Mavis's Dream Three

 

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Mavis's Reviews


 

Slomo Slomo (Slomo)

This then is Joss from Halifax, and heís pictured on the front cover of this, saluting Bob Pollard style. Sadly no high kicks or rampant cigarette smoking, though Iím sure thereís more to come. This three track meanders around a little, bizarre song titles and all (Lament Of A Teenage Eskimo, anyone?) and needs several plays to kick in before the goods are peripherally produced. Call And Response is somewhat better than its rather lame title (brings back memories of Poison at the Hammersmith Odeon, circa 1988), Lament etc is a little one-dimensional, but Satellite is better, thumping in a Pavement-y sort of manner but with a very northern feel. To keep an eye on, then, but apparently theyíre better live than on record. Slomoweb@aol.com www.mp3.com/slomo


Deral Fenderson Dreams (mp3.com)

Our interview star (so what if weíve never met him) tries to aim for the tenth release of 1999. So what if itís quantity over quality, there's a lot of stuff here well worth seeking out. While previous EP Deral Fenderson is way cooler than Graham Smith took a while to settle down and become less, well, obtuse, this release shows Deral playing around with the ambient genre and not fucking its head around. This is stuff to rival any FSA/Labradford type release, though significantly fewer people will ever hear it. Ambient though isnít really for listening to, itís for chilling to and while this isnít Deralís fault, nevertheless itís easy for any ambient pieces to wash over the listener. But his renegade tendencies finally surface in Just Say No To Drugs, in which he does fuck with your head. Not necessarily ideal after forty odd minutes of ambient chill, but hey, it wouldnít be Deralling without it, would it? While weíre here, do yourself two favours. One, go to www.mp3.com/deralfenderson and download Busy, Heart, Pullman Cars and You Gave Up On Me. At the very least. Secondly, try to find his essential cover of Neutral Milk Hotelís Oh Comely. Then tell us heís arseing around.


Wheat Hope And Adams (city slang)

Itís a guy thing, perhaps. Self-pity is such an easy state of mind to slip into; something trivial happens, and itís too damn easy to just slope in a trough of despair and mope around, growing long hair and listening to Nirvana, the Smiths, Sisters Of Mercy and, if youíre not really careful, late era Depeche Mode. Better than Duran Duran, I suppose, but nevertheless somewhat painful and pointless. I mean, having to listen to Andrew Eldritchís vicious baritone all day. Frankly, itíd be enough to drive anyone out of the house and into a happy, smiley world full of blue skies, daffodils, cuddly iccle lambs, chicken biryani and Britney Spears. But the ability to mope is canonised by the music industry Ė just look at the way its most recent deceased proponent, Kurt Cobain, has been raised on a pedestal for fourteen year old to idolise, while Jim Morrison is still adored by thousands of sixth-formers and bad poets the world over. OK, so this release has been much gushed over by the weekly music press, but, unlike, say, Shack, this is well worth it. A glorious dollop of country-tinged melancholia which doesnít make you feel as if you want to go down the butcherís, borrow a very large knife they normally use for filleting heifers and try in vain to slash your thighs open. Or listen to Andrew Eldritch intoning about a Temple Of Love.


84 Nash Band For Hire (Recordhead)

Pete Jamison. A man so steeped in rock and roll that he is no longer a supply teacher, and instead prints up T-shirts and drinks beer for the state of Ohio in the US Beer Guzzling Championships, held each August in Albuquerque. Musical talent? Well, a man canít quaff ale professionally and keep a day job, so instead he keeps an ear out for Dayton bands with promise that he really rather likes and puts some of it out. And not entirely coincidentally, seeing that he is also GbVís Ďmanager for lifeí (which he will tell you each time you meet him, and then stagger off to walk into a wall), 84 Nash recall a heavier version of GbV. Coolly, or irritatingly, depending on your point of view, thereís only two tracks on the CD: side one and side two. Mark Lanegan Iíll Take Care Of You (Beggars Banquet) Those of you who survived the grunge wars, the Britpop holocaust and the Dadrock neutron bomb may remember Lanegan from his career in extra-loud and moody rockers The Screaming Trees. Or maybe not. In any case, this is his fourth solo album, which carries on pretty much from where he left off. That is, the music of late nights around a smoky wood fire, a bottle of bourbon in one hand and a few downers in the other. This time, though, itís cover versions, not that youíd be able to tell. Great stuff for a wet Monday night; not so good for a bright Sunday morning.


