Got to give the good folk over at Aquarium Drunkard full credit for turning me on to this treasure chest of gems.  Mississippi Records is venue/record label in the mean streets of North Portland, Oregon, and unbeknown to me purveyors of absolutely brilliant mix-tapes stuffed to the scaly gills with unknown finds from across the great, starry expanse of musical history.   Even better, the newly-discovered, absolutely-brilliant website Rootstrata is converting each and every one of these mini-goldmines (37 at last count) in to download-easy .zip files for your, and especially my, enjoyment.

I’ve downloaded two so far, the inaugural edition and an AD-recommended comp, and both have been playing almost non-stop on my tinny speakers for the last two days.  I can only believe, have faith even, that each uploaded tape will be a similarly delicious experience.

Mississippi Records Tape Series Vol. 1 - House of Broken Hearts

Some years back, I had a bit of a brain meltdown, when, for the first time, I heard a little band out of Minnesota called The Wars of 1812.  Working at a record label at the time, I shoveled the bands music on to the desk of my boss, threw it any and all who would listen, and generally existed in a blissed-out coma of Wars of 1812 good.

Turning on Jagjaguwar’s new signee Peter Wolf Crier, there was a tinge of familiarity, a hint of softly hidden memory.  I thought, “It sounds like Woods, but with a little more cheer.”  But it wasn’t thought, it was the vocals, the winding, sunshine-y vocals that brought me back.  Back to Peter Pisano, a member of The Wars of 1812.

Now, with cohort Brian Moen, he’s branched out to form Peter Wolf Crier.  It’s a bit like a campfire song, a lilting tune to share around the fire, drunk on whiskey and smoke.  You can hear it bouncing off the trees, the stars clear in the sky above it.

Peter Wolf Crier - Crutch & Crane

I’ve been digging through the detritus of a dead person’s life (no one of any relation or, strangely enough, even friendship) over the course of the last two weeks.  It has been a dusty perusal of era after era after era long gone.  We’ve found teeth, World’s Fair 1939 memorabilia, and a pair of ladies underwear I could’ve worn as a vest.  Each day, covered in grime, I step in to the light of the modern day and everything seems a little too new, a little too fresh.

Amongst the many, many new ventures by Sub Pop, this little band Happy Birthday (Kyle Thomas of King Tuff’s new schtick) stands out as particularly apt to my meander through the decades.  It’s new and fresh and grating, but when the song hits thirty or so seconds, all of sudden I’m standing in Mary Pini’s closet amongst Spyderknit sweaters, gold coins and the urge to spin my date in one skirt-swooping spiral.

Or maybe I’ve just been inhaling asbestos and rat fecal dust for a little too long.

Happy Birthday - Girls FM

I find myself so often times stuck in a rut(?) of drone-y fuzz, and sharply punctuated garage rock, and thus when I a simpler bit of music catches my ear, I’m almost required to post it.  Pitchfork turned me on to this Perfume Genius project by Mike Hadreas (a man I know nothing about) and the puddle underneath my feet is slowly growing bigger and bigger as a melt down in to it.  It’s reminiscent of The Mountain Goats and Daniel Johnston in it’s unchecked waver and . It’s an epically told story of just about nothing.  But Hell, when your nothing consists of Joy Division, weed, and a lovely man named Mr. Peterson, you’re contracted by the state of piano ballads to write a somber jingle.

Perfume Genius - Mr. Peterson

The first time my ears were turned towards Crystal Antlers initial EP, I was landmined.  Thrown in the air, legs-a-flailing, the thought of what might come next racing through my mind.  It was rock-and-roll, pushed to eleven, clouded in a haze of weed and booze, and then fine tuned for maximum aural carnage.  I, was, rocked.  When Tentacles, their longer follow-up dropped, I was less so.  In long-player form, I found their West Coast assault a little much, and I found myself cherry-picking the good tracks and then returning to the EP I loved so much.

Thus, this, this softer, subtler bit of almost pop, throws me a bit, but in to the strike-zone.  It still features Jonny Bells strangled holler, but the raging guitar licks and propulsive drummer have stepped to the side.  “Little Sister” is a slow-jam, in regards to the Crystal Antler collection, and I can’t say it drags me down the street like before, but it certainly has me curious.

There releasing “Little Sister” on a 7″ with the b-side “Dead Horses” right HERE.

