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Blood Sucking Maniacs, die Band der Familie Allen, geleitet von Patriarch und Matriarchin Terry Allen und Jo Harvey Allen, umfasst fünf Generationen und 121 Jahre, darunter (unter anderem) ihre Söhne Bukka und Bale Allen, ihre Enkel Kru, Sled und Calder Allen, die Hauptakteure der Panhandle Mystery Band, Charlie Sexton, Lloyd Maines und Richard Bowden, sowie den häufigen Mitwirkenden Will Sexton. Die wilden und vielfältigen Songs auf ihrem gleichnamigen Album sind bunt und vielschichtig und umfassen herzzerreißende Balladen und ironische Insider-Witze, die von erhaben bis unverhohlen sentimental reichen. Das verbindende Prinzip ist hier weniger die Harmonie des Blutes als vielmehr die Entropie des Blutes. Lass dich mitreißen.

The second solo record by Mike Polizze of Philadelphia psych-squallers Purling Hiss and Birds of Maya, a rainier and more pensive affair than its predecessor_despite its playful humor and plentiful hooks_affirms his status as a consummate (and now not-so-secret) craftsman of instantly memorable bucolic odes of languid beauty, deepening his fingerstyle acoustic guitar magic and finally manifesting the title of the classic Hiss anthem "Run from the City."

Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur's court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word "Camelot" accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of "utopia." In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson's 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python's 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armored knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys's profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy's White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle's extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle's Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one's own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. "Back in Camelot," she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, "I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry." The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping "in the unfinished basement," an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above "sirens and desert deities." If she questions her own agency_whether she is "wishing stones were standing" or just "pissing in the wind"_it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of "multi-felt dimensions" both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of "Camelot," with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to "Some Friends," an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises_"bright and beaming verses" versus hot curses_which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020's achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory "Earthsong," bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to _ a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?) Those whom "Trust" accuses of treacherous oaths spit through "gilded and golden tooth"_cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry_sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in "Louis": "What's that dance / and can it be done? What's that song / and can it be sung?" Answering affirmatively are "Lucky #8," an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the "tidal pools of pain" and the "theory of collapse," and "Full Moon in Leo," which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and "big hair." But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle's confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on "Lucky #8," special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle's beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia's FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad "Blowing Kisses"_Pallett's crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX's The Bear_Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer_and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: "No words to fumble with / I'm not a beggar to language any longer." Such rare moments of speechlessness_"I'm so fucking honoured," she bluntly proclaims_suggest a state "only a god could come up with." (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world_including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth_but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the "charts and diagrams" of "Lucky #8," a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in "Full Moon in Leo," the bloody invocations of the organ-stained "Mary Miracle," and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with "Fractal Canyon"'s repeated, exalted insistence that she's "not alone here." But where is here? The word "utopia" itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek "eutopia," or "good-place"_the facet most remembered today_and "outopia," or "no-place," a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary. Or as fellow Canadian songwriter Neil Young once sang, "Everyone knows this is nowhere." "Can you see how I'd be tempted," Castle asks out of nowhere, held in the mystery, "to pretend I'm not alone and let the memory bend?"

. For Fans Of: The Weather Station, Weyes Blood, Adrianne Lenker, Phoebe Bridgers, Joan Shelley, Lana Del Rey, Cass McCombs, Angel Olsen & Neil Young. Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur’s court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word “Camelot” accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of “utopia.” In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson’s 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python’s 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armoured knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys’s profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy’s White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle’s extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle’s Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one’s own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. “Back in Camelot,” she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, “I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry.” The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping “in the unfinished basement,” an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above “sirens and desert deities.” If she questions her own agency whether she is “wishing stones were standing” or just “pissing in the wind” it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of “multi-felt dimensions” both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of “Camelot,” with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to “Some Friends,” an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises—“bright and beaming verses” versus hot curses which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020’s achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory “Earthsong,” bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to … a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?). Those whom “Trust” accuses of treacherous oaths spit through “gilded and golden tooth” cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in “Louis”: “What’s that dance / and can it be done? What’s that song / and can it be sung?” Answering affirmatively are “Lucky #8,” an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the “tidal pools of pain” and the “theory of collapse,” and “Full Moon in Leo,” which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and “big hair.” But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle’s confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on “Lucky #8,” special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle’s beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia’s FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad “Blowing Kisses” Pallett’s crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX’s The Bear Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: “No words to fumble with / I’m not a beggar to language any longer.” Such rare moments of speechlessness “I’m so fucking honoured,” she bluntly proclaims suggest a state “only a god could come up with.” (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the “charts and diagrams” of “Lucky #8,” a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in “Full Moon in Leo,” the bloody invocations of the organ-stained “Mary Miracle,” and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with “Fractal Canyon”s repeated, exalted insistence that she’s “not alone here.” But where is here? The word “utopia” itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek “eutopia,” or “good-place” the facet most remembered today and “outopia,” or “no-place,” a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary

