5599 is a new duo featuring France's electronic improvisation giant Jean-Marc Foussat on EMS Synthi AKS and current golden boy Augustin Brousseloux on electric guitar and alto saxophone. "Heureusement que le sang seche vite" features 3 tracks where guitar and saxophone interplay with analog synthesizer to create psychedelic, dense and textured soundscapes of aggressive noise onslaughts and moments of bliss.
Born in Oran (Algeria) in 1955, Jean-Marc Foussat played in several experimental rock groups before he started a career as a sound engineer in diverse studios which progressed towards recording live improvised music around 1979. He has collaborated with labels such as Incus, Hat Hut, Po-Torch, Rift, Rec Rec, and Celluloid where he recorded a number of songs for Bill Laswell's seminal Massacre on the album "Killing Time" in 1981.
In 1983, he self-released the groundbreaking "Abattage" which deserves its position on a pedestal amidst the greatest french improvisation records. Since the 1990s he returned to playing in improvisation groups such as Marteau Rouge, alongside Makoto Sato and Jean-Francois Pauvros, and Aliquid with Sylvain Guerineau.
Born in 1999, saxophonist and guitarist Augustin Brousseloux is a young prodigy currently storming the french improvisation underground. At the age of 16, he has already collaborated - live and on albums - with with heavyweights such as Noel Akchote, Costes and Jean-Marc Foussat.
Tracklisting: Side A: 1. Le bruit des tempêtes
Side B: 1. L’armoire est ouverte dans l’escalier 2. Heureusement que le sang sèche vite
New album by the much revered solo project of Gary Mundy (Ramleh / Broken Flag).
2 pieces of intense, emotional and purgative electronics miles away from audiophile realms. “Welcome to 2017. I’m laughing because I’m thinking of music and I’m thinking of death. Welcome to the Captagon, the room is dizzy and moving.
The DJ’s turntables are on fire and the heat hits me full on as I walk onto the dancefloor. Distorted sounds like the bass rumbles or high frequencies are moving from one wall to another, tracer fire and the screams of soldiers in makeshift cages. Perilous geography. Some coded references to sobbing teenagers on tape or scattered corpses in plazas.
I’m laughing because of what we all must look like. You perhaps with a biro scrawled note pinned to your chest. Not taped to the front of your shirt, but actually securely pinned to your flesh. Imagine us all like that. Not fucking photoshopped or some shit like that. Maybe a painting, with flames in the distance and the howling of the dogs. Can’t see in or out.
Fucked forever in mountains and cellars and attics and seas. Really don’t want to ruin the fun and generally I’m up for anything but this fucking shit cannot go on, can it?" Philip Best, Austin, Texas - USA - January 2017
"The inception of an audio trilogy concerning the Darkness of Aegypt: the shadow stuff from whence dark dreams come.
The Triad: dark, light and the animating serpent power are delineated by the Egyptian Gods Set, Horus and the Apep serpent. Volume one comprises of three received transmissions from the tunnels of Set via the physical envelopes of Matthew Bower and Samantha Davies operating as the occult cell known as Skullflower.
The working, the concept and guiding hand comes from Nashazphone, purveyors of artifacts, dreams and koans, who are currently re-creating and re-writing the myths and cycles of their native land." Matthew Bower & Samantha Davis, West Yorks, UK, Winter Solstice Evening 2016
"Seemingly tossed-off spontaneity is the intoxicant with which Alvarius B vs Abdel Baqy Byro in Cairo is heavily laced. This 39-minute lenticular collage recalls Tangier-era Burroughs in its concealment of structure behind a veneer of arbitrary free association, with Alvarius B. delivering his take on contemporary behavioral dementia in a style that veers from the nocturnal yammer of legendary somniloquist Dion McGregor to salty neo-Yossarian ravings to the casual vitriol of a misanthrope who knows he’s entertaining.
It’s the kind of trip a modern-day Slothrup might take after smoking polyester shrubbery and over-indulging in candiru sushi served by an erotic topiary gardener in exile for masturbating on the wall outside a 19th Century French orphanage — overseen by The Sinister Extemporizer himself, Alan Bishop.
