Portland’s A Certain Smile create a timeless dream pop/shoegaze/jangle rock masterpiece with Fits & Starts – and it’s their first album!!!

“Twee music” gets a lot of hate, from a lot of directions. More precious than a Precious Moments, and seemingly just as fragile, Twee/indie pop might be criticized as escapist, decadent, or self-indulgent, like Nero playing a Shirley Collins ballad as our cities burn.

Just because a piece of music is gentle and a little distant doesn’t mean it doesn’t have heart and heat, however. Rock ‘n roll and punk rock are about being yourself, remember, and expressing it to the fullest of yr abilities. That’s why the OG punks copped music from all over the globe and didn’t stay amateurish for very long. Punk just gave bands the nitro to get started – if you do anything long enough you’ll get good at it.

As they put it in the Pitchfork’s Twee Retrospective “Twee As Fuck“:

“As of the mid-1990s, there were a hell of a lot of kids like this in America: Happy pop geeks in love with all things pretty, listening to seven-inch singles released on tiny labels, writing songs about crushes, and taking a good deal of pride in the fact that everyone else found their music disgustingly cute and amateurish and girly.”

Twee/indie pop/C86-style shoegaze sound ethereal – gauzy and distant, like watching the world through lace curtains while listening to retro Bossa Nova LPs. While this might sound like the height of decadence, a kind of easy listening Masque Of The Red Death with Stephin Merritt as the Grim Reaper. But perhaps this is just how we glimpse the world, how we ARE – and to pretend otherwise would be superficial artifice; the real decadence.

Just because a record sounds elegant, ethereal, and beautiful doesn’t mean it doesn’t have muscle and marrow; that it does not possess true grit, all of which are supremely in evidence on A Certain Smile‘s absolute stunner of a proper full-length.

Portland’s A Certain Smile (featuring Freeform Portland’s very own Thomas Andrew have been plying artful, moody, emotive, introspective but explosive indie rock in Portland since at least 2004, sounding like a broody slowcore Modest Mouse with an ampule of creaking orchestral doom pop. Strong songwriting and sound production insticts have been in evidence since the very start, with even their earliest fuzzy bedroom demos boasting intricate chord progressions and catchy hooks. These little nuances make your ears perk up and pay attention, when you begin to notice thoughtful lyrics, tuneful vocals, and accomplished melodies.

What existed in a nascent fuzz, beneath the tape hiss, emerges in fully-formed glory on Fits & Starts, which is not only one of the most accomplished debuts this side of The Velvet Underground & Nico or Galaxie 500’s Today. Not a line is out of place, not a note is out of tune – everything is perfectly polished and placed to perfection.

Fits & Starts is built around a twin-guitar attack of charging chord changes and delicate, intricate guitar leads, bringing to mind the absolute best of the Dream Pop canon – Television, early Felt, Cocteau Twins at their most frenetic. These atmospherics are underpinned by a sturdy rhythm section, glinting like obsidian and purring like a Motor City V8, keeping things rooted and earthy, muscular and raging. It can be heard in the first moments of album opener, “Hold On, Call.” and never lets up.

It’s those leads and lines that let you know A Certain Smile know exactly what they’re doing, and execute it flawlessly.

Melodic leads and lines are one of the first things that grab my attention, as someone who’s listened to probably at least a million records. Those little jewelled barbs that get harpooned in yr tympanum, that you can’t forget. That are so easy to flub, that probably take a million takes to get perfect. Or maybe just one. To me, melodic lines are a mark of proficiency and experience, point blank. A Certain Smile certainly know what they’re doing – they don’t miss a note or a beat throughout Fits & Starts cruelly brief nine track runtime, and a lot of this shit’s complicated! The basslines wiggle and crawl and stomp in place, while the twin guitars catchy charging rythym guitar spelling out the chord changes, freeing the second to explore, but never meander. There is less noodling go on on Fits & Starts than a gluten-free convention, despite their technical verocity. Every part is polished and poised and placed, and yet it never sounds neurotic or fussy.

The meticulousness of the arrangements and precision of the musicianship make us lean in and pay attention, when we begin to notice more and more details, from the sterling guitar leads that show up like sun dogs at exactly the right moment; the call-response vocals; twinkling pianos and glockenspiels. The details emerge upon repeat listenings, like investigating a medieval hunting tapestry to find a hidden faery kingdom trapped in its weft.