Nap Eyes' metamorpher fünfter Longplayer versammelt neun faszinierende Songs, die in den vier Jahren seit "Snapshot of a Beginner" aufgenommen wurden. "The Neon Gate" enthält klassische Themen (das unruhige Zusammenspiel von Physik und Philosophie, umherwandernde Meditationen, Selbstbefragungen, Öffnungen der Surrealität, Videospiele), aber auch Anzeichen für abweichende Impulse in Richtung nichtlinearer Abstraktion und improvisierter Komposition in Langform (was zu ihren bisher diskursivsten, dekonstruiertesten und delikatesten Liedern führt) und erzählerischer und lyrischer Formalität (einschließlich der Adaptionen von dornigen Gedichten von Alexander Puschkin und W. B. Yeats), die den Eindruck vermitteln, dass sich Nap Eyes ebenso gewandelt haben wie ihr Verständnis davon, was ein Lied ist, was es kann und wohin es gehen könnte.

The duo's third album of instrumental guitar recordings pushes their sinuous compositions into labyrinthine new shapes, interlocking and interlocutory, supported by a cast of stellar collaborators. Interwoven among the dazzling original pieces is a fascinating array of covers, ranging from traditional Breton dance tunes to a deconstruction of Neneh Cherry's "Buffalo Stance." Their melody-first sensibilities are perfectly suited to each other _ playfully complex guitar work that sounds as if it was tossed off in an afternoon of whiskey and laughs. - NPR An intoxicating, intricate web _ Wherever Salsburg and Elkington go, it's always a pleasure. - Aquarium Drunkard Sounds like winter has always been approaching, like Indian summer never quite fades, like fall isn't built around loss. - Stereogum

LP back in again soon, note new price. 5 stars; ‘50 Essential Albums of the 1970s.’ Eccentric & uncompromising, savage & beautiful, literate & guttural. Rolling Stone // Raunchy, pithy, and deeply redolent ... lines quiver with a raw vision rarely heard in folk or country. Pitchfork // Legendary Texan artist Terry Allen occupies a unique position straddling the frontiers of country music and visual art; he has worked with everyone from Guy Clark to David Byrne to Lucinda Williams, and his artwork resides in museums worldwide. Widely acclaimed as a masterpiece, his deeply moving (and hilarious) satirical second album, a complex memory palace to his West Texas hometown Lubbock, is often cited as the urtext of alt-country. Produced in collaboration with the artist and meticulously remastered from the original analog tapes, this is the definitive edition: the first to correct the tape speed inconsistencies evident on all prior versions; the first U.S. vinyl reissue. “Lubbock’s got a hard bark, with little or no self-pity; its music has an edge that can be smelled, like Lewter’s feed lot. No one from Lubbock ever apologized for what they were or where they lived.” – Terry Allen (2016) Three hundred forty-four miles of “blue asphaltum line” separate Ciudad Juárez, Mexico from Lubbock, Texas. Even if Allen’s music is more accurately described as art-country, Lubbock (on everything) sowed the seeds of alt-country’s emergence a decade later. It’s no accident that Lloyd Maines went on to play on classic albums like Uncle Tupelo’s Anodyne (1993) and Wilco’s A.M. (1995), and to produce Richard Buckner, nor that Sturgill Simpson and Jason Isbell play “Amarillo Highway” in concert. This is the urtext, the template for everything that followed

In conjunction with the publication, by Hachette Books, of Truckload of Art: The Life and Work of Terry Allen, an authorized biography by Brendan Greaves of Paradise of Bachelors, Gonna California imagines an alternate reality where Allen's long-lost first studio recordings, captured with a full band in LA in 1968, saw a proper release. (Instead nearly the entire pressing was destroyed by a fire set by the so-called "Hollywood Arsonist," and remaining copies were repurposed in artworks.) This first-ever (re)issue edition, limited to 500 copies, features recently rediscovered and remastered early (and superior) mixes of both songs; the original liner notes by Allen; an excerpt from the book; a lyrics insert; and Allen's contemporaneous visual art in an arresting gatefold jacket. No veteran country songwriter sounds more attuned to the national mood. His songs still feel like little guidebooks for staring down a harsh universe. - The Washington Post

On Imitation o f War, songwriter and guitarist Kayla Cohen advances Itasca into rockier terrain, with a suite of smoky nocturnes and uneasy idylls surveying, with refreshing urgency, mythologies and psychologies both classical and personal. Co-produced by Robbie Cody (Wand, Behavior), these ten sturdy set-pieces represent the loosest, leanest, and most smolderingly electric guitar-forward recordings of Cohen's deepening catalog.

