often rough and slurred, but the rawness does add a certain impact that’s hard to ignore, and at times, seems quite at odds with the musical proceedings (especially on “Not A Gear At All”).

The images that Williams convey describe the typical sentiments of skewed love and broken relationships in often bizarre and groteseque imagery.  It’s been some time since I’ve heard lyrics that really stick with me, but it’s hard to forget lines like “your meal was manufactured just to stain my dish/socks hang from the shower rod like sad white fish” or “if I am Christlike in my magnaminity, will it be Magdelenean what she gives to me?”  Sometimes the lyrics are in danger of going to close to the dreaded “goth cliche,” but Williams is always ready with some sort of verbal or poetic twist that’s as clever as it is disturbing.

Although sometimes Williams’ songwriting seems near-mysognistic on the surface, in actuality the songs reveal a sense of pathos and self-loathing that more than make up for any perceived sexism.  Even when he describes the worst kind of domination and control, the words and images he use reveal the pitiful nature of said activities.  Call it brilliant, call it wrong, but it will certainly cause listeners with a more delicate palate some pause.

With only 3 songs, this is probably not the best introduction you could get to Williams’ music.  However, if you’re really in need of music that combines equal elements of older goth and industrial, with a healthy dollop of blackened wit and humor, I’m hard-pressed to think of anything close to Williams.

There was a time, long ago, when I was really into industrial music.  Well, maybe “really” is too strong a term to use, but I dug it quite a bit.  Stuff like Circle of Dust, Brainchild, globalWAVEsystem, and Under Midnight.  Then I saw some ads for this album, by a band I’d never heard of or read about.  It piqued my curiosity, especially because it was on REX Records, who at the time was releasing some pretty intense stuff.  I ended up not getting it until some time later, and it’s probably a good thing.  Although released as an “industrial” album, this doesn’t fit easily into any of the earmarks of the genre.

If anything, this a pop album gone horribly wrong.  The melodies and vocal harmonies are there, and are incredibly infectious, but they’re buried under layers of feedback and distortion.  I get the feeling the lyrics are full of twisted, biting humor—if only I could understand them.  The primary duo behind the band are former members of Steve Taylor’s band Chagall Guevarra, and there’s rumors that Taylor had a role, which would explain that wierd vibe this album has.

The best example of this is the album’s 10 minute finale, “The Dr. Is In (Or How I Learned To Worry And Star Missing The Cold War)” which, if you couldn’t tell, samples heavily from “Dr. Strangelove”.  Veering from Prince-inspired grooves and funky guitar flourishes to bone-crushing rhythms and tortured vocals, it’s easily the best song on here.  Of all the “industrial” albums I’ve bought, this one’s held the most interest for me, simply because it’s so different.  How often can you say that?

Raison d’Etre is another one of those bands that I’ve been meaning to listen to for some time.  My first knowledge of Raison d’Etre came from the old CMI homepage.  While going through there, I cam upon the description of Raison d’Etre, which mentioned that it was the perfect music to listen to in haunted monasteries and abandoned factories.  How could I not be interested?

There’s a pretty interesting mix of styles on this album.  There are sombre, forboding synth melodies oozing in and out of every part of this CD - this is the dominant instrumentation.  Raison d’Etre also uses the ever-popular monk chants in a pretty noticeable as well, creating a definite mood here.  But other noises appear as well, mechanical semi-harsh noises that wouldn’t sound so bizarre coming from labelmates Mental Destruction.  Ethnic tribal flutes and percussion also chime in, adding to the organic nature of this work.

The album starts off, appropriately enough, with “The Awakening.”  Flowing water slowly gives way to chimes, bells, and flutes and then surfaces again.  The dark synthwork that dominates this album sweeps across the whole piece.  Perhaps a soundtrack to a Tibetan monastery?  The synthwork certainly conjures up images of Tibetan monks going about their chants.  I’m soaring through the Tibetan highlands, to forbidden and exotic locales.  The entire piece has a very calm, contemplative sense about it, somewhat preparing you for what it to come.

Then from the calm into the storm.  “Spire Of Withhold” is very dark and abrupt as compared to the previous track.  Monk chants are used quite a bit, but they’re European.  The whole piece has a sense of urgency and apprehension about it as haunting.  This mood carries over into “In Loneliness.”  A single soaring chant is punctuated by chimes and gives way to subtle, ominous windswept synths.  The single monk’s voice chanting “alleluia” slowly fades away.  “Soprhosyne” has this feel as well, and is probably my favorite track.  Monk chants mix in with crystalline chimes and bells as soft, melancholy synthwork slowly filters through.  Something to listen to while watching the sun stream in through the stained glass windows.

The album ends with “Pathaway,” an expansive track that starts out with muffled rumblings and subterranean noises.  The cold winds blow and rattle around.  The synthwork gently asserts itself at first and then just surrounds you in sorrow and melancholy.  Suddenly you’re in the middle of a rainy day.  The track greatly reminds me of some of the songs on Hilmar Orn Hilmarsson’s excellent “Children of Nature” soundtrack.

Is this album dark?  Yes, very dark.  But it has a very natural feel to it.  Rather than trying to conjure up fears of the unknown or dark terrors lurking in some hidden part of the universe, like Lustmord, Raison d’Etre conjures up an almost darkly religious sense.  There’s an interesting mix of eastern and western sounds on here, adding a very ethnic feel to it.  The sounds complement eachother fairly well.  Any fans of the whole darkwave/gothic genre will do themselves well to check out this release.  Not something I’ll listen to at every waking moment, but definitely a mood piece, but one that evokes a sense of power and majesty amidst sorrow.

