Language: por 26 pages. More information about this seller Contact this seller Published by Trumpet Vine Press About this Item: Trumpet Vine Press, I gather they convened together and tape was switched on and they started playing, on in a single day but perhaps not in a single session. Maranha later spend a few days in mixing this material. There is throughout a sort of drone thing going on, maybe on the large stabs of the organ, whereas the other instruments,bass and drums foremost, are in a free improvised music, going about, whereas the role of Abras is freer than that; he provides some of the weirdo sounds high pitched, slowed down voices that float as in free space through these two sides.
The drums sound a bit far away and I am not sure if that is an intentional decision from Maranha or not. The mood is quite dark and obscured; like rolling thunder sounded in the distance at night.
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It is also a bit noisy I guess with that piercing tone lingering on somewhere, and it made me wonder if noise is the original background of Maranha. This is not really music to aim and please, I think, but something of a well-orchestrated nightmare. Like musicians, music lovers should also be willing to refresh and rethink and embrace something new.
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This is good place to do that if you want to hear Maranha doing something out of the ordinary and yet fitting perfectly. However, Cai-Bem — the newest release by minor legend David Maranha, of Osso Exotico renown — eschews the disasters of disorderly improvisation more or less completely.
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The duration is that of a classic vinyl LP, around twenty minutes per side. Needless to say, the old machine is exercised much better here by Miguel Abras, who — conjointly with the leader, Margarida Garcia and Manuel Mota — brings forth a whole cosmos of ectoplasmic sonorities especially typified by noticeable oscillations, persistent acute frequencies and heavy-footed pseudo rhythms. In general, the work contains a high percentage of ritualism. Firm gestural patterns emerge from a gathering of scarcely palpable textures; a valuable recipe for rendering our system of reclusive defense a little unsteady.
The muddy mix must not be perceived as a factor decreasing the overall efficiency; on the contrary, the sense of occlusion experienced while listening to the music via headphones was helpful in transforming the current pessimistic visions into pliable substances for an unidentified typology of so-called comfort.
Interesting record. Not one for the ages, but gripping enough to justify several replays. Massimo Ricci, Touching Extremes. Margarida Garcia, Double Bass. Lausanne, Switzerland, It has this vibe to it like something wicked is lurking on the horizon and while that might not be defined there is a certain sense of deep cello bass and abrupt surprise to the music that might suggest anything from an Alfred Hitchcock movie to Godzilla. In some ways the music can sound so low, so deep into the bass that it feels as if it is too late. The monster is no longer approaching but it has struck without your knowing.
The monster has pulled you to the bottom of the ocean and there is no escape. These sounds are eerie and haunting, the things which nightmares are made of and even I am not brave enough to listen to this one while I sleep. Though in all fairness, I don't have terrible demons in my nightmares, mostly just aspects other people would consider to be silly.
The notes seem to drop off at times, into the deepest, darkest of places and otherwise there is some whirrs and just other manipulation of sound within here- like Transformers even- but if this is the soundtrack to some movie I haven't seen then, believe me, I certainly do want to see it. On the flip side we start with some footsteps in the basement. It just sounds dark and dank. A ringing grows, it grows so loudly that it almost becomes uneasy to hear.
Whether it be that terror creeping up on you in the night or the sound of your screams it's certainly not one of the noises which you will relate with something happy. Guitar notes drop like brimstone. It begins to tick-tock back and forth like Willy Wonka as other distorted notes are seemingly smashed out. I imagine this being as some story of a possessed guitar, bent on evil and killing but I'm pretty sure that happened when they remade "The Twilight Zone" and this is far more disturbing.
It's just that I've heard some pretty dark music in my time- the type of things which would send the toughest of goth kids home crying to their mommies- but I'm just not sure I've ever heard a guitar used as such an instrument of destruction as it is here. And the sounds which accompany the guitar which I've read are made by bass only serve to enhance that experience. As we draw nearer to the end, the music begins to fight itself and as we all know there is no greater monster out there than the one willing to hurt itself because if this monster will cut off its own face imagine what unthinkable acts it has in store for you.
Through the end you'll find yourself in the darkest of places with the deep, dark drone of the bass. It's got this feeling like you're watching a horror movie but one which hasn't been invented yet. I will admit that when I watched "Saw" I liked it, but I liked "Hostel" a lot more, mainly because of that scene where the guy is tied to the chair and cut at the ankles but tries to stand up and walk.
Anyway, this feels like a movie that would go above and beyond that and, yes, in a real and actual way not just because it's something attached to a sticker on the packaging.
As ominous as it feels, up to that last second which sounds like a droplet of water or blood , there is still beauty in it and of course large amounts of talent. I do suggest listening to this but only with the lights on. Joshua Macala, Raised by Gypsies. She's the stand-up bassist; he's the guitarist. On Crypt Yew Recordings , this Portuguese duo scare up what's easily the most fried, disorienting album I've come across this year so far.