Luckily, repeat listenings are no problem, thanks to Fits & Starts gentle, faded, soft-focus production style, courtesy of Chicago’s Lisle Mitnik’s mix. Every inch of this record has an attractive soft-focus sheen, like some ‘70s teen drama. It’s romantic. A Certain Smile don’t use retro allure to cover a lack of talent. Their songs kick ass, there’s no other way around it, but they deliver it with a nicely stylized bow, a Polaroid patina that makes this one as good for staring out the window and drinking hot beverages as it will playing with the top down. It’s a true rock ‘n roll, dreampop record, energetic and exciting and catchy and memorable, and the blur makes it easy on the ears, so you can drown in their gazing pool over and over. Fits & Starts will be essential Autumn listening, as the skies darken, so pick up some of the few remaining vinyl. And listen obsessively.

Recommended for fans of The Clientele and Rocketship.

Fits & Starts by a certain smile

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Listen to A Certain Smile’s Thomas Andrew play shoegaze, indie rock, drone, noise, and hyperpop every other Monday, from 6 – 8 PM, on My Lil Underground.

Doom Metal, by nature, inherently evokes catastrophe. The funereal pace, cannon-like percussion, unholy yowling and cheese grater guitars suggest apocalyptic imagery of abandoned necropolises, overgrown cities, alien planets, and abattoir battlefields, even without the Lovecraftian imagery and occult and warlike imagery that so often graces doom records.

Much like the horror genre, or most forms of extreme music, it’s a wonder that anyone listens to doom for fun. As Kim Kelly wrote recently for Noisey, speaking about the newest full-length from Salem, Or.’s HELL, “Right now, as you read this, two sad, stupidly powerful men feint and jab at one another, flaunting nuclear arsenals like toys and holding the fate of the planet in their vulgar fingers.” Kelly goes on to comment on HELL’s appeal, in these troubled times, “By enveloping myself within HELL’s radium-bright notes, agonized howls, and ominous dirges, it’s almost like I’m inviting the unthinkable… or the inevitable, depending on which side of the nuclear divide our current administration deigns to drop us.”

So, is listening to doom in times of strife just simple tragedy porn? Or is it some kind of survival instinct, preparing ourselves for the worst possible outcomes? Or maybe we’ve just been living the apocalypse for such a long goddam time that this is just how we party, at this point? Like Bonnaroo meeting The Hunger Games, betting on gladiator sport in between eating rats and post-industrial dance parties, high on gasoline fumes from the generators and huffing chrome.

Whatever the motivation, the fearsome din from the mysteriously monikered MSW, out of the ancient primevil forests of Salem, Or. sounds damn fucking fine in these troubled times. HELL’s trademarked pyroclastic flow of brutal bass tones washes over you like the final moments of Pompeii, while shrieking guitar feedback comes over like the dying stars falling out of the sky, while the drums pound like the Five Armies converging on Lonely Mountain.

That Tolkien reference is no coincidence, as HELL carry a lot of the good time vibes of classic doom merchants like Sabbath or Kyuss, with all of the geeky mythological religiosity. The classic doom and sludge is well in evidence, on HELL’s fourth self-titled LP, with massive (and massively catchy) riffs that get stuck in your head, while bludgeoning you to the dirt like a cyclop’s club. Unlike a lot of classic doom, however, HELL’s doom is low-down, dirty, messed up, and disturbing, rather than the cartoonish caricatures of Black Sabbath, Count Raven, Witchcraft, or Saint Vitus (not that there’s anything wrong with that). HELL’s down-tuned, cacophonous sludge is spiked and studded with windy black metal and harsh noise, as well as moments of breathtaking beauty, like the striking orchestral fade-out of “Victus”.

MSW favors a raspy, wraithlike vocal style, much more Mayhem than Metallica, heard in fine effect on tracks like the “Sub-odin,” or in the grunting, shrieking invocation of “Inscriptus,” one of Hell’s most scorching moments. MSW’s gowlin yowl is much more bone-chilling and spellbinding than much of doom’s Cookie Monster death metal grunts or Freddy Mercury operatics.