The debut recording by Setting, a trio comprising Nathan Bowles (solo/trio, Pelt, Black Twig Pickers); Jaime Fennelly (Mind Over Mirrors, Peeesseye); and Joe Westerlund (solo, Califone, Sylvan Esso, Jake Xerxes Fussell). Deluxe LP edition features 140g black virgin vinyl and a reverse board jacket with art by Timothy Breen. Deluxe CD edition features a gatefold jacket with art by Timothy Breen. RIYL: Popol Vuh, Brian Eno’s Ambient 4, Harmonia, The Necks. Setting, befitting its name which can be read as noun or verb, and simultaneously suggests the sun, or any star in the firmament from our earthbound perspective; a story and its surroundings, its scenic context or mise en scène; or a psychedelic experience, as in the prescription to mind one’s “set and setting” arose outdoors, uncontained and unconstrained by architecture. The group’s debut recording Shone a Rainbow Light On traverses textural, phosphorescent topography with a certified organic folk-engine. Kosmische correspondences are inevitable and valid, but also somewhat deceptive, given this meditative music’s terrestrial rootedness in the familiar natural world, more in native humus and humidity than in outer space. Fuelled by a vibratory hybrid of acoustic and electronic instrumentation, these four stately longform pieces sound like a UFO slowly sinking into a peat bog (or, as we call it in North Carolina, a pocosin). An instrumental trio comprising Nathan Bowles (solo/trio, Pelt, Black Twig Pickers) on strings, keys, and percussion; Jaime Fennelly (Mind Over Mirrors, Peeesseye) on harmoniums, synthesizers, and piano zither; and Joe Westerlund (solo, Califone, Sylvan Esso, Jake Xerxes Fussell) on drums, percussion, and metallophones, Setting established its own setting and found its footing in regularly scheduled improvisational sessions outside Westerlund’s home in Durham, North Carolina, beginning in 2021. The three players began as two, in the context of occasional Bowles and Westerlund percussion duo performances dating back to 2018. Fennelly provided the initial impetus to gather and play together with intentionality and discipline, as well as an harmonic adhesive and thickening agent in the grain and gravity of his harmonium and synthesizer. As always, Bowles’s background as a pianist and drummer informs his approach to banjo, imparting a woodiness, a piney verticality and resinous tang. Westerlund’s training with Milford Graves is apparent in his polyrhythmic flow and its correspondences to human circulatory and corporeal rhythms. They recorded their collective discoveries with engineer Nick Broste in the spring of 2022.The record begins, like the group’s name, and like the language of its unique instrumental interplay, with ambiguous grammar: “We Center,” the first and longest track at thirteen and a half minutes, builds patiently to a percolating climax of tidal heaving, with ceremonial connotations. “Zoetropics,” the shortest piece, follows, offering a more diaphanous counterpoint to the density of its predecessor. The zithery, shivering “A Sun Harp,” its title redolent of Sun Ra, showcases Westerlund’s unfettered drumming, which skitters restlessly until anchored, at its conclusion, by a minor bass progression. Finally, “Fog Glossaries” exhales through the maritime and meteorological evocations of its title, distant buoys clanging. Although certainly elements and strategies of so-called ambient and drone musical traditions are invoked and deployed, those diffuse terms feel inadequate to describe everything else happening here: the devotional valences, the minimalist rigor, and even submarine jazz inclinations perceptible beneath the surface. Throughout this four-movement program, which invites deep listening, it is often difficult to differentiate individual instruments from the massed choir of the group’s unified sonic presence. At times what sound like field recordings cicadas, birds, wind, water splash out of this slow but powerful current, only to be revealed as overtones produced by harmonium, banjo, or cymbals. Setting’s sound is fundamentally synthetic in the sense of synthesis, not artifice—in a manner remarkable for its almost entirely acoustic arsenal of instrumentation, often registering as the product of a single alien technology, perhaps the rainbow lights of that bog-marooned UFO. (“Setting,” of course, can also refer to a machine’s variable operational amplitude its temperature, volume, speed, elevation, etc.) Sometimes the most seemingly extraterrestrial lifeforms are in fact our unfamiliar earthbound neighbors. Despite the destruction of many such habitats, the coastal plains of eastern, tidewater North Carolina is home to more pocosins freshwater, evergreen wetlands with deep, acidic, sandy, peat soils than anywhere else in the world. These threatened peat-bog ecosystems are the only native environment to sustain the carnivorous Venus flytrap, among other oddities. The sonic ecosystem of Setting similarly deep, acidic, and boggy contains equivalent wonders, savage and delicate, for listeners willing to take the time to sink.

