Random Emanations from the Bottomless Well

Some time back I received a sweet package from one Mikey Turner, lead milker in the Warmer Milks, a Lexington, Kentucky ensemble that it's been a great pleasure to watch mature, or should I say devolve, over the last few years. 'Course their debut LP Radish on Light (Troubleman) is a goddamned classic of detuned angst-grunge that bears the weight of a dying world on its shoulders, the resultant stress cracks making it that much more of a harrowing thing of beauty. Then came some lineup shakeups and--shock!--Shawn David McMillen is invited into the fold along with Paul Oldham (as in Will's brother) for the culmination of the mini-album, Let You Friends In on Sweden's revered Release the Bats. Two tracks here, each a side-long plunge into some mighty destroyed psychedelic head-space. Opener "The Ripple, Children/The Jaunting" is the knockout with warped tape-speed madness giving way to a massive cycling sludge mantra that kicks the mud off my boots and makes it dance around like some sort of irate earth spirit. Turner's screeching balls-out death vocals on this song are the shit, easily some of the most harrowing/ visceral/ hilarious exorcizing Ive heard in a good long while. Beautiful. "The Wanderer" on the other hand is a bit more aimless with its Beefheart-on-thorazine lurching rhythm that keeps threatening to pick up steam and kick ass like the first track but never really does. I'm not saying I'm disappointed in this one, more that the first track is a hard act to follow.

A Special Time is a 22 min CD-R that comes courtesy of Turner's own Paranormal Overtime label (which can be ordered from him via the Warmer Milks website). It's a home-recorded piece conjured by a duo version of Warmer Milks featuring Turner and McMillen. Composed as an imaginary soundtrack to the cult TV show "The Tomorrow People," some 30 years after the fact, A Special Time is a surrealist garage drone freakout with levels maxed and eyes glazed over, detailing the ongoing struggles between the Homo Superiors and the rest of the Saps. The piece itself wavers from Faust-ian industrial pulse to a primitive Spacemen 3/Velvets guitar rush that cuts out far too soon but still makes me giddy with goose-pimply satisfaction all the same, before devolving into stumbling percussive sprawl and some eerie-as-shit deep space emanations more expected from such a garage soundtrack expedition. My favorite part just might be when the whole morass fades to just Mikey singing naked over guitar, banjo and what sounds like a distant helicopter. Pink Floyd couldn't have done this shit any better. It's like a new Faust Tapes for all us metaphysical neo-apes.

Also of note in the same package, the stripped down synth dreams of Collap (Paranormal Overtime), which covers everything from minimal techno pulse to OMD worthy synth pop blissouts via the M/T solo W/M guise. Who knew? Very cool. And that brings us to the Lortab Sunsplash 90 min tape, also on POT, which is an epic of slow burning bass hum and lost in the dark psychedelia that's probably best heard in the wee morning hours when the things that go bump in the night start to sound as if they were composed by some preternatural force that permeates the living space with infinite curiosity. I think I'm in love.

And now we say hello to San Francisco's Rahdunes. Rahhhhdunnness...I dig the name. Live in a Cave in 07 is a smoking little CD-R for the UK's Darkest Rainbow that features a series of live actions captured throughout 07 (duh), and color me head-fucked, this is the bomb. After having experienced somewhat mellower/more minimal live excursions by this duo/trio in recent months, I was pleasantly surprised to hear the molten supernova explorations of the first two tracks, coming off like a more probing, genuinely psychedelic Dead C. Yum. Elsewhere there's percussion, distorted shrieks and an overall tendency towards power-lectronic rocking that I've never really heard in the Rahdunes' music before, but then I haven't heard much. There's a full length on Emperor Jones I've been meaning to pick up and a brand new picture disk on Italy's great Qbico label, which Aaron Coyes claims really is a genuine rock set. But then in the end I guess it's all rock, aint it? Deep space bass hum meets wall of distortion overload never sounded so tasty. I'll definitely be on the hunt for Rahdunes in more permanent formats.

Mr Coyes also slipped me a CD-R by his self described "fucked modern pop duo," Peaking Lights. Clearvoiant offers up 6 songs of damaged hiss and surprisingly accessible acid pop meets freeform clatter that should appeal to devout fans of early Flying Nun/Xpressway Records, early Eno and other damaged post Velvets head-trippers. More, please.

I'm in the process of overcoming one of those pesky Springtime colds, but I think I'm on the mend. Hope so because Ettrick is playing a house-gig tonight that I'd really like to attend. At the same time though, everything sounds sort of muffled currently, and mucus is dripping down my face, over my lips and onto my belly.

Farewell Klaus Dinger, one of the greatest rock drummers of all time.

And then...

It's time once more for a little visit to the darkside. As many of you know I cannot escape a seemingly juvenile fixation with all things heavy, sludge and/or metal here in the Womb. Psych metal, punk metal, prog metal, doom metal, grim metal, black metal, funeral doooom metal, garage thrash kosmische metal, and of course the burgeoning subscene of shoegaze or ambient metal--whatever it may be. I only ask that my metal be a little angry, a tad dissonant, not too operatic, post-Sabbathian if possible and always lurching on all fours towards its ultimate demise.