“SubOdin” also boasts some of the finest blackened guitar work of the record, of the windswept Explosions In The Sky-style post-rock/metal, distant, dreamy, gauzy, beautiful, and emotional, as if viewing the world through a veil of mist. The gracefulness erupts with next track “Machitikos,” which is a straight-up flying fretboard shred-a-thon, acid-fried pentatonics at the speed of thought that would do Hendrix proud, over a crunchy, thudding headbanging beat. Monolithic and groovy, it’s all that is good and unholy about DOOM.

The raspy vocals and multivalent guitar textures are some of what really separate HELL from the imitators, those lacking in imagination or creativity. MSW switches it up constantly over Hell’s too-brief seven tracks. The blasts of buzzsaw black-metal power chords and delicate, shooting star leads punctuate the ominous heaviness of doom’s crawling-through-the-dust pace. So many funeral doom records get caught up in their 70 bpm headspace, and never relent. While one can appreciate 70-minute of bleak, hopeless downtuned guitars and skull-punching drums, it can get a bit homogenous at a certain point. Like watching a bunch of Gaspar Noe films on loop, we get bludgeoned to death, numb, jaded, and disaffected.

And while there is a time and a place for that, and i can certainly get down, i get enough of that in my daily life lately, reading the news. HELL reaches across the void, delivering their despairing message. The stars are aligned for us to receive, to really listen and hear. The news might be grim, but it’s not all bad. HELL promises it’ll be a hell of a party, even if we do go up in flames.

HELL is playing tonight, with Seattle’s Bell Witch, and Portland’s own dark folk magus Aerial Ruin.

https://www.facebook.com/events/1325703870830960/

Hell is out today, co-released by Sentient Ruin and MSW’s own label, LowerYourHead.

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https://www.facebook.com/mswhell/

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https://loweryourhead.bandcamp.com/

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Sentient Ruin Bandcamp: https://sentientruin.bandcamp.com
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“Oh, Pyschedelia

The way it sounded (MONO or STEREO)
What generated its effects (OIL and WATER)
How it extended into digital (ZEROES and ONES)
The way it was documented (LO-FI)
They way it travelled (UNDERGROUND)
The flicker and the strobe (YES. YES. YES.)
Were all single-channel. Binary. Off. On.

Now the screens are full of rainbows. Affect and (libido?) no longer authenticate. Grids of disciplines are replaced by the plasma of control. Immersion is a predatory technology of full-sense predominance. Beyond all of that lies no India. No illumination. No colorful fabrics – only the desert – the one place where we can truly make love.”  —– Dexter Bang Sinister “Black And White Psychedelia”

21st Century Psychedelia feels like a bit of a missed opportunity, while also detailing the complex, bifurcated nature of an interconnected digital existence. On the plus side, we have more access to psychedelic culture than any other time in History, apart from maybe the height of Pagan Greece, where psychedelic carnivals were the mainstream. More people are exposed to psychedelic art and culture than ever before, but that is also part of the problem. Once an idea escapes the grips of the slipstream, there is a certain distortion which occurs, degrading as a copy of a copy of a copy, losing weight and heft along the way, until it is a ghostly parody of itself.

In the case of psychedelia, what has the potential to be truly AWEsome, in the original sense of the word (read: shitting yrself in terror, trembling in the face of THE INFINITE MYSTERY) instead is codified into a chain of cheap tie dyes, chintzy head shops, and over-the-counter substances of questionable quality and safety.

Psychedelia and psychedelic art, in general, is defined as either “trying to recreate or reflect the experience of altered consciousness.” Note, they don’t specify which altered states. From the wide-open terrain of human consciousness, psychedelic art and music has been reduced to the colorful shapes and visual distortions of the 1960s, most commonly referencing the effects of Cannabis, LSD, Psilocybin, and Mescaline. While the latter three can be rather earth-shattering, all of these headsplitters are rather known and familiar, at this point, and not exactly revelatory, (although they are capable of great revelations). This reductive reading overlooks the visionary states of less-wholesome substances, like cocaine and its derivatives; opium and its descendants; and a whole shopping list of designer alphabet drugs like DXM. That is not even to mention the terror-inducing meltdowns of mental illness or sleep deprivation.