Mike Cooper wrote his final songwriter record, a suite of gloaming glam-rock anthems performed with a spiritual jazz trio, while living on the Costa Tropical of Granada, Spain, an era when he was considering retiring from music altogether. A chance encounter and a last-ditch record deal convinced him to make one last album, which he recorded in 1974 at Pathway Studios in London, with “The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World,” featuring the inventive South African jazz rhythm section of Louis Moholo and Harry Miller with UK saxophonist Mike Osborne. This first-ever reissue includes a bonus CD of Milan Live Acoustic 2018, a previously unreleased solo set that represents Cooper’s return, after forty-four years pursuing free improvisation and electronics, to a new, deconstructed approach to singing, steel guitar, and songcraft. The deluxe LP+CD edition also features a six-panel insert with additional artwork and an essay by the artist about both records. The deluxe 2xCD gatefold edition features an eight-panel version of the same insert. In the wake of his magisterial triptych of early 1970s avant-folk-rock records Trout Steel (1970), Places I Know (1971), and The Machine Gun Co. (1972) the British songwriter, guitarist, and fledgling improviser Mike Cooper retreated to the Costa Tropical of Granada, Spain. With no prospects for touring or recording again, his fiery band the Machine Gun Co. had disintegrated. Cooper sets the scene in his liner notes of the first-ever reissue of his unjustly forgotten next album Life and Death in Paradise (1974): No one came running with offers of fame and riches, and we fell apart, and I left the country and headed for the beach, disillusioned and a bit disorientated musically. I went to Almuñécar in Andalusia, a place I had been going since 1969, because a painter friend from Reading, Rowland Fade who made the collage in the gatefold of my earlier album Trout Steel had moved there in 1968. It was in this synthetic coastal “paradise,” unmoored and adrift, considering retiring from music altogether, that he began tentatively writing new songs. A chance encounter with producer Tony Hall, who offered Cooper a last-ditch record deal on Hall’s nascent Fresh Air label, convinced him to make one last album with the stipulation that he could assemble what he called “The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World.” I told Tony that I would do it if I could hire some of my South African jazz musician friends that I had used on my Pye/Dawn albums and some friends from Reading that I still knew and admired. I called up Harry Miller, Louis Moholo, and Mike Osborne, who were in fact a trio at the time … and several local Reading heroes, including the singer-songwriter Terry Clarke. The result, recorded live with minimal overdubbing at Pathway Studios in London, was Life and Death in Paradise, an utterly singular suite of gloaming glam-rock anthems performed with a spiritual jazz trio comprising the inventive South African jazz rhythm section of Moholo and Miller with UK saxophonist Osborne. Unlike anything else in Cooper’s extensive catalog. Fresh Air fizzled, and Life and Death became Cooper’s final record as a songwriter, having pushed the form as far as he could. Drifting north from Spain back to the UK, he fell into the scene of the London Musicians Collective (LMC) including Paul Burwell, David Toop, and saxophonist Lol Coxhill, Cooper’s bandmate in the Recedents and fully embraced free improvisation. He was still, however, interested in singing and lyrics, so, influenced by Tom Phillips, William Burroughs, and Brion Gysin, he began experimenting with text collage and cut-up techniques, arriving at his own hybrid compositional strategy for improvisatory songs. The previously unreleased solo set Milan Live Acoustic 2018 represents Cooper’s return, after more than four decades pursuing free improvisation and electronics, to a new, deconstructed approach to singing, lap steel guitar, and songcraft. Presented here together with Life and Death in Paradise, the two records provide fascinating bookends to Mike Cooper’s long, mercurial, and pioneering practice as a songmaker.