Burning Witch Crippled Lucifer (Southern Lord 2CD reissue) - Hot damn. Here's an album for contemplating suicide while you smoke copious amounts of reefer. Hopefully you have better things to do with your time, but if you're feeling sort'a down and looking for something to provide that last push over the edge, give Crippled Lucifer a try. With bonus cuts from other singles and split releases around the time, this 2CD is the ultimate summation of Stephen O'Malley's early noise metal years and pretty much definitive in terms of bottomless chasms of sludge doom death. Most people will hate this. Khanate fans and the like will definitely dig it. Over half these songs are recorded by Steve Albini, so it's pretty much the heaviest album ever. And also a special mention to the incomparable vocal talents of Edgy 59, alternating between black metalesque seahag screech and a harrowing post-Ozzy howl. Somehow this feels like where much of what passed for grunge in the mid 90s should've gone but never dared. None but one.

Ahab The Call of the Wretched Sea (Napalm) - While we're swimming in these dark waters, let's remember that Burning Witch formed from the ashes (and I mean that literally) of Thorr's Hammer, a fantastic but short lived doom quartet that featured an even younger O'Malley and post Engine Kid/pre Sunno)))/Goatsnake Greg Anderson serving up some of the most techtonic doom sludge heard anywhere in the 90s. In retrospect Thorr's influence is pretty darn immeasurable seeing as Corrupted is about the only band around at the time that also traded in such glacial doom. When I listen to Germany's Ahab I can hear those Thorr's Hammer reverberations with trollish doom sludge bludgeon and almost death metal vocal growls. What's neat though, like more recent dare-to-be pretty metal acts such as Pelican and again Corrupted, Ahab is willing to temper its sludge-adelia with some fine moodier subtleties to make things seem less repetitive than they actually are and even more epic at the same time. Parts of this album almost feel like Bernard Herrmann scoring a doom metal soundtrack to an unrealized film version of Moby Dick. Yes, another metal band dares to reference Melville. For once the liteary allusions ring true.

Nadja Skin Turns to Glass (The End) - I returned from SXSW with a few Nadja albums, including a promo of this brand new release on The End. Toronto's Nadja is proof that two people with a drum machine, a guitar, bass, piano, voices, a shipload of effects and some genuine inspiration can forge some of the most enveloping sludge walls ever known to man. If there's one band that really spearheaded the development of super heavy drone metal it would have to be Godflesh, and like those innovators Nadja uses a drum machine and their rhythms have a vacuum-cleaner-on-high sort of aura. Unlike Godflesh, the percussion is much more simplistic much of the way, and every song tops the 14 min mark and often goes well beyond. Also this is often quite beautiful--like beholding dreamlike apocalypse scene with hearts beating loudly, eyes welling up with tears. This is doom for those of us who never got over our Slowdive fixation.

SXSW 2008
Riding in the whirlwind. That's what I call the SXSW showcase grind. It's a hero's journey to be survived more than enjoyed. If we're lucky we emerge better people after the week long odyssey of endless standing and badge-envy, apostles of musical enlightenment. If we're not we maybe end up drunk in a puddle of piss, or as roadkill on San Jacinto, or maybe we smarten up and just hang back from the official fest showcases altogether, drink free beer and dig on all the righteous day parties. I guess I did a little of all of the above, some highlights below:

Wednesday

I pull into Austin Wednesday about 6:30 P.M., and get on down to the Thirsty Nickle on 6th for my yearly indoctrination into the clan of Sunburned Hand of the Man. John Moloney and his sonic kin (mostly new faces to me) tear through a barrage of old school analog drones meets funk stomp damage. It all seems a bit chaotic and even aimless compared to the previous Sunburned show I caught a year before, but then that's how so many of the greatest bands come off in the end: inconsistent. Those highs and lows are worth the endurance for those of us willing to take the plunge. Fine fest opener all in all.

Then a quick dash over to St David's Church on 7th to catch a series of performances curated by Steve Reich (it's pronounced Reish btw). Shhhhwing. Anyone who has ever gotten drunk on cheap wine and spaced out to the pulsing tonal mantras of Music For 18 Musicians knows what kind of master composer Reich is, each note tightly arranged with classical and jazz precision to reveal room saturating symphonies for the soul. The SOLI Chamber Ensemble is perhaps a bit too "straight" for my leanings, but guitarist Eddie Whalen's gorgeous set and the percussive rush of So Percussion more than make up for it, supplying the kind of high brow musicality that low brow fiends such as myself can occasionally truly dig on.

After this delicate display a few of us make it down to Habana Calle 6 on 6th (where else?) to catch The Gowns, a trio I'd not heard before now but was interested in since there's an Amps for Christ connection. With a lineup of guitar/violin/percussion, these folks come off as a kind of Appalachian response to the Magik Markers with lots of quiet squiggly moments building to rousing post punk eruptions. There's a hot blond singer/guitarist, a busy jazzy drummer, and the violinist works well whether unleashing monochrome rainbows or squealing barnyard squalls. Next, oscillating punk screamers Parts and Labor--very good at what they do. I'm just not a big fan of what they do.