Each player occupies a very specific lane: Margarida Garcia sllllllllowly coaxes deep, robust growls from her bass with a bow, while Manuel Mota traipses through the stratosphere, idly attempting to imitate invoke a celestial sprawl via an electric guitar. Their storm fronts are separate as often as they intersect, but when they do come together, the result is like watching grainy videos of two different slo-mo chemical reactions simultaneously projected on the same wall. Those moments are viscerally uncomfortable in a pleasantly surprising way, as though the improv waltzes preceding were preludes you didn't quite recognize as such.
Every gesture arrives shrouded in dry echo; the incidental chatter and background noise crowd Crypt when it goes nuclear and when it is pretending to catch its breath or daydream. Because of this, there's never really a point where the listener can truly find her or his bearing: every sound is roar toil, trouble, cough, whisper, or a ear-singing snarl that's unceasing or balloons out to a brief, unbearable decibel level just before collapsing in on itself.
That's the blues, folks. Who would want things any other way? Raymond Cumings, Village Voice. Ah Manuel Mota, the man with his guitar and nothing much else. Well, and Margarida Garcia on bass - upright one, I think. In his solo music Mota is very quiet - see below - But also in his collaborations he is very quiet, but at times also seems to be using a bit more sound effects. Garcia has had a couple of releases on Headlights Mota's label before, some solo and one in collaboration with Thurston Moore. I am not sure if she uses any sound effects in her playing.
With a title like 'Crypt' I expect it to be recorded in a hollow space, perhaps something such as a crypt. The music is very quiet, but never silent; it meanders about, without goal, without purpose but has an excellent mysterious character to it. It's hard to define what that mysterious character is. A kind of scraping sound, some reverb, something from a far such as in 'The Candle Indoors'. There is something menacing about this release, something creepy.
Maybe Mota uses a bit more sound effects here, mild doses of distortion here and there. Unlike his solo work, in duet with Garcia there is a fine sense of drama, maybe it's even possible to say this is kind of painful, heartfelt blues music? Six pieces here, possibly all recorded in cavernous situations, all live obviously with no overdubs or editing and at thirty minutes a bit too short for my taste; that perhaps was the only downside to an otherwise great release.
The Rust within Their Throats. Thurston Moore, Guitar. Headlights Recordings HLP Thurston plays in a textural style but with a whole lot of actual bite, drumming up venomous string combinations and hovering over halos of electricity while Garcia sounds like she is burrowing her bass straight through the floor, creating the kinda polmorphously perverse shapes that suggest deep, organic activity.
But really this one feels like the between song jams of the EVOL years extended to the point of full free compositional motherlode, with a psychedelic depth that could almost be Tokyo.
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Love this, beautifully packaged, very highly recommended! David Keenan, Volcanic Tongue. As that list suggests, she tends to operate at the psychedelic end of the free music spectrum, making her an ideal accomplice for an experimental rock veteran like Thurston Moore. Listening to the record, the deep bowed, sub-aquatic moans and guttural grunts that Garcia coaxes from her instrument set the atmosphere of mysterious dread that dominates the disc. This elicits some exquisitely haunted guitar playing from Moore, who employs some serious tremolo arm abuse to make screaming notes cascade and trail off into wailing harmonics.
Even when Moore is at his most textural and abstract, Garcia keeps things dark and foreboding, pushing this until her amp becomes a portal to some tentacled Cthuluesque abomination when things get heated.
Norman Records. The artwork here is not credited to a designer. It includes two black-and-white etchings source unknown, to me at least , portraying stormy, troubled waters.
Nunca chegou a ser um residente, mas o tempo que passou, e ainda passa, em Lisboa, tem resultado em concertos e, claro, nos seus directos testemunhos. E isto merece o pacote todo. The Leaden Echo. Limited Edition to copies, one side LP.
The sound of her bass resonates like I've rarely heard a bass resonate, filling the space completely, with long bowed tones that make every nerve in your body vibrate in harmony, whether very deep or very high, it is sad, eery moaning and terrifying at the same time, hard to capture in words luckily! The second piece is played pizzi, but with the same calm and sober power, creating a desolate sonic universe that is compelling and unique. Not Experimental. Not Technical. Not Clean. Not Cold. The apartment was in Brighton Beach, and I mean right on it.
Each time the sound of the waves were very present something that is mirrored only by the hiss of the tape deck onto which I usually recorded everything. Furthermore, not only do they believe so but they also generally tend to blame themselves and their inability when the mistakes they make belong to a lower level than the one that they are meant to have already achieved according to the standard model. They learnt a language through reading and writing and with very little exposure if any to the oral part of it -which may have given them a good core knowledge of grammar but may have also helped them build the wrong expectations.