First-ever reissue of the 1988 album. Gatefold LP includes new and restored artwork and a chapbook, featuring forty-eight pages of lyrics, essays, photographs, and Gordon's extraordinary drawings for each song. The Choctaw, Assiniboine, and Texan poet, journalist, visual artist, American Indian Movement activist, and musician Roxy Gordon (First Coyote Boy) (1945-2000) was above all a storyteller, known primarily as a writer of inimitable style and unvarnished candor, whose wide-ranging work encompassed poetry, short fiction, essays, memoirs, journalism, and criticism. Over the course of his career he recorded six albums, wrote six books, and published hundreds of shorter texts in outlets ranging from Rolling Stone and The Village Voice to the Coleman Chronicle and Democrat-Voice, in addition to founding and operating, with his wife Judy Gordon, Wowapi Press and the underground country music journal Picking Up the Tempo. Along the way he cultivated close friendships with fellow Texan songwriters such as Lubbockites Terry Allen, Butch Hancock, and Tommy X. Hancock, as well as Ray Wylie Hubbard, Billy Joe Shaver, and, most famously, Townes Van Zandt, whom he called his brother. Although his work covered a vast array of topics exploring strata personal, local, global, and cosmic alike, Gordon's primary subject as a writer, musician, and visual artist was always American Indian culture, specifically the ways it collided and coexisted with European American culture in the South and West-and within the context of his own life and braided identity. The ten songs on Crazy Horse Never Died, his first officially released and distributed album, were recorded in Dallas in 1988. "Songs" is perhaps an imprecise taxonomy for what Roxy captured on this and his other albums, all of which remain out of print or were released in instantly obscure limited editions of homebrew cassettes and CD-R's. (Paradise of Bachelors plans to reissue remastered, expanded editions of his catalog; Crazy Horse is the first.) He only occasionally attempted to sing, and his musical recordings are primarily corollaries of, and vehicles for, his poems. His sharp West Texan drawl, tinged by formative years of reservation living in Montana and unmistakable once you hear it-high, lonesome, flat, and cold-blooded as a bare rusty blade-instead patiently unfurls in skewed sheets of anecdotal verse and discursive narrative rants. Although Gordon's music at times incorporated powwow style drumming, fiddling, or unaccompanied ballad singing, the majority of it hews to an idiosyncratic spoken word style, accompanied by atmospheric, sometimes synth-damaged country-rock that skirts ambient textures and postpunk deconstructions. His songs are essentially recitations over backing tracks of finger picked guitars, rubbery washtub bass, and buzzing, oscillating keyboards. On the stark yellow and red jacket of Crazy Horse, which he designed himself, Gordon describes these recordings as innately ambivalent in terms of form, content, and identity: These are poems and/or songs about the American West, white and Indian. My life has been Indian and/or white. Maybe there's not a lot of difference-maybe. I guess that's mostly according to which white person or which Indian you're talking about. That's probably what this album's about. Crazy Horse Never Died comprises songs that span the personal and political arcs of his writing practice and the poles of his native and white ancestries.

Repress in soon, note new price. RIYL Steve Gunn, Hiss Golden Messenger, Ryley Walker, Itasca, Bill Callahan, Kurt Vile, Angel Olsen. “Timeless ... Measured, perceptive storytelling. A singer with an unmistakable and communicative voice, able to convey hope and hurt with equal clarity.” Pitchfork / “She writes literate songs with unusual precision and sings them in an understated, open-hearted way that lends good poetry the directness of conversation.” Uncut / On her fourth album as The Weather Station, Tamara Lindeman reinvents, and more deeply roots, her extraordinary, acclaimed songcraft, framing her precisely detailed, exquisitely wrought prose-poem narratives in bolder and more cinematic musical settings. The result is her most sonically direct and emotionally candid statement to date. The Weather Station is her most direct and candid record, and the first one to include tracks one might characterize as pop songs. Throughout, the record grapples with some of the darkest material Lindeman has yet approached: it is, according to her, the first album on which she touches on her personal experiences of mental illness. And yet the gesture inherent to the record is one of unflinching embrace. Despite it all, the characters “fall down laughing, effervescent, and all over nothing, all over nothing.” “Well, I guess I got the hang of it” she sings wryly, “the impossible.” By saying more than ever before, The Weather Station seeks to reveal the unnamable, the unsayable void that lies beneath language and relationships. It’s willfully messy and ardent and hungry. Tracks : A1 Free A2 Thirty A3 You and I (on the Other Side of the World) A4 Kept It All to Myself A5 Impossible B1 Power B2 Complicit B3 Black Flies B4 I Don’t Know What to Say B5 In an Hour B6 The Most Dangerous Thing About You