Thursday

...kicks off with an attempt at catching The Castanets at Mrs. Beas on the East Side, no luck. Catch The Woods instead, a cpl songs anyway; I guess these lads could be described as post Devendra hippie fuzz folk. Agreeable. Decide to trot up a couple blocks to a place called French Legation, nestled alongside a historical cemetery (makes for a serene backdrop), and catch a very fine J Mascis solo set in which he plays amplified acoustic guitar with occasional fuzz bursts. I guess this draws more from later Dino Jr. and solo stuff (must admit my woeful ignorance of more recent Mascis related things). Dig it regardless. Then back down to Mrs. Beas to find that The Castanets have played the shortest day set in the history of SXSW. I miss it. This marks a recurring motif of almost (but not quite) seeing The Castanets live (though I do manage catch a glimpse of Raymond Raposa with Denton locals Shiny Around the Edges two days later). I don't remember who the next band was at Beas. The trio has a sort of hillbilly scrappy dog appeal that makes me think of Flying Burrito Brothers and muttonchops and has me smilin' in my boots. Next comes Mexican food, coffee and further preparations for what would surely be a festival highlight: The Siltbreeze Showcase at the Soho Lounge on 6th Street.

Again, here I am in the middle of Asstown, TX, 6th Street cordoned off for showgoers, fratboys and gangbangers alike, and I'm about to watch eight different bands courtesy of one of my favorite indie labels of all time. All in the same venue no less. The impact that Siltbreeze had on my development as a fucked up antisocial sloprock junkie is immeasurable, and since then they've come back on the scene in a heavy way with a new generation of art skuzz purveyors ready to blow minds and scrape skulls. Enter Ex-Cocaine, a duo of guitar and hand percussion working a kind of post kraut tribal frenzy which is just what my sensitive receptors need to ease into this evening trip. Swim in it a while... (I recommending turning down the volume on these vids for better clarity)

Next comes Naked on the Vague from Australia. This guy 'n' gal marry distortion, minimal percussion and harrowing vocals into trance inducing/flailing/stumbling noisescapes that make such an impression that I'm forced to buy everything they have at the merch table. Definitely a real find.

Blues Control works a serene magic with its lulling underwater psychedelic muzak, skating the line between head burnt bong noise and easy as pie mellow-dee. Portland, OR's Eat Skulls bring the high energy garage punk onslaught. Psychedelic Horseshit throws a few more sarcastic punk logs on the acid fire, but it's A Pink Reason that proves to be the great white hope of the bunch with its earnest dope fucked fuzz punk anthems conjuring the ghost of a young Peter Laughner and his Rocket From the Tombs. Do us a favor, fellers, hang around a while. Mike Repp (with help from Times New Viking) stands in for the original Siltbreeze gen with his elder Ohio garage punk cred as a producer of some note (he recorded some classic early GBV sides among other things) and his gleaming silver locks. He also apparently appears on one of the first Siltbreeze releases, though I don't remember further details. Live he's a garage punker with a heart of gold who never really got over his Stooges obsession. Ace. Times New Viking close it down with their acidic art punk/pop. This set is more screeching and ramshackle than the one I caught some months before. Not bad at all, but kinda ear-splitting. All in all a life affirming evening of primal garage noise rock.

Friday

...is greeted with a quick dash over to La Zona Rosa on 4th to catch an afternoon show by me old pals Soundtrack of Our Lives, who I have fond memories of catching in a small space at SXSW back around 2002. Thankfully their 45 min gig completely rekindles my flame for these Swedish rock gods of yore as they run through a set comprised almost entirely of songs from their new unreleased album, including a fantastic cover of Nick Drake's "Fly" in the "Jehovah Sunrise" mold.

I don't know if some of the younguns truly know anything about these guys: Lead singer Ebbot Lundberg formed the group from the ashes of Swede Stooges stomp legends Union Carbide Productions with UBC guitarist Bjorn Olsson and tempers unabashed late 60s/early 70a hard/folk rock fixations with MC5 punk energy and does what a band like Oasis does without any of the smug annoyance, though rest assured SOOL are big stars in their homeland and likely have some fairly inflated egos. Everywhere else they're simply a must for fans of vintage psych pop. A taste, which sadly cuts out right before it really starts to rock...

Now a dash back over to French Legation to catch The Atlas Sound, comprised of members of Deerhunter, Jackie-O-Motherfucker, Yume Bitsu and more, trading in oldschool shoegaze/drone pop, providing the perfect bouncing shimmer for my post hamgover readjustment.


And then a quick drive over to a house party somewhere on the East Side where I'm lucky enough to catch three damn fine noise(esque) ensembles in a row:

--Indian Jewelry--Never grabbed me much on record, but here outside in the fading magic hour their fuzz industrial onslaught makes for an amazing pulsatng groove.

--Blues Control--More controlled and serene than there set the night before, the sweet stench of fruitbud in the air, nighttime, Mickeys, sprawled out on the grass, momentary nirvana. Perfect ballast for the big showcase grind.

--Rahdunes--New masters if the downtuned fuzz drone. Post industrial striations of deep-space-hum, spreading out against the night sky like so many fireflies before descending once more like invisible spirits shot directly into the third eye. Brainjam for the soul.

Back on the road again. I make it over to Emo's in time for The Akron/Family, but I grow impatient, so I start walking again with a couple nice folks I met from Canada (one of them plays standup bass in The Sadies) and we arrive somewhere (forgot!) and catch a few songs by Blue Rodeo--remember them? They've been around forever, and I can see why. Their amiable country folk goes down smooth for people unashamed to admit they enjoy bluegrass, The Byrds and The Eagles.

