Wednesday, August 11, 2004

--Saw OPEN WATER tonight, and must concede it's a good gimmick built up substantially by some decent characterization. The way the couple is left behind is actually fairly plausible, though the director goes to great pains to make it so. Second act lulls (they always do in these sorts of flicks), but the climax is truly unsettling and kind'a moving. Better than the Bare Wench Project.

--Got the 2000 reissue of From Elvis in Memphis the other day -- does it get any better than "Suspicious Minds"? Think not.

--Recieved a hefty package from Foxy Digitalis a few days ago, more sure to come on that front. I HIGHLY recommend you gettin' over there, lookin 'em over and maybe buying some of their CD's and other media.

Speaking of which, here's a review written for the FD e-zine:

Japan’s LSD-March comes from a sacred tradition of charred guitar psych. They’re not necessarily as aggressive as High Rise, or as mellow as Nagisa Ni Te, yet at any time across the span of an LSD-March album comparisons to either could justifiably be made, meaning the sometimes mellow/sometimes flailing grunge punk of this quartet fits in perfectly in the larger Jap psych underground. All the benchmarks are there: the aforementioned rawness, those sun-kissed acid leads, murky rhythmic build-ups and dark, dark sunglasses.

The domestic issue of Suddenly, Like Flames, the trio’s second album, coincides with a recent mini-tour of the US, including a stop at the Million Tongues festival in Chicago, which probably featured the best all-encompassing experimental/psych/noise lineup in recent history. It plays like a solid live album, which is probably what it is, culled from various performances throughout the late 90s/early 00s.

The end results are sprawling psych jams like the distorted groove waves of “The Lamp – Tomorrow’s Godard,” which sort of comes off like the Velvet Underground playing atop a hovercraft hurdling through a massive echo chamber. “Black Bouquet” is some mighty fine bombed out heavy blues, while the sad melody of “When I Die, Hell Awaits” owes something to the desolate guitar melancholia of White Heaven. But it could be argued that one approaches this kind of music for the jams, which the incredible title track has in abundance and absolutely destroys with its cataclysmic wind storms of distorted guitar/bass/drums cacophony before setting direct course for the hottest nearby star. Holy shit! is an understatement. Still the best track just might be the sad drone rock of “After the Storm,” a plaintive pop workout that erupts in some of the most righteous low end fuzz blasts this side of the legendary Les Rallizes Denudes. This is the real, my friends: The sacred rock ’n’ roll.

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