Crystal Antlers - Little Sister

It feels as if a lot is going on in this song by Cults.  There’s  xylophone (oh how I love the xylophone), there’s a sound swooping bit of psych-vocals, and driving it all is a giant pop-engine.  A hustling, bustling bit of machinery glued together with lollipops and honeycomb.

I understand the name Cults, this is music to become addicted to, to throw one’s self down on their knees and pray to the great goods of pop amalgam.  To speak in tongues and barricade one’s self behind walls, with high-powered firepower and yearning to do things right for pop.  I’ve listened to it four times in the last half an hour, because I thought it would help my write-up, but it’s more of inkling need.  A brainwashed bit of yearning that just doesn’t seem to end.

Drink the kool-aid.

Download the full 3-song EP HERE.

Cults - Go Outside

Spider-Man to me is a one thing: the red-spandex wearing superhero I grew up obsessed with.  The one whom I had stitched on a pair of yellow booty pajamas.  The one who, in comic book form, still fills my parents crawlspace in Shoreline, Washington.  He is a distant but distinct memory that reminds me of my father, of defibrillator boxes stacked against the powder-blue, sponge-painted walls of my room, creased corners jutting from their sides.

Maybe I’m attracted to Boy or Bison for a similar sense of memory.  This is doo-wop, plum picked from the golden era, but, as is popular today, relieved of its clean pop aesthetic and pushed through a cheese cloth of finely tuned dirt.  This is indelibly London-esque, you can almost hear the sharp inhale of cigarettes and the gentle patter of greying rain.  But it revels in what came before, the building rhythm, the sharp ticky-tack of the drums, the twangy guitars and insinuating reverb - it’s all there, a memory half formed, a tangent of thought still figuring itself out.

Boy or Bison - Spider-Man

I’m so exhausted at this very moment I’m struggling to keep my eyes open, let alone type anything coherent.  Thus the sort of spiraling mixed-messages of Nice Face almost seem a salve.  There’s a hint of garage or experimental noise lurking in the corners of this song, all leathered up and in need of a shower.  Hard hittin’ kick drums, harshly strung electro-gee-tars indicate to the avid listener, that yes, perhaps this is just another thrashy garage track.  But when the shuffling drum-machine skitters in to the room, it’s psych-electronica time.  We’re looking in to the spinning red eyes of a rock robot gone made, steam bustling from it’s ears, heavy pincers snapping at the air.

You want to turn and run.  You want to turn and hug.  Just move your feet everybody.

Nice Face - I Want Your Damage

“An inventory of Empress Josephine’s wardrobe in 1809 included: 666 winter dresses, 230 summer dresses, and 60 cashmere shawls.”

-  Survey of Historic Costume, 5th Edition

Don’t know exactly how a recalculating of a long-dead dictator’s spouse’s wardrobe has anything to do with this new Pill Wonder track.  Maybe I feel “invaded” by this rag-tag bit of surf-electro.  Or perhaps the beach-y feel makes me think of the exile at Elba.  Or perhaps the excess, the great sweeping number of cashmere drapes somehow reminds me of this fuzzed out tune rattling around the speaker tubes, firin’ off the French cannonballs between my ears.

Or maybe my lovely girlfriend is digging deep in to the history of French fashion and I was just excited about sharing the up and coming release by Underwater People’s newest band.

You make the call.

Pill Wonder - Gone To The Market

It’s not grungy or gritty or lo-fi or coldwave or darkwave or any of the various peripheral genres creeping in more and more.  Nope, this is unabashed beach-pop.  A troubador in bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt trolling the fog-covered beaches of San Francisco, a beaten up acoustic guitar strapped around his neck.  Sonny and the Sunsets don’t deign to the ironic, they don’t play with tape-decks or fuzz boxes or even the basics like reverb and distortion.  They tune up, turn on, and just let the, sigh, good times flow.

When I caught Sonny and his declining suns almost a year ago, squished between the twangy garage of Nodzzz and the shirt-ripping yaller of Thee Oh Sees, they seemed bland, unexcited performing on a stage at a cheap Mexican restaurant in front of a large screen television.  But now, thanks to the good folk at Raven Sings The Blues, I’m diving back in.

Currents not too strong, waters damn near toasty.

Sonny and the Sunsets - Too Young To Burn