RIYL: David Byrne, Guy Clark, Bob Dylan, The Flatlanders, Randy Newman, John Prine, Lucinda Williams, Townes Van Zandt. The first-ever vinyl reissue of Allen’s manifold, moving fourth album, remastered from the original analog tapes. Deluxe LP edition features 140g virgin vinyl; a gatefold jacket, inner sleeve with restored, new, and alternate art and photos by Terry and Jo Harvey Allen and friends, insert with lyrics and original notes & DL. Deluxe CD edition features a trifold jacket & inner sleeve. On his manifold fourth album, acclaimed songwriter and visual artist Terry Allen contemplates kinship the ways sex and violence stitch and sever the ties of family, faith, and society with skewering satire and affection alike. Bloodlines compiles thematically related but disparate recordings from miscellaneous sources both theatrical and historical: two songs written for plays; two full-band reprises of selections from Juarez; the irreverent hellfire-hitchhiker-on-highway ballad “Gimme a Ride to Heaven Boy” (featuring Joe Ely); and the poignant eponymous ode to the arteries of ancestry and landscape (the debut recording of eight year-old Natalie Maines, later covered by Lucinda Williams). Since 1970, when they met in Allen’s studio in his hometown of Lubbock, Texas, one of songwriter and visual artist Terry Allen’s great foils and friends was the sometimes cantankerous but always brilliant art critic and writer Dave Hickey, with whom he sparred on topics musical, visual, and beyond (and to whom this reissue is dedicated in memoriam, in the wake of his passing in 2021.) Hickey, a fellow Texan paddling against the currents of the hermetic New York centric art world, was an accomplished songwriter in his own right, and he and Terry pushed each other to refine their respective practices. In 1983, the two were thick as thieves brothers in blood and Hickey’s wry but big-hearted presence haunts the history and periphery of Bloodlines, the album Terry released in June of that year. Hickey’s commercial doubts notwithstanding, critical recognition was not in short demand. In a 1984 review of Bloodlines, the L.A. Herald Examiner called Allen “one of the most compelling American songwriters working today … making the most unique art-pop of our time,” elsewhere comparing him not only to Moon Mullican and Jerry Lee Lewis, but also to the Velvet Underground and Philip Glass (probably the first time that unlikely quartet ever appeared together in one sentence). In 1983, against all odds, such sentiments were growing in underground prominence, as Allen’s records gained a fanatical word-of-mouth following they weren’t easy to find in those days. Recorded piecemeal at Caldwell Studios in Lubbock, in sessions spanning August 1982 through January 1983, Terry self-released it, like all his previous records, on his own Fate Records imprint. Despite his frustration with the protracted timeline and some anxiety about the correspondingly higher budget, the production on Bloodlines courtesy, once again, of master guitarist Lloyd Maines is slicker, cleaner, and more dynamic than prior efforts, and it reached a broader audience than ever before. UK label Making Waves reissued it in 1985, facilitating semi-reliable European distribution for the first time as well as a 1986 UK tour, on which the great BJ Cole filled in for Lloyd on pedal steel. No veteran country songwriter sounds more attuned to the national mood. His songs still feel like little guidebooks for staring down a harsh universe. – The Washington Post // It has always been a fool’s errand to frame Allen in terms of other artists there was nobody like him before he showed up, and the subsequent 40 years have been equally light on plausible peers. Uncut