Although I’ve known about this album for a long time, it’s only been recently that I was able to acquire it. And I’ve found this to be one of the more compelling releases that I’ve recently purchased.  What Lucid is able to do in the 75 minutes of this CD is create some of most interesting experimental ambience I’ve ever heard.  Distant radio transmissions combine with the creakings and groanings of old ships, spacey strings and bells compete with baby-like voices, and ghostly rhythms provide an undercurrent for a very spooky, yet comforting collection of songs.

Of everything I own, I could most easily compare this to His Name Is Alive’s “Home Is In Your Head.” However, Lucid completely latches onto the experimental side of HNIA’s interesting blend of experimental noise and pop music. At times, I hear Lovesliescrushing at their mellowest and most distant times, or Flying Saucer Attacks less noisy meanderings. However, Lucid really has a sound all their own, and they use everything, including the kitchen sink and the dirty dishes inside, for their compositions. There’s a minimalist ethic here, but one that’s weaved so deftly that it’s hardly noticeable; in other words, a lot happens within the music here, but it’s so quiet and understated that if you aren’t paying attention, you’ll miss it. It’s not uncommon to hear samples of songbirds and what sounds like pedestrians and passing traffic mixed in with soft acoustic guitars, electronics, and sparse drumbeats.  There are so many sounds present on this recording, and many that I can’t even begin to identify. And everything is covered in echo and reverb and other effects to give it a very distant, intangible, and spectral sense.

Above it all glides the voices. Two female vocalists are credited, Rebecca Bird and Melody Rockwell. Their vocals are delivered in soft, haunting whispers that are echoed and fuzzed out until they sound like distant A.M. radio transmissions coming in at 2:30 in the morning. Or maybe like the ghosts in your house trying to communicate with you through an ancient victrola. The effect is often quite unsettling, like on “Doomedah,” where the vocalist softly repeats that word over songbirds and distant churchbells.  But I don’t find it displeasing at all. In fact, it also sounds quite comforting.

This album hints at the point where you lie between sleeping and waking, where you can just start to sense the real world, but where you’re still aware of the subconscious goings-on of your mind. Lucid’s music doesn’t seem to paint any pictures of the real world, but rather pictures of that world while your still half-asleep and of your dreams as they slowly fade away in the minutes after waking up. Song titles like “Of The Miniscule Incubus,” “Mine On I And Mirror The Of Side Your On You,” “Bend And Wither Like A Flame,” and “Entrust Not In The Illusory” just add to this flavor.

At 31 tracks and almost 75 minutes of material, there’s bound to be some less than stellar material that bogs one down, but the interest I had in this album far outweighs any downside. With each track clocking in under 4 minutes, the album seems composed of fragments, mere pieces of songs, often too short for you to latch onto. Sometimes the songs cut short too suddenly, it seems. Other times, they seem to drag on forever. If you don’t like experimental music or music that shuns your regular pop music mindsets, stay faraway from this album. “Baby Labyrinthian” is an incredible example of using environmental recordings, traditional instruments, electronics, and the human voice to create illusory and dreamy recordings. This is an album that I expect I’ll be scrutinizing for some time to come.

The worst period of my life occurred during the summer of 1996.  My roommate had just gotten married and moved out, so I was living by myself.  All of my friends were gone on various vacations and trips.  I had just broken up with the girl that, at one time, I was sure I was going to marry.  I had just started a new job, but was still so poor that my food for the day consisted of a bag of chips and a can of pop for lunch and a grilled cheese sandwich or pancakes for dinner.  I spent my free time in the computer labs on campus, reading Michael Moorcock, Albert Camus, and H.P. Lovecraft, or listening to music.  I had a phone that never rang and no television.  And when I stayed up late during the humid nights sweating through every pore imaginable, staring at my sterile, white walls, I was certain I was about to go insane.

But it was during this time that I made one of the greatest musical discoveries of my life.  I scrimped together enough money to purchase Low’s “I Could Live In Hope” and listening to it was like listening to the angels themselves.  I can still feel the first shiver I got listening to Mimi and Alan’s voices merge in beautiful harmony, and somehow everything was okay.  It was also during this time that I saw a used copy of Codeine’s “The White Birch” in a used record store.  I knew that they inhabited the same musical terrain as Low, but never got around to buying it at that time.

Listening to “The White Birch” now, I’m glad I didn’t pick it up then.  “I Could Live In Hope” eased my loneliness.  “The White Birch” would’ve pushed me over the edge.  Here is an album so devoid of any sense of triumph or victory.  It’s as spartan and sparse as they come.  Although you can draw comparisons to Low, due to the basic slowcore nature of the music, Codeine’s music is sterile and austere like a cold concrete room lit by a single flourescent light.  Stephen Immerwahr’s vocals are weary and frayed, like an old sweater that’s seen one too many winters.  And though the music moves at a drifting pace, anchored by Douglas Scharin’s drums, John Engle will ocassionally drive the song home with chords that rip from his guitar like the cold winter wind that cut through the scarf I wore as I walked to work in the middle of January.

But it’s not this sense of barrenness that ultimately turns me off.  It’s the fact that the band sounds so bored while playing it.  It’s possible to create music that is cold and foreboding, and yet still produce quiet moments of beauty.  Check out Low’s “Songs For A Dead Pilot” or even The Cure’s “Faith” and “Seventeen Seconds”.  Those are, without a doubt, some of the most depressing and stark albums I’ve ever heard, and yet they’re rife with moments of reflective beauty.

“The White Birch” is as plain as its name suggests.  Picture a wintry landscape several days after the snow has fallen.  Cars have reduced the snow to dull grey mountains of slush, people trudge outside with their heads bent down against the wind, and the sky is reduced to greyscale.  I’ve been in a place like that, physically and emotionally, and though it made me stronger as an individual, it’s not a place I want to visit with much frequency.  However, “The White Birch” seems stuck there, either unwilling to leave or unable to believe that there’s a way out.