By way of illustration, check out this rather sinister psychedelic short film from director Larry Carlson, “Contact The Star People”, with its conspiracy-laden, consciousness-expanding mixture of cheap sci-fi; avant-garde experimental art; and trippy visuals, all combining to approximate the manifold myriad levels and layers of existence. It’s also a great example of how real wisdom can mingle with pseudo-science and paranoia, requiring a fine-bristled brush to delineate truth from fiction, grandiosity from great wisdom. After all, perhaps people suffering from paranoid schizophrenia just have an advanced understanding of the world, and all its complex systems, and an inherent understanding of the role we play in creating the world we inhabit. We are all Gods, all world-builders.

“We are all Gods, all world-builders.”

Long story short, if psychedelia and psychedelic art are simply comforting and comfortable, it’s not really doing its job very well. After all, psychedelic art contains both the whimsical worlds of Dr. Seuss, as well as the subjective, post-modern shamanism of Lewis Carroll; the biomechanical terror of H. R. Giger; the religious awe of Hieronymous Bosch; the eye-crossing infinity of M. C. Escher. It should take you off the grid, drawing new maps that contain the dragons, mark the wild things, locate hidden cities of gold and show hidden wisdoms with a lurid red X.

The Sound Of Stereo No Aware from Portland ‘experi-mental POP’ outfit Stereo No Aware is one such treasure map, taking us on a journey into a shifting, senseless dream realm where you are not you – or, you are, but not for long, or for certain.

Stereo No Aware play a surreal style of art pop, including everything AND THE KITCHEN SINK, from jangling, winsome acoustic folk; to retrodelic, rinkety-dink drum machines, like a dream of ‘70s roller rinks; vitriolic indie guitar rock; polyrhythms; and personal lyrics – frequently in the same song.

These jump-cuts and sharp juxtapositions are The Sound Of Stereo No Aware’s most striking feature, like when the bottom drops out on album opener “Passing For A Ghost”, when discordant math rock guitars give way to a breezy, nearly middle-eastern Reggae vibe, unexpectedly and without warning. Or perhaps the vaguely ominous “Yareta Yorona”, approximating what it might sound like if Fantomas were to cover The Velvet Underground’s “The Gift”.

Apart from the jarring juxtapositions, Stereo No Aware live up to their tags of ‘weirdly relaxing’ and the rather basic ‘dreampop’. In many ways, Stereo No Aware are simply a very talented, highly enjoyable guitar-oriented indie band, along the lines of Pavement, Modest Mouse, with a little bit of math rock sparkle, a la Don Caballero or Omar Rodriguez-Lopez’s solo material. The closest, most apt comparison would have to be The Olivia Tremor Control, however, and perhaps The Elephant 6 Collective as a whole. The Sound Of Stereo No Aware possesses a similar kind of dream logic to The Olivia Tremor Control’s Dusk At Cubist Castle, combining retrodelic production and instrumentation, and songwriting; musique concrete bricolage; and sudden, unexpected jumpcuts in the songwriting, leaving one with the impression of flipping through someone’s dream journal, at random (or, wait, maybe that was just the dream itself).

Neutral Milk Hotel’s Jeff Mangum was still a member of The Olivia Tremor Control during Dusk At Cubist Castle, we must remember. Neutral Milk Hotel are another fine example of the dark side of psychedelia, with In The Aeroplane Over The Sea calling on ghosts, the holocaust, sexual obsession, and the holocaust, as Mangum lived in closets and dark basements, culling the lyrics from the ether as he combed cobwebs out of his wild hair. Even during the heights of crisis, however, NMH still sounded like a chic, cosmopolitan French jazz band, creating some truly nightmarish and also third-eye-opening vistas, that have probably done more to introduce new generations to the dark delights of psychedelic music and art, and the implications for visionary, subconscious explorations and new dream states. Neutral Milk Hotel, themselves, are almost victims of the cutesy reductive reading of psychedelia (and, perhaps, we might extend that to ‘indie culture’ as a whole, in the 21st Century), becoming the poster children for far out indie folk. We can’t help but wonder how many of the ukulele-wielding, “Oh Comely”-worshipping indie kids have really dug into the layers of time travel; necrophilia; erotic obsession; oedipal neuroses; drug addiction; sleep deprivation; ego annihilation; loss of identity; and all those other things we both love and hate about psychedelic experiences.