I dash back to Emos for the promised two hour set by The Akron/Family and behold The Line. Two of them actually, one for badges, one for wristbands. One moves much, much faster tha the other. I wait at least an hour. As I wait I hear Blue Cheer playing across the street--the real Blue Cheer!--and wonder why the fuck I'm standing in this line. It's sort of cool hearing them run through a muffled version of Jimi's "Third Stone From the Sun" a mere 50 feet away but mostly lame. I finally get into Emos about 30 mins into A/F's set, witness most of the damn thing and conclude that what Funkadelic does for all night funk jam parties the Akrons do for art rock hoedowns. And they're funky too. They invite the Lexie Mountain Boys (who are actually girls) on stage for much of the set (and some other folks too...hazy). Almost every song is 15-20 mins long, and the boys in the band start to look damn tired by the end. Their almost two hour set closes with what's become a fairly common practice for both the Akrons and bands at SXSW in general: They come down into the crowd and lead the audience outside into the street (no doubt to the Emos staffers' delight) and just keep playing and chanting forever and ever, or at least as long as there are people around to clap and sing along. I get it; it's all about tearing down the wall between audience and performer. It seems The Akrons are almost frat rock superstars now. Odd, but acceptable. Vi-vi-video...

Saturday

Can't believe I've made it this far. Report first thing to End of an Ear to catch Nadja, Paul Metzger and Gary Higgins. Toronto's Nadja trades in dense doom fuzz crescendos drawing equally from the Sunno))) industrial void and the heyday of blissed shoegaze. Makes for an interesting mix and a fairly mind-glazing live experience.


Now I'd been hearing and reading about this Paul Metzger guy for a while. Picked up a copy of his Music for Modified Guitar at Terrastock and a split 12" with Ben Chasny/Chris Corsano. I'd also heard the angular jazz punk of his Minneapolis ensemble TCBC and always suspected he was best sampled in the live setting. Though that's perhaps debatable since his Music For Modified Banjo CD is undoubtedly one of the truly great solo acoustic raga albums of the last ten years or so.

So there I am, camera in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, seven feet from Metzger and all ears. He plays two extended blues/bluegrass ragas, one for guitar and one for banjo. The results feel decidedly more oriental in tone, with a strong emphasis on space and restraint and some well placed bow work. By the time he gets going, head deep into primitive string space, he's fully emersed and we're along for the ride. He almost looks like a marienette with his banjo, bouncing and convulsing as if controlled by some unseen force. Truly a mystical experience.


Gary Higgins and his band play smooth psychedelic folk with mellotron, bass and guitars. Nothing revelatory, and I only catch really two songs of their End of an Ear set before I dash off again (and of course the recently reissued Red Hash is a genuine lost classic btw), but it's a fine mellow ride, and as evinced from the tune below his new album is going to be something pretty special. Thanks again to Ben Chasny, not just for turning me onto Gary but also for helping to bring him out of musical retirement for a new generation of avid listeners. That's Gary in the back center...

Almost there...promise. Next I head over to the Chaindrive off 4th to catch Strategies in Beauty, yet another day party curated by members of Denton bands, Shiny Around the Edges and Zanzibar Snails. I miss Aiden Baker's (Nadja) solo set but catch the closing bits of Dust Congress, and the entirety of Shiny Around the Edges. SATE is a band I'd not heard or seen till now. Apparently they played as the Castanets backing band during all of its SXSW performances, so I guess I finally get to see the Castanets after all. Well almost. Shiny's grungy noise clang meets broken ambient dreams provides a sufficient kick in the pants and hooks me nicely. Behold the clang...

Next personal Dallas faves The Zanzibar Snails tear through a 30 min set of blistering deep space sonic murk that just keeps growing more intense and insane with each passing minute. The molten lava flow makes me feel as if I've been directly teleported into the heart of a red giant, time slowing to a crawl as my flesh starts to melt, and POOF, no more. Nothing. This is the end...only not really. Like an electromagnetic pulse, the Snails' shreiking electro clatter saps my camera of its remaining juice. I'm unable to document this highly visceral sonic experience. Apparently they blew a fuse so the whole groaning mass just cut out instantly. No resolution, no fade out. Nothing. The events are almost preternatural from my close vantage point.

And now we really are approaching the end. I get my buttocks over to Central Presbyrterian Church just in time to catch Christina Carter and Shawn David McMillan performing as a duo. They're playing cleanup in the time-slot following Jandek, which I actually elect to miss this year since I've seen him twice in the last two years. With support from Susan Alcorn and Ralph White I know I've missed something special, but that's okay. The room is cleared out quite a bit for Christina and Shawn's set. Fine with me since it allows room to stretch out and relax. It's the perfect evnironment to get lost in the languid blues and folk interplay. Shawn starts out on pump organ as Christina plays electric guitar and sings. They play three or four spacious numbers including a little dueling guitar action. It's all a bit of a blur at this point but without question entirely indicative of the level of probing intensity I've come to expect from both of these amazing musicians. Hope some recordings of this new incarnation surface sometime soon.

From there I simply wander a while. Dazed and confused is an understatement. I want to lie down in the middle of 6th street and just stare at the stars, but the fear of being trampled to death by a few hundred scantily clad females in what have to be incredibly uncomfortable high heels prevents me from doing so.