Foehn Silent Light (Swarffinger)

Bristol, then. Itís a strange sort of place, with a rich musical heritage but an equally dodgy past. (At least, though, they canít claim responsibility for Billie. That is Swindonís fault.) And the Bristol ínoiseí scene is pretty much dominated by the antics of Flying Saucer Attack, though clearly everyone else is having a really good go at trying to catch up. So while this untypically does not sound like a washing machine starting the spin cycle, it has a pretty good go in places at approximating various industrial whooshes and bangs and slops around for nearly an hour before wrapping itself up in a little shawl and making itself a nice cup of tea. Speaking of Billie, is it just Mavis or does the slightest mention of her name make you want to vomit?


Wolf Colonel Vikings Of Mint (K)

Lo-fi punk acers get all minimalist on our asses and produce humalonga viking mood singing scuttlebutt. Twisted with canine distemper wrapped in bubblegum with a wattle and daub coating, and a little green twine. Like finding out Santa isnít real, but rather Terence Workton, a thin man who lives for most of the year in Penhill with his common-law wife and five kids before donning the routine red suit, beard and sandals at the turn of December each year and hanging round childrenís parties and the Brunel Centre, fleecing parents for every penny and promising little Ben that if he continues to pull Santaís beard like that he will be deemed to not have been a Good Boy This Year and all presents will be instantly withdrawn. Damn you Saint Nick!


Bob Tilton Crescent (Southern Records)

This sounds nothing like it did a month ago. Then, it was a twisted statement of rock and roll punchbagism, a Bob Mould for those who didnít get it all first time round. Think guitars. Think cheesy guitar solos, but good cheesy, not bad cheesy like RATT or the Scorpions. Now it is something so loud it MUST BE TURNED UP EVEN LOUDER BECAUSE THATíS HOW ROCK AND ROLL THIS RECORD IS. EVEN THE QUIET BITS. PUT IT ON HEADPHONES. SHOUT A LITTLE. PLAY IT WHILST WATCHING ITV TO AVOID THE TEDIUM. AND THEN SHOUT A LITTLE MORE, AND RUN DOWN YOUR STREET SAYING HOW MUCH YOU WANT TO HAVE BOB TILTONíS CHILDREN, EVEN THOUGH THAT MAY BE BIOLOGICALLY IMPOSSIBLE. Oh, they also just broke up.


Primal Scream Exterminator (Creation)

If you do not have this already, you are clearly either mad or drunk or broke or all three. If you thought Vanishing Point and Give Out But Donít Give Up were crap, youíd be right. Drug period albums and detox period albums are usually crap. Thereís this great story though of some guy reviewing this and giving it 0/10, and the band finding out and popping round for a drink ícos he spoke his mind. In which case: I hate this more than anything Phil Collins has ever produced.


Bubblegun untitled (www.bubblegun.co.uk)

David Wrench, our favourite albino Welsh six-footer. Man of many side projects. At the Ochre 5 do, he was in about six bands, more than even Will Oldham. His solo album for Ankst, Blow Winds Blow, was the most miserable piece of sublime dolorous bleak miserablism you could ever wish (or not) to hear. His EP of covers of the Shangri-Las (reviewed in Dream One) was equally dour. So happy hi-energy POP! was not quite to be expected. His manifesto (in full on page 11) explains the deal. This time, he wants TOTP. He wants to be on the same bill as Westlife, 911 and 5ive. Only at the same time he will subvert them and exercise his evil mind control. Then he will be vilified by top rock journo Rick Sky in the Sun (This man is evil! He is telling our tinies to take drugs! Send him back to Anglesey, and blow up the bridge over the Menai Straights so that he can never come back!) whereupon he will zoom straight to number one, where he shall stay for much longer than Elton John ever has. Only slight problem: no-one will ever hear God Is High, as Radio 1 will never playlist it. Bastards.

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