As a kind of boutique New Age Spirituality industry emerges, with wealthy, beautiful tourists taking $10,000 vacations to somehow have their egos bolstered with ayahuasca, the need for real, authentic psychedelic music and art have never been more necessary. As with psychedelia, humanity as a whole are facing a weird split, in the wake of the datastream. We’ve never had more information available, from so many different places. The sheer over-abundance of perspectives is causing many to just shut down entirely, going online merely to reinforce what we already think and know. Seeing as how a huge percentage of our daily interactions all happen via mediating screens, however, this is a problem. It’s time to get uncomfortable.

The Sound Of Stereo No Aware comes on both standard black vinyl and in a beautiful, multi-colored marbled edition as well, which I was lucky enough to receive. The colored wax makes The Sound Of Stereo No Aware a cherished work of psychedelic art, as well as a fantastic slice of psychedelic indie pop. Fantastic stuff from an exciting, up-and-coming Portland outfit.

the sound of STEREO NO AWARE by STEREO NO AWARE

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The stars are beautiful, because of a flower that cannot be seen… The desert is beautiful, ” the little prince added. And that was true. I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams… “What makes the desert beautiful, ” said the little prince, “is that somewhere it hides a well… ” I was astonished by a sudden understanding of that mysterious radiation of the sands.

-Antoine de Saint-Exupery, La Petit Prince

It doesn’t take long for the desert to swallow you whole. Drive 10 minutes outside the false protective neon and LED orb of civilization into the might-as-well-be-infinite expanse of shifting sands of this Earth’s deserts, and you could be anywhere. The slow skyline of undulating dunes could be Morocco, Marrakech, the Mojave southwest, all fragrant with mesquite. Or you could be on Mars. There is nothing to orient one’s self by, apart from the constant constellations, to tell us where, or when, we might be. The emptiness can be annihilating, a rushing agoraphobia as the inky fanged gullet of the night sky threatens to swallow you into forgotten-ness. The emptiness can be terrifying, but it may also be awesome. The desert is a place of perspective and purification. Those that survive its irradiating sun and excoriating wind emerge cleansed, baked clean and vacant, like vulture-pecked cow skulls.

The desert is a place of renewal – of finding’s one true self, apart from society – in many/most of the world’s religions. From Jesus and his privations, to Buddha and the Boddhi tree, prophets turn to sand and sun to remove society’s twists and turns, to navigate their own souls. Or turn to Moses, with his unflagging faith as he led the Israelites to the promised land. One finds one’s self in the desert, must find their true orientation, with no landmarks, no leaders. Just the wind, the coyote howl, the sizzling mesquite, the sighing sands, the sickle moon.

So much of the imagery that we have of the American Southwest comes from cinema, particularly Westerns, even if some of those celluloid wastelands were actually shot in the Tabernas Desert, in Spain, or the hills of Castellucio, around Italy – just another layer to the ephemeral nature of the desert landscape. If we were to accept as true that places, and ideas, can inherit meaning, accruing associations, connotations, history, folklore, data, stories, and art of all kinds, the American desert, in particular, would be rather a bloodbath. From the actual atrocities of “Manifest Destiny” westward expansion, to its recreation for profit of Cowboy movies, to the vacant nihilism & lawlessness of No Country For Old Men, or the toxic revenge of The Hills Have Eyes, the American southwest seems to be tainted, blighted. Think of Stephen King’s/Richard Bachman’s alter-universe meta-fuck The Regulators/Desperation. There is some ancient, nameless evil, beneath those sands, some sickness.

Portland doom country nontet Roselit Bone strike out into this emptiness, to meet this darkness head on, to greet the rushing storm. Roselit Bone are serving as psychic charcoal, plunging into the mesquite, looking for holiness, seeking to exorcise the poison which, these days, manifests in rampant drug addiction, racism, poverty, and empty, bleak lives. Like Breaking Bad or True Detective, Roselit Bone seek the real desert dwellers – neon-lit dive bars off the highway, the only light for 50 miles, summoning apocalyptic clouds of insects against the night.

With an orchestral pallet of pedal steel guitar, mariachi horns, twangy tremolo rockabilly electric guitar, organ, and fiddle, it’s hard not to place Roselit Bone’s music on the sacred Western music continuum of Ennio Morricone and his progenitors. If Blister Steel were a movie, album opener and title track would alert you to the fact that this is a Cosmic Americana western, Alejandro Jodorowsky interpreting Tolkien for Native American tribes. “What I saw down there/I do not know/but I know that it was real/the king came drifting through the snow/with eyes as blue as blister steel.” It’s like The King In Yellow, the pestilential prophet of Dread Carcosa, walking through a silent sandstorm.