This first-ever vinyl reissue, remastered from the original analog tapes, includes a gatefold jacket and inner sleeve with restored, new, and alternate art and photos by Terry and Jo Harvey Allen; an insert with lyrics, original notes, and Terry’s letter to H.C. Westermann about the songs; and a high-res download code. Deluxe CD edition features a trifold jacket and inner sleeve. Recorded exactly two years after acclaimed visual artist and songwriter Terry Allen’s masterpiece Lubbock (on everything), the feral follow-up Smokin the Dummy is less conceptually focused but more sonically and stylistically unified than its predecessor it’s also rougher and rowdier, wilder and more wired, and altogether more menacingly rock and roll. Following the 1973 Whitney Biennial, in which songwriter and visual artist Terry Allen and fellow iconic artist Horace Clifford “Cliff” Westermann both exhibited, Allen maintained a lively long-distance correspondence and exchange of artworks and music with Westermann, whose singular and highly influential art he admired enormously. In a February 1981 letter to his friend and mentor, written shortly after the late 1980 release of his third album Smokin the Dummy, while he and his family were living in Fresno, California, Terry explains the genesis of the album title: Westermann died shortly after receiving this letter, enclosed with a Smokin the Dummy LP, the minimalist black jacket of which Allen suggested that Cliff fold into a jaunty cardboard hat if he didn’t like the music. That response was unlikely, since Westermann loved Terry’s music, calling his debut record Juarez (1975) “the finest, most honest and heartfelt piece of music I ever heard.” The Panhandle Mystery Band had only recently coalesced during those 1978 Lubbock sessions, Lloyd Maines’s first foray into production. Through 1979, they honed their sound and tightened their arrangements with a series of periodic performances beyond Allen’s regular art-world circuit, including memorable record release concerts in Lubbock, Chicago, L.A., and Kansas City. Terry sought to harness the high-octane power of this now well-oiled collective engine to overdrive his songs into rawer and rockier off-road territory. His first album to share top billing with the Panhandle Mystery Band, Dummy documents a ferocious new band in fully telepathic, tornado-fueled flight, refining its caliber, increasing its range, and never looking down. Alongside the stalwart Maines brothers co-producer, guitarist, and all-rounder Lloyd, bassist Kenny, and drummer Donnie and mainstay Richard Bowden (who here contributes not only fiddle but also mandolin, cello, and “truck noise theory,” the big-rig doppler effect of Lloyd’s steel on “Roll Truck Roll”), new addition Jesse Taylor supplies blistering lead guitar, on loan from Joe Ely (who plays harmonica here). Jesse’s kinetic blues lines and penchant for extreme volume were instrumental in pushing these recordings into brisker tempos and tougher attitudes. Terry was feverish for several studio days, suffering from a bad flu and sweating through his clothes, which partially explains the literally febrile edge to his performances, rendered largely in a perma-growl. (By this point, he was regularly breaking piano pedals with his heavy-booted stomp.) Like the album title itself, the songs on Smokin the Dummy ring various demented bells. The tracks rifle through Terry’s assorted Obsessions especially the potential energy and escape of the open road, elevated here to an ecstatic, prayerful pitch and are populated by a cast of crooked characters: truckers, truck-stop waitresses, convicts, cokeheads, speed freaks, greasers, holy rollers, rodeo riders, dancehall cheaters, and sacrificial prairie dogs, sinners seeking some small reprieve, any fugitive moment of grace. A reigning deity of a certain kind of country music since the mid-70s. – The New York Times // The kind of singular American artist who expresses the fundamental weirdness of his country. – The Wire

Deluxe LP features 140g virgin vinyl; heavy-duty board jacket, artwork by Art Rosenbaum + DL. RIYL: Bob Dylan, John Prine, Townes Van Zandt, Ry Cooder, Michael Chapman, Michael Hurley, The Youngbloods & Bonnie “Prince” Billy. Jake Xerxes Fussell’s 4th album finds the acclaimed folksong interpreter, guitarist, and singer navigating fresh sonic and compositional landscapes on the most conceptually focused, breathtakingly rendered, and enigmatically poignant record of his wondrous catalog. Produced by James Elkington and featuring formidable players both familiar (Casey Toll, Libby Rodenbough) and new (Joe Westerlund, Bonnie “Prince” Billy), it includes Jake’s first original compositions; atmospheric arrangements with pedal steel, horns, and strings. One of the most striking and strangely moving moments on Jake Xerxes Fussell’s gorgeous Good and Green Again an album, his fourth and most recent, replete with such dazzling moments arrives at its very end, with the brief words to the final song “Washington.” “General Washington/Noblest of men/His house, his horse, his cherry tree, and him,” Fussell sings, after a hushed introductory passage in which his trademark percussively fingerpicked Telecaster converses lacily with James Elkington’s parlor piano. That’s the entire lyrical content of the song, which proceeds to float away on orchestral clouds of French horn, trumpet, and strings, until it simply stops, suddenly evaporating, vanishing with no fade or trace, no resolution to its sorrowful minor-key chord progression, just silence and stillness and stark presidential absence. It feels like the end of a film, or the cold departure of a ghost, and is unlike anything else Jake has recorded. In all his work Jake humanizes his material with his own profound curatorial and interpretive gifts, unmooring stories and melodies from their specific eras and origins and setting them adrift in our own waterways. The robust burr of his voice, which periodically melts and catches at a particularly tender turn of phrase, and the swung rhythmic undertow of exquisite, seemingly effortless guitar-playing here he plays more acoustic than ever before pull new valences of meaning from ostensibly antique songs and subjects. On Good and Green Again, Jake not only ventures beyond his established mastery of songcatching and songmaking into songwriting, but likewise navigates fresh sonic and compositional landscapes, going green with lusher, more atmospheric and ambitious arrangements. The result is the most conceptually focused, breathtakingly rendered, and enigmatically poignant record of his wondrous catalog. It’s also his most deliberately premeditated album, representing his fruitful return to a producer partnership after two self-produced projects, What in the Natural World (2017) and Out of Sight (2019) (William Tyler produced his friend’s self-titled 2015 debut.) This time James Elkington produced and played a panoply of instruments, bringing to Jake’s arcane song choices his own peerless sense of harmony and orchestration, balance and dramatic tension. The pair enlisted a group of formidable players including regular bandmembers Casey Toll (Mt. Moriah, Nathan Bowles) on upright bass, Libby Rodenbough (Mipso) on strings, and Nathan Golub on pedal steel. They were joined by welcome newcomers Joe Westerlund (Megafaun, Califone) on drums, Joseph Decosimo on fiddle, Anna Jacobson on brass, and veteran collaborator and avowed Fussell fan Bonnie “Prince” Billy, who contributes additional vocals. Album opener “Love Farewell” (featuring some beautiful singing by Bonnie “Prince” Billy), an elliptical tale of the folly of war, set to the world’s most heartbreaking goodbye march for a lover left behind. “Carriebelle” and “Breast of Glass” each similarly concerns, in its own way, romantic love and leavings. All three songs highlight Jacobson’s diaphanous, understated brass parts, tying them together in a true lover’s knot. “Rolling Mills Are Burning Down,” with its distant keening strings and capacious sense of space, observes and mourns the loss of work and community in the wake of elemental disaster. Nine-minute tour de force “The Golden Willow Tree,” the sole explicitly narrative song herein, is a hypnotic, minimalist rendering of a tragic maritime ballad about scuttling an enemy ship in exchange for wealth and glory and a captain’s inevitable betrayal. “Fussell is creating his own legacy within the long lineage of traditional folk musicians and storytellers that have come before him.” The New York Times // “So elegant … It’s relaxing in the way that pondering a Zen koan is relaxing, and sweet in the way that the wounded, honey-voiced blues of Mississippi John Hurt are sweet.” Pitchfork // “Music that resides at the seams of Appalachia and the cosmos.”