Somehow I eventually end up over at Scoot Inn on 4th for the end of the Load showcase and White Mice's night closing set. How to describe White Mice? Well they're very Providence, and all the members seem to be reared on early thrash, hardcore and brain-scrambling nowave. One's wearing a Bathory shirt. When they perform they wear these incredible mouse costumes, each with its own unique defining characteristic. My favorite is the drummer with his skinned mouse head, all grizzled and pink with a shock of white hair shooting out the top like a mohawk--fucking cool. Oh yeah and those bulging eyeballs. This sight combined with the massive bass drum he sits behind (thing had to be over 4 ft tall) makes for one of the more memorable images I've seen the whole week. My cam battery is dead at this point, so just trust me on this. Their set is a brutal/violent barrage of bass/drums thrash bludgeon with screaming oscillations slicing through the downtuned sludge like chinese throwing stars. A group of young and highly mobile mosh devils procedes to flail about, smack into each other, break beer bottles on the ground and beam proudly the whole time. Interesting. I keep my distance. All in all it's too fucking much for my old-hippie-fart ass to stand for too long, but I guess I can see the appeal for them younguns. I feel old.

After that I drop by Shawn McMillan's house for his latenight party and see many of the folks I'd seen live in various constollations in the previous four days hanging out and chit-chattering. And whaddayaknow there's Thurston Moore (who I didn't see perform once during the whole fest--shame on me) hanging out and digging the vibe too. He plants himself on the floor about three feet from the Rahdunes, running through another one of its serene deep space voyages. It's a nice sort of mid-volume come down with some rhythmic turbulence towards the finale. Love it. Thurston looks impressed. And let me just say here and now Aaron Coyes is a really cool guy and a consummate gentleman. He builds all of Rahdunes instruments from scratch and is certainly one of the great practicioners of the analog-aural-mind-cleanse working today. Long may you roam, brother.

Well that's about it. I apologize for the immense length of this post, probably should've split it up into parts. It's a madhouse down at SXSW and I'd not be surprised if I just lay low the next few years. I missed tons, i mean TONS of great stuff but still felt I managed my time well enough and got the most bang for my buck. I also bought a shitload of records, but that's a different story.

Also, sometime during this chaotic period I managed to see a stripped down Radar Brothers instore performance at End of an Ear and two songs (including "You're Going to Miss Me") by Roky Erickson and the Explosives along with guest guitarist Billy Gibbons. Thanks to M. Chamey, N. Hill, N. Mann and everyone else who made this rambling indulgence possible and my SXSW experience a lot more fun. Thus concludes my ranting and raving summation of four days in the whirlwind. Until next time. To quote the great one, "That'll be the day..."

This morning I had a dream about Kurt Cobain. Not really sure what it meant, but I remember my dreams so rarely these days that when I do remember them I convince myself that they're really important. Even if they're not. In this particular dream Cobain appeared to be acting in a film about, not necessarily himself, but someone like himself. I remember seeing him playing on a stage rocking hard, but I don't know what the music sounded like and there was hardly anyone there watching. It was in a big white room like a gymnasium. Bit of a time-lapse followed soon after, and I'm calling up a massive stairwell after a friend, not Kurt. I ask a question but never get an answer. I think I remember the question but I won't type it here now. I awoke some seconds later to the memory of Cobain dead in that little room over that garage along with a tinge of sadness. Sappy fool I am.

And yesterday Sir Arthur C. Clark stepped through the stargate for the last time. He was 90, and apparently suffered a great deal of physical pain over the last 50 years or so, so cheers to you old great one for making it this far. I can honestly say no author has more deeply influenced my view of the world and the universe...

From the AP:
Writer Arthur C. Clarke Dies at 90
By RAVI NESSMAN – 1 day ago

COLOMBO, Sri Lanka (AP) — Arthur C. Clarke, a visionary science fiction writer who won worldwide acclaim with more than 100 books on space, science and the future, died Wednesday in his adopted home of Sri Lanka, an aide said. He was 90.

Clarke, who had battled debilitating post-polio syndrome since the 1960s and sometimes used a wheelchair, died at 1:30 a.m. after suffering breathing problems, aide Rohan De Silva said.

Co-author with Stanley Kubrick of Kubrick's film "2001: A Space Odyssey," Clarke was regarded as far more than a science fiction writer.

He was credited with the concept of communications satellites in 1945, decades before they became a reality. Geosynchronous orbits, which keep satellites in a fixed position relative to the ground, are called Clarke orbits.

He joined American broadcaster Walter Cronkite as commentator on the U.S. Apollo moonshots in the late 1960s.

Clarke's non-fiction volumes on space travel and his explorations of the Great Barrier Reef and Indian Ocean earned him respect in the world of science, and in 1976 he became an honorary fellow of the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics.

But it was his writing that shot him to his greatest fame and that gave him the greatest fulfillment.

"Sometimes I am asked how I would like to be remembered," Clarke said recently. "I have had a diverse career as a writer, underwater explorer and space promoter. Of all these I would like to be remembered as a writer."

From 1950, he began a prolific output of both fiction and non-fiction, sometimes publishing three books in a year. He published his best-selling "3001: The Final Odyssey" when he was 79.

Some of his best-known books are "Childhood's End," 1953; "The City and The Stars," 1956, "The Nine Billion Names of God," 1967; "Rendezvous with Rama," 1973; "Imperial Earth," 1975; and "The Songs of Distant Earth," 1986.