Once the stage is set, regular life resumes, with barroom brawler “With The Glint Of Your Horns”. Speaking of True Detective, the slow sad country waltz of “Leech Child” recalls The Handsome Family’s theme song for Season 2, “Far From Any Road, with its snarling bobcats and cracked earth. “Leech Child” crawls with the most tremendously opiated twang guitar you’re likely to hear this side of The Bang! Bang! Bar. This is like Roland S. Howard jamming with The Flying Burrito Brothers – ultimate doom country, and one of this album’s greatest moments. It erupts into a frenzy of fiery woodwinds and furious buzzsaw guitars, reminding us that this desert could be in Egypt, as well, with shades of both Sun Ra And His Arkestra, and even the Dead at the Great Pyramids in the ‘70s. It’s a glorious climax, that you will want to return to, again and again. It’s one of this year’s best songs, so far.

Roselit Bone possess so many of the best elements of amazing music from all over the world – from the Northwestern African slink of Ethiopian jazz, to cosmic spiritual freakouts, to classic country, to Mariachi and Mexican Ranchera. They inhabit them all, make them their own, blend them into a cohesive whole and yet fans of any of those genres would dig the hell out of Blister Steel. Those looking for hard-drinking, don’t-give-a-fuck country brawlers, or romantic honky tonk slow-dances, or those looking to zone out with hashish visions like Kubla Khan, will all fall in love with this record. Blister Steel is part of a very small, very elite set of albums expanding and exploring the cosmic consciousness of the American Southwest, joining Ennio Morricone, The Dirty Three, Mojave 3, Gram Parsons, The Handsome Family, and the Denver axis of Slim Cessna’s Auto Club/Munly & The Lupercalians. There’s not nearly enough records dowsing these vibes, and i, for one, would love to see that fixed.

Like The Little Prince quote at top, perhaps the holiness of the desert comes from knowing there is a well out there somewhere, some green gem oasis, with water buffalo, ibises, crocodiles, leopards, incense, and mystery. Or perhaps it is because there are explorers like Roselit Bone willing to go into the waste, to face the emptiness and tell us what they find. The American psychic landscape, of all kinds, desperately needs a’scrubbin’, at the moment, so those willing to pan like prospectors, toss out the bullshit, and risk a couple of bar fights along the way, are doing Good Work.

Blister Steel is out now on Friendship Fever

Check Out The Music Video For Title Track “Blister Steel”:

Roselit Bone are doing a full national tour to accompany the release of Blister Steel, culminating in a show at Portland’s very own Mississippi Studios on July 22, 2017. Make sure to catch them, if they’re coming to a town near you!

Roselit Bone 2017 Blister Steel Tour Dates:

Jun 23 Governor’s Cup Salem, OR

Jun 24 Lofi Seattle, WA

Jun 25 Ritval Tattoo Eugene, OR

Jun 26 Siren’s Song Tavern Eureka, CA

Jun 27 Café du Nord San Francisco, CA

Jun 29 The Crepe Place Santa Cruz, CA

Jun 30 HM157 Los Angeles, CA

Jul 01 The Golden Tiki Las Vegas, NV

Jul 02 Valley Bar Phoenix, AZ

Jul 03 Owls Club Tucson, AZ

Jul 04 The Farm Las Cruces, NM

Jul 05 Cactus Cafe Austin, TX

Jul 06 Super Happy Fun Land Houston, TX

Jul 08 Circle Bar New Orleans, LA

Jul 08 One Eyed Jack’s New Orleans, LA

Jul 09 The Earl Atlanta, GA

Jul 11 Hill Country DC Washington, DC

Jul 13 Hill Country New York, NY

Jul 14 Steel City Coffeehouse Hamburg, PA

Jul 15 Howlers Pittsburgh, PA

Jul 17 Subterranean Chicago, IL

Jul 19 Reverb Omaha, NE

Jul 20 Hi-Dive Denver, CO

Jul 21 The Olympic Boise, ID

Jul 22 Mississippi Studios Portland, OR

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