9.7.21 by Matty McPherson

We don’t talk about the anime, the Big O, enough on Tabs Out. Let me go ahead and rectify that. One of my favorite moments of the Japanese robot anime (about people living in a post-apocalypse simulation of NYC (or something)), is when the show briefly touches on the remnants of religion. No one knows why, but every Sunday a congregation of amnesiacs descend towards a crumbled church, where they sing songs of a foreign tongue that no one remembers; an urge beyond their comprehension drives them. It’s a story that has been on my mind as I’ve been giving Kranky-gazer MJ Guider’s (aka Melissa Guion’s) new tape Temporary Requiem a magnitude of spins. You see, Temporary Requiem is a six part music score for an experimental mass performed in 2018 and 2019. It came out of a collaborative effort with choreographer Ann Glaviano, seeking to “build and break down a lost church over the span of the performance.” 

The New Orleans-based artist had a definitive level up on last year’s Sour Cherry Bell, using her signature ambient reverb as a groundwork for propulsive, introverted headphases. Guider has mentioned the effect of New Orleans on her work — how it imparts a subconscious, romantic quality to those tracks; one equally made to drown under and much as garner a featherweight strength in its shadows. Sour Cherry Bell also made a noticeable double down on movement — whether that be a chiaroscuro step or an industrial hopscotch — that could shift on a dime. It effectively put the album in a Kranky lineage dating back to Bowery Electric’s Beat, as much as it left a new ripe ground to dig into.

When I briefly chatted with Guion about dance and working with Glaviano, I was struck at how open-minded the boundaries of dance the two were working with. Movement could be subtle as much as discrete, a larger mental modus operandi than afforded credit. And yes, Guion’s sound of “bass, drum, loops, laptop, vocals” is indeed ripe for dance. This expanded emphasis on movement came through on Guider’s two 2021 releases on her new imprint, modemain: the “matanzas/vinales” 7” and the aforementioned “Temporary Requiem” cassette. Both were worked on during the same span of time as SCB and are described as constituting a trinity of this era of MJ Guider. “Temporary Requiem” also happens to be Guider’s first tape in 7 years (since debuting on Constellation Tatsu). In that time, the purples and whites of her palette have opened up towards a faded red. Although it took me a moment to realize the white wolf I thought I saw on the cover was actually a close-up of feet in the middle of a “mass for dance.”

The six tracks presented here are experiments structured by this unique commission. Yet, Guion’s return to mass, years post-Roman Catholic high school and touring with noted metalheads Thou, have recontextualized her wheelhouse of tricks: Opener “Kyrie: The Stained Glass Windows in Their Original Order” stretches her sound to a nearly ten-minute sacramental shuffle; echoing hi-hats running like clockwork kick up quite the trance.  Dissected and altered Latin requiem passages, turned into aching chorus pieces expanding her aching voice into one of many on “Credo: Here and Gone” and “Agnus Dei…” The improv “Benedictus: Tribute to Leviathan, Her Ancestors, and Her Progeny,” summons an omnibus drone equally as glacial as Amulets. A wholly unexpected, rapturous display of fury. It’s a space I did not anticipate to find Guion, yet…

For an artist whose music has often struck me as true “heads down, blinders on” headphone listen, there is something mighty grand seeing all these elements laid down on a soundsystem. The codifiers or genre-signifiers that knee-cap the prowess of reverb, are evaded. Guion’s sound is eerier and far more inquisitive. She’s moved beyond anything that could be regulated to that sphere, as she weaves her own architecture outright. On “Temporary Requiem,” MJ Guider reached for the sublime and arrived on the other side with 2021’s strongest left-field act of spiritualism, and really that’s about all I can think about before I put it back on in a minute here.

Clear tape dubbed by Cryptic Carousel with a hand-stamped risograph insert printed by Constance edition of 100 SOLD OUT at the source; check your Chicago record store or Discogs, they’ll have copies.

8.26.21 by Matty McPherson

Mr. Reyes, I hope you are doing well at the moment. I know you can be quite busy, running American Dreams and (American) Decline labels in between whatever is on your plate. I just thought you should know that I recently took in your latest tape, “What is a Ghost? Is it Really Me?”, in between days of grilling and reflecting on John Hassell. The title struck me as a beautiful question in light of all things happening. It left me in a most inquisitive modus operandus.

I’d seen in the past that you’ve expressed quite the interest in modular synthesizers, but that for this Unifactor batch, you opted for “synth drones with dead-eyed woodwinds or the occasional wall of layered guitar clusters.” It took me a week to work towards the proper headspace with these zones, although once they worked their magic, I found myself sympathizing with these tones.

When times were lighter, I used to walk on the beach; a welcome reprieve from my own anxiety. There was a moment at the start of the pandemic that I walked into a sheer wind blast. Your scorched synth tones on the opener brought me back there, real time navigating where I was going. There’s even a bit of a conspiratorial sense to the instrumentation. The shadows the woodwinds impart on “What Spectre Reflects in Glass?” seemed to tower over me, murmuring their dismay. There’s peace to be found though through those tumults.