When Clarke and Kubrick got together to develop a movie about space, they used as basic ideas several of Clarke's shorter pieces, including "The Sentinel," written in 1948, and "Encounter in the Dawn." As work progressed on the screenplay, Clarke also wrote a novel of the story. He followed it up with "2010," "2061," and "3001: The Final Odyssey."

In 1989, two decades after the Apollo 11 moon landings, Clarke wrote: "2001 was written in an age which now lies beyond one of the great divides in human history; we are sundered from it forever by the moment when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin stepped out on to the Sea of Tranquility. Now history and fiction have become inexorably intertwined."

Clarke won the Nebula Award of the Science Fiction Writers of America in 1972, 1974 and 1979; the Hugo Award of the World Science Fiction Convention in 1974 and 1980, and in 1986 became Grand Master of the Science Fiction Writers of America. He was awarded the CBE in 1989.

Born in Minehead, western England, on Dec. 16, 1917, the son of a farmer, Arthur Charles Clark became addicted to science fiction after buying his first copies of the pulp magazine "Amazing Stories" at Woolworth's. He read English writers H.G. Wells and Olaf Stapledon and began writing for his school magazine in his teens.

Clarke went to work as a clerk in Her Majesty's Exchequer and Audit Department in London, where he joined the British Interplanetary Society and wrote his first short stories and scientific articles on space travel.

It was not until after the World War II that Clarke received a bachelor of science degree in physics and mathematics from King's College in London.

In the wartime Royal Air Force, he was put in charge of a new radar blind-landing system.

But it was an RAF memo he wrote in 1945 about the future of communications that led him to fame. It was about the possibility of using satellites to revolutionize communications — an idea whose time had decidedly not come.

Clarke later sent it to a publication called Wireless World, which almost rejected it as too far-fetched.

Clarke married in 1953, and was divorced in 1964. He had no children.

He moved to the Indian Ocean island of Sri Lanka in 1956 after embarking on a study of the Great Barrier Reef. He discovered that scuba-diving approximated the feeling of weightlessness that astronauts experience in space, and he remained a diving enthusiast, running his own scuba venture into old age.

"I'm perfectly operational underwater," he once said.

Clarke was linked by his computer with friends and fans around the world, spending each morning answering e-mails and browsing the Internet.

At a 90th birthday party thrown for Clarke in December, the author said he had three wishes: for Sri Lanka's raging civil war to end, for the world to embrace cleaner sources of energy and for evidence of extraterrestrial beings to be discovered.

In an interview with The Associated Press, Clarke once said he did not regret having never followed his novels into space, adding that he had arranged to have DNA from strands of his hair sent into orbit.

"One day, some super civilization may encounter this relic from the vanished species and I may exist in another time," he said. "Move over, Stephen King."

Roy Scheider died last week! And ho do I find out? Randomly on the fifth page of the Arts and Entertainment section in a tiny little blurb. He was 75. Most memorable performance? Going to get predictable and go with Jaws ("Smile, you son of a bitch!"), but then can't forget his disturbed turn as the ultimate bad vibe company man, Dr. Benway in Naked Lunch. And then there's Blue Thunder, which has the distinction of being better than its TV rip-off, Airwolf, the last film to feature Malcolm McDowell in a decent role, and Warren Oates' last film altogether. You youngens just don't know how cool American cinema was up to the early 80s.

As I focus on other activities this year, I hope to post some reviews here regularly, and if time/motivation permits, assemble a few more Bones From the Garden pieces for Deep Water. Otherwise, I wont be contributing any reviews or articles to other publications for a while. You can also expect the occasional random live show review, festival announcement, or useless rant here...and I hope nothing more about Britney Spears at all. It's weird. Lately I've been having these bizarre mental lapses where I think for a few seconds that I am Britney Spears. Very scary stuff. Damn tabloid subliminal suggestion.

Four albums (two of which were mentioned recently in this blog), all possibly more amazing than originally surmised:

Om Pilgrimage (Southern Lord) - Ti's true, Hakius is out, which makes me a lucky pup since I got to see these down tempo trance sludge masters in Ft. Worth some months back. Funny thing is I remember feeling privileged that they stretched out "At Giza" a good 8 mins past the original album length, only to read THIS and find that they recently played a five hour set in THE HOLY LAND! Whoa... Kinda what Om's all about. Nice interview there btw. Al Cisneros actually reveals some personal stuff that helps further illuminate the Unitive Knowledge of Om's Godhead. Sure the music is more of the same on this Steve Albini engineered behemoth, but then again that's the point. It's all just different parts of the same song. I love Cisneros's insistence on letting the music speak for itself. Esoteric, deeply spiritual, meditative, moody, bombastic... At least half this album is quiet with hypnotic bass vibrations coiling through a psychedelic headspace that's at once heavy and weightless. Otherwise great, crisp sound, wonderful dark moods and crushing doom fury are the order of the day. Cisneros says that the journey will continue with a new drummer towards The Shrinebuilder, and there's also a live album drawn from the aforementioned Jerusalem gig on the way. Been digging on some sweet live Om boots lately, including 4/29/06 at the Knitting Factory, so I expect total monolithic greatness on all fronts in the future.