It was recorded live all over Cairo (in cars, trains, apartments, garages, cafes, bars, on rooftops, on the street) with a backline that includes little else beyond an acoustic guitar and a radio. Field recordings, glitchy wheeze underpinnings, and snippets of space murble garnish the album, but site-specific stuffing is what gives this kataif its particular flavor: a rapped tribute to the murdered members of a hardcore soccer fanclub; a pas de deux for laptop keyboard and BBC’s coverage of Gaza bombings; public demonstrations against the Muslim-Brotherhood-authored Constitution; Monte Carlo Arabic Service’s mention of the 70th anniversary of El Alamein battle.
Bishop’s quilt of screenshots depicts a consciousness informed by an increasingly universal presumption that everything public should be interactive, if only to act as a vessel for contempt. An urbane cannibal fills the twilight bazaar with bacterial karaoke and falsetto bleating slicker than a goat’s uterus before disappearing into the crowd at Snotty’s Chill-Out Pentagram. Turn a corner and it’s an improv duet for acoustic guitar and the pachyderm grind of dirty delivery trucks.
All around is mysteriously auto-tuned, proto-mahragan R’n’B crooning right out of a Saharan cellphone rave. A blue-blood places a call to an amplified insect tantrum, and is eavesdropped upon by a seductress loop. Delusional arms suppliers mansplain, as is their wont, and a beautifully dismissive monologue reduces music writers to literary dumbwaiters. The Invisible Hands take a moment to get in touch with their inner Sex Pistol. Prerecorded announcements are abused, quite comedically — the implication being that the only qualifications needed to engage in public discourse (telegenics and a piehole) are grossly insufficient.
Alan Bishop stands before you not to praise anything (especially not the pathetic aesthetic championed by pork brosnans and Illuminati blood-drinkers stumbling from one end of their bleachy little swamp to the other, where mediocre meets bland and no amount of chlamydia-flavored tofutti with ground up glass in it will protect them from the constant tularemia rain), but to bury it, deep on the shoreline of Dunning-Kruger, a parting gift from The Sibling Unmoored as he withdraws in disgust. Maybe he’ll return after Ramadan, if only to crack open what’s left of their skulls like crème brulée, harvest the enlarged amygdala, and render tiny portraits of Pepe The Frog onto their lacerated morgellons. Maybe not." Seymour Glass, California, USA, September 2016
Since 2004, Èlg has drawn concentric sound spirals made of musical pipes and entrails. He uses an arsenal of instruments and methods, constantly renewed while building improbable bridges between musique concrete and french song-writing, cartoon-like radiophonic creations and cosmic pop as well as lo-fi dada-esque experimentation with electronic tentacles.
Èlg is half of the electronic botanic duo opera mort, and a third of big band trios orgue agnes (with the members of kaumwald) and reines d'angleterre (with jo tanz and ghédalia tazartes). He’s had albums released by kraak, ss-records, lexi disques, fonal, hundebiss records, and alter, among others.
I dig cosmic music with rocks off…anathema to top 40, èlg is the holy ghost of the new sound. His music deals with the altered state with muscle -> primed on transcendence like naked hug, the fire music of his previous duos or the zap force of his earlier Nashazphone jam "Capitaine present 5", it feels hip to stay forever eternal in the house of mirrors & emerge on the cyclone. Coney island baby bataille. There's a dimensionality of miracles herein, we were born on earth...As humans.
Then there's èlg, laurent gérard -> he's a love lodge, a sonic native. This is immersion music…climb upward, go down and deep. My fave cosmic strip here is in cool color…the rare moment on this lp when the guitar solo explodes from the narrative ripping a hole in "Song". Through the planet of one voice, we hear the inimitable dylan nyoukis and the one and only og alan bishop.
These heads are perfect jam vehicles to hang with laurent. Then there's the paramour lady catherine hershey, forever muse…roast tongue. Brand new language, brave nu world. This grabs the tusk of francois tusques and rides mother gong, all glissando and kobaïan. Learned from shandar and transporting with a freer range lard free, organic music that slays all inner city mountains, outer realm gotham. Bluer than noon. Contempo lone gunman exploratory moderne with the controls set to the heart of love. We're in the "Mauve zone", where is bananafish? Hearing is believing. A transport to future analog and digital dialup. Call this dude, he's beyond rap. What a crazy fucking life.