The back half is a patient, brighter stride. The open-eyed bass rumble and synthetic pulses of the title track; the flickery jitters of The Void is Boundless, Boundless is the Void that circle around the same sugar-coated acidity of Suicide ‘77. Yes, I can see them serving as ways to reacquaint oneself in a space — foreign or familiar — and work from there.

I do appreciate best though, how you are able to bust out those aforementioned guitar clusters. On “Foregone Breaths a Presence Makes,” the guitar rolls through like a warm breeze, stretching where the synth drones grimace. When the instrument returns on “Lead Me To The Cliff – Away We Laugh,” there’s a newfound serenity that I find myself lulled to. A cosmic lullaby for those starless nights. I guess I’m trying to say, the tape made me feel a little less alone, and I thank you for sharing these zones of solace.

Limited Edition Cassette Available from the ever reliable Unifactor Tapes

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8.25.21 by Matty McPherson

A lot of what could be contributed to the success of Trouble in Mind could be best surmised by the fact that every band on the label there seems to like the Raincoats’ Odyshape. However, only Brian Case (to my knowledge) can lay claim to having once shared a roster with guitar powerhouse Roy Montgomery. Now, was Roy Montgomery or Odyshape being summoned when Case threw down a “Practice Tape” on Trouble in Mind’s rather neato Exploration Series? Well, when I opened my tape cover I didn’t expect to find Cybil Shepherd staring back at me — could I consider this a sort of reference to Ciccone Youth’s The Whitey Album? Well there’s no Madonna karaoke number to be found here…

So then, where does Practice Tape fit in the Brian Case Sonic Universe in 2021? Carefully, one would surmise. Case’s guitar prowess on this year’s FACS album hit a sublime plane with Noah Legert and Alianna Kalaba’s grooves. Yet, this tape is all about electronics and obsession. The former surplants typical guitar reverb I’ve found in Case’s work before, imparting the sounds of dust, echoes, and machines from the Labradfordian dimension. 

Each side is split into 16:29 chunks that feel infinite. They meticulously lurk, crash, and tumble; listening to the tape had that feeling of being on hold with a call coming a dimension over. Perhaps a bit of that could be attributed to Cybil Shepherd, an inspiration to Case and these instrumentals’ own abstracted dirges into “fame and notoriety.” What I know after an hour is that to listen to this tape with your eyes shut ain’t gonna answer any questions there. Start strolling around… head down, blinders on… and stray figments of those themes start to string through with every neon marquee that matches those syncopations. You’ll thank me later.

Limited cassette version, with photocopied J-card, and white cassette shell with black imprint; available from the Trouble in Mind Explorers Series

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8.17.21 by Matty McPherson

I suppose Astral Spirits has entered into its “Avengers” era, where it consistently pulls the unexpected collaborative efforts out of a hat like its no problem. Case in point with this latest tape.

Jeff Tobias once called me when I was high, before shit hit the fan. I have great admiration for his band Sunwatchers and was interested in whatever act of liberation they were plotting if and when they made it to the west coast. Plus, Tobias is responsible for laying down a tasty little diatribe on Modern Nature’s introduction to the world (aka “Nature”). Anyways, this call happened as Mr. Modern Nature’s (aka Jack Cooper) ol’ solo release from Trouble in Mind a few years back sat on a locked groove at the end of Side A. So, it feels more than cosmic that the two firebrands have united for some sort of “Tributaries” thingamajig on AS. 

Two tracks, loaded over a C30 may sound like one of the more straightforward Astral Spirit adventures in recent memory. Although, Cooper and Tobias adamantly treat this as a “one note right than two notes at all” kind of affair. Perhaps “Isotope 217 sans the pro tools glitcherie” might be a more applicable laymans’ term. By that, I mean to say this is a delicate, capacious kind of tape, where both players look for a place to spread out each note played to the maximum. There’s a quality reminiscent of overhearing a conversation between rooms; following the strings from one crevice into another where Cooper and Tobias briefly collide, only for Tobias’ sax to recede or Cooper’s guitar to swap patterns. 

From the Bandcamp page, information reveals that Cooper’s guitar patterns were “created from systems or tone-rows,” meant to be played off of Tobias’ saxophone across the two tracks (“Wicken” and “Debden”). There’s a level of meticulous spaciousness as a result, as Cooper’s guitar often leave a melody left untouched. Open to but not overtly suggestive about what approach Tobias is prone to taking, which saunters beautifully in the spaces where they do come together. Still, this emphasis on silence and the in-between keeps the tape in constant Rififi mode, tip-toeing and feeling out every nook of their instruments. It’s as if one wrong move could sound an alarm! 

Neither Tobias nor Cooper have made music this slow nor evocative in recent memory. In fact it rewards itself in the darkness, where the moments where they come together impart a particular kind of melancholy mood invoking the spaces of obliqueness between street lights. A whole other album could’ve been weaved out of, and it left me with a sensation hard to decipher. Yet, it felt spiritually similar to the first time Remy the rat must’ve felt when eating a piece of cheese with a strawberry. Two flavors synthesized into a combo that was in plain sight the whole time. Simply put, I find this a boon of an endeavor to wrap yourself up in for half an hour, and truly what more could you want?

Edition of 250 available from Astral Spirits.

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