The Terminals Last Days of the Sun (Last Visible Dog) - Can I get an AMEN for LVD's Chris Moon and his fetish for all things weird and kiwi? Don't get much weirder than this NZ superunit, but then weirdness doesn't get much more beautiful either. The Terminals are a band that seems terminally (excuse) obsessed with the dark side. Theirs is the kind of subject matter that most of us are supposed to outgrow at some point, but none of us really ever do. We simply ignore it. Such are the demands of sanity. Well The Terminals wont have any of that, but they still understand that need for maturation, settling down and finding beauty in the grimness. Last Days of the Sun is the melancholic glance at that single cataclysmic event that will eventually extinguish all. Enough philosophical mumbojumbo. It's also a deep, hypnotic trek through vintage psychedelic garage transcendence. There's dark magic in the swaying melodies of opener "Vertigo," a masterpiece of building tension that starts with plaintive rhythm guitar and Peter Cogle's subdued voice as distant organ joins with Brian Crook's slide guitar, and when Crook and Cogle come together for the chorus--holy shit! One of the most astonishing moments on anything released in '07, but then one could say I'm biased up the yin-yang in such opinions. Add to this the pile-driving Velvets drone of "Undertow," the moody fuzz wash of the title track, the trademark post punk throb of Peter Stapleton's singular percussion and some genuinely accessible melodies and you've discovered the missing link between early (read as classic) Roxy Music and the brooding fuzz squalls of Sonic Youth, and it's all quite special and addictive. P.S. Anyone heard that new Rendorizers disc on Last Visible Dog? Listening now, mind is melting. Incredible.

Magik Markers Boss (Ecstatic Peace) - I've always been fascinated by the abrasive clang this guys-n-gal trio conjures, but I think this album is the first MM release that I really enjoy listening to at the same time. Who know Elisa Ambrogio had a thing for Joni Mitchell as much as early Sonic Youth and Lydia Lunch? Thankfully, this turn towards actual songcraft leaves none of the 'Markers' penchant for gut-wrenching/brain-squealing rhythmic dissonance behind. If anything, the melodies and lyrics found herein are lent that much more grim weight via the detuned distorted backdrop, all brilliantly propelled by Peter Nolan's ever present backbeat. Just wrap your ears around grooving opener "Axis Mundi," the writhing jaggedness of "Last of the Lemach Line" (with a hellacious vocal from Ambrogio) and "Four/The Ballad of Harry Angstrom," an altogether more spectral slice of piano and distortion drift, and I think you will agree. This is compelling stuff that doesn't just suck the listener in on a sonic/physical level but also digs deeper, burrowing into the recesses of the mind, dislodging existential rot and setting it ablaze in celebratory bonfires. Boss, indeed.

Charalambides Likeness (Kranky) - It's a testament to this unclassifiable duo's resilience that it can still pull me in after all these years. I've had Likeness since the end of last year but didn't really hear it till just recently. It feels like Tom and Christina Carter have come full circle in a way, as much of this is fairly accessible and rocking in a more conventional way, that is if early classics like Historic 6th Ward can be considered conventional, and given the more outer minimal workouts Charalambides dropped in the early '00s, I think that's a fair statement. Some of these songs are definitive to my ears, perfect examples of why this group's performances have left such an indelible impression on the heart/mind/soul for over 15 years. The sad piano and wah-wah drift of "Uncloudy Day," the layered vocals and wandering blues guitars of "Do You Sea" are good enough, but it's later tracks like "The Good Life" and "Saddle Up the Pony," both anchored on little more than Christina's vocal (delivering some of the most direct lyrics I've ever heard on a Charalabides record yet) and repetitious blues raga. "Saddle Up the Pony" in particular is really a stunning jam that I have no doubt will go down in history as the definitive Charalambides ode to alienation. "What You Do For Money" achieves a similar eeriness in its depiction of the moral decay that can come with selling out. Christina sings the title as a mantra in a high restless pitch, mournful guitar slides and drones beneath providing a subtext that describes the kind of wounds that will never heal. All in all deeply moving, contemplative stuff. This may not be the best Charalambides album. For that seek out Market Square (via download cuz you won't find it any other way) or Joy Shapes (also on Kranky), but Likeness is a solid introduction, truly worthy to fans new and old.

Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Kraftwerk performing their landmark "Ruckzuck" for WDR TV in 1970:
Even better, baby Kraftwerk aka The Organisation, which was actually a bigger ensemble and earlier, more ethno-cosmically infused version of the electro pioneers, performing the same song.  Tribalicious: Thanks to Travis for pointing these out.

BEST OF 07 BABY! 27 IN 07!! ONE SCORE AND SEVEN ALBUMS THAT MADE LIFE A BIT MORE WEIRD, CREEPY, BEAUTIFUL AND/OR COOL IN 2007:

1. NEIL YOUNG LIVE AT THE FILLMORE EAST (REPRISE) - I'm a sucker for the jams. Massey Hall kicks ass too.

2. PANTALEIMON MERCY OCEANS (DURTRO/JNANA) - Ghost spirit of love enraptured by the sweetest folk songs of hope and faith.

3. ANGELS OF LIGHT WE ARE HIM (YOUNG GOD) - Post-punk barnyard stomp for the heavey-hearted and open-minded.

4. BORIS WITH MICHIO KURIHARA RAINBOW (DRAG CITY) - Cosmic distortion rebirth as exploding comets and cascading snowflakes. Acid rock for the tender hearts.

5. THE ONE ENSEMBLE WAYWARD THE FOURTH (SECRET EYE) - Chamber prog from valued contributers to the English psych underground, sounds like Robert Wyatt gone Klezmer on Saturn.