Mega Bog (der kosmopolitische Moniker der Musikerin/Künstlerin Erin Birgy) wendet sich von von der schwülen Atmosphäre der Grünlilien-Plantage des Vorgängeralbums "Dolphine" (2019) ab und bringt uns mit "Life, And Another" zurück auf unseren Heimatplaneten, in den dünnen Luftdruck eines Wüstentals, wo die vierzehn Songs geschrieben und wie Steine in der Landschaft verstreut wurden, jeder einzelne ein kostbares Juwel, das Birgy gemeißelt hat. Es ist eine weitere fantastische Off-World-Übertragung und ihr bisher anspruchsvollstes, forschendstes und zugänglichstes Statement. "Life, And Another" inszeniert ein halb-fiktionalisiertes Drama im Inneren des Ichs, mit Szenen kollektiver Sehnsucht auf der Bowlingbahn, Auseinandersetzungen über eine aufgeblähte Erinnerung außerhalb der Bar und einsamen Kreisen auf der Terrasse, die in sturer Ehrfurcht über den Hof hinausschauen. Diese Erinnerungen, sowohl aus der Vergangenheit als auch aus der Zukunft, sprudeln das ganze Album hindurch und präsentieren ihre Charaktere als neue Einträge in das Mega Bog Book of Symbols. Zusammen mit dem Co-Produzenten, Tontechniker und Perkussionisten James Krivchenia (BIG THIEF) lebte Erin Birgy in einer kleinen Hütte in der Nähe des Rio Grande und war zwischen ihren Tourneeplänen oft allein. In diesen Isolationen erlebte sie den teilweisen Verlust des "bekannten" Selbst inmitten der Weite. Aufgenommen in mehreren Sessions in verschiedenen Studios enthält "Life, And Another" instrumentale Beiträge von langjährigen und neuen Mitstreitern, darunter Aaron Otheim, Zach Burba, Will Segerstrom, Matt Bachmann, Andrew Dorset von Lake, James Krivchenia von Big Thief, Meg Duffy von Hand Habits, Jade Tcimpidis, Alex Liebman und die Co-Engineers Geoff Treager und Phil Hartunian. Ihre Hörer wissen inzwischen, dass sie MEGA BOG vertrauen können, dass sie kontinuierlich in tiefere und wildere, spirituelle Pop-Gefilde geführt werden. Flirrende Piano-Glissandi, eindringliche psychische Hintergrundstimmen und Tequila-inspirierte Improvisationen schleichen und kriechen über die dunkle Nacht-der-Seele-Rock'n'Roll-Traumlandschaft, bevor sie verschwinden, um Platz zu machen für Beschwörungen von stiller Klarheit und lebendig-atmenden Instrumentalpassagen. In "Life, And Another" verwandelt Mega Bog die brutale Schwere der Welt in den kollektiven Kampf des Lebens.