6. HALA STRANA HEAVE THE GAMBREL ROOF (MUSIC FELLOWSHIP) - A fog of stringed ethnic drones conjuring old world spirit music for children of a new country with no borders.

7. THEO ANGELL AND THE HILLSIDE TABERNACLE SINGERS AUROPLINTH (DIGITALIS) - Mind-blowing cracked acid folk from Theo of Hall of Fame; debut of the year.

8. SIR RICHARD BISHOP POLYTHEISTIC FRAGMENTS (DRAG CITY) - Many gods, many frets, many notes, many paths to enlightenment -- one guitar.

9. DIANE ROGERSON THE LIGHTS ARE ON BUT NO-ONES HOME (UNITED JNANA) - Post apocalyptic industrial jazz dirge; from beyond the grave, Nico sits in for a one-off recording session with Nurse With Wound. Grim, harrowing and beautiful.

10. SIX ORGANS OF ADMITTANCE SHELTER FROM THE ASH (DRAG CITY) - Quiet songs of loss and heartache, splattered guitar squalls and cycling noise mantras. A Collision of styles, inspirations, possibilities and sounds. High, low and in between.

11. SUISHOU NO FUNE THE SHINING STAR (IMPORTANT) - The dark PSF psych sound recast as shimmering shoegaze cosmic bliss. The Live Band To See In 2007.

12. THE TERMINALS LAST DAYS OF THE SUN (Last Visible Dog) - Crazy/freaky depressive psychgarage-artpop quagmire groans and howls, melting beneath a dying sun. That world tour better be soon!

13. SIC ALPS PLEASURES AND TREASURES (ANIMAL DISGUISE) - Stoned to the effin bone. This whiskey soaked racket makes me remember the thrills experienced the first time I mashed up The Flaming Lips Oh My Gawwwd! with the J.A.M.C.'s Psychocandy.

14. GROUP DOUEH GUITAR MUSIC FROM THE WESTERN SAHARA (SUBLIME FREQUENCIES) - Blistering afro-syke power jams from alternate continent/dimension riding the line between annoying as fuck and mindblowing as shit.

15. KEMIALLISET YSTAVAT KEMIALLISET YSTAVAT (FONAL) - Sputtering massed acoustic/electric sound baths and actual songs that enthrall like a pinball machine played in the middle of a misty Finnish forest while blazing on DMT.

16. SAPAT MORTISE AND TENON (SILTBREEZE) - Building prog drone, art rock, slop blues played by American hillbilly potsmoking hot shots that dig Beefheart just as much as Trad Gras Och Stenar.

17. MV/EE AND THE BUMMER ROAD GREEN BLUES(ECSTATIC PEACE) The Road branches off into mountain wilderness and happens upon a campfire surrounded by Phish heads; hears the disembodied voice of Jerry Garcia intone, "where's the noise?" Here it is.

18. MARISSA NADLER SONGS III: BIRD ON THE WATER (PEACEFROG) - Our lady of the manor gets help from some Espers, signs to a bigger label, gets airplay on MTV, in the process suggests a lost dream collaboration between a young Leonard Cohen and Mazzy Starr. Plus cool acid solos.

19. MAMMATUS THE COAST EXPLODES (HOLY MOUNTAIN) - Psychedelic biker prog from Seattle rocks with epic and ferocious twin guitar precision. I'm only calling it prog because the songs are so damn long.

20. WOLVES IN THE THRONE ROOM TWO HUNTERS (SOUTHERN LORD) Post rocking shoegaze neo-pagans cash in on nordic black metal craze, deliver one of the most convincing usbm albums yet, probably because it's more than one or two guys and a drum machine making all that racket.

21. WOODEN SHJIPS WOODEN SHJIPS (HOLY MOUNTAIN) - Finally it's hip to be cool again. Jim Morrison lives and he's playing crazy fuzz splattered psychedelia with this fierce San Fran Kraut-boogie unit.

22. BLUES CONTROL/HEAVY WINGED BORED FORTRESS SPLIT (NOT NOT FUN) - Post-nature-reclemation-bubble-drone backed with crushing-cosmic-biker-death or vice versa.

23. MAGIC MARKERS BOSS (Ecstatic Peace) - Elisa and the boys go pop and the world is all the better for it. I guess this is the EVOL of the oughts or some shit. Pretty friggin' hot.

24. DARKTHRONE F.O.A.D. (FUCK OFF AND DIE) (Peaceville) -Best thing these idiots have released in well over a decade.

25. CLOUDLAND CANYON SILVER TONGUED SYSPHUS (KRANKY) - Cosmic splatter honed down to precise electronic space jams that draw heavily from Kraut and French prog roots.

26. GHQ CRYSTAL HEALING (THREE LOBED) - Destroyed deep space American ethnic blues drone music, primordial and ecstatic.

27. VALET BLOOD IS CLEAN (KRANKY) - I wish Honey Owens was my vibe partner. Charlambides and Grouper fans need this.

Caveat: One of the benefits of making multiple year-end best of lists is you can instantly revise from list to list. So there are things here that wont appear in the Deep Water piece and vice versa. Bring on '08 and its many splendors. OH SHIT! I really meant to include Mudboy's Holy Ghosts! (Digitalis/Not Not Fun) in this list and White Rainbow's Prism of Eternal Now (Kranky) too for that matter.