MEDIA BLACKOUT #662.323!
SIZZLING JAZZ PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Animation – Agemo (Rare Noise)
:: Although it’s been decades since Joni Mitchell recorded the world’s first Miles Davis tribute album Aisles
Of Miles, few have followed her exemplary example. Indeed, the last one I can recall that was worth listening to was
2007’s double disc delight Miles From India—until now.
The one also has two discs, but with
a novel twist that’s easily worth the price of admission alone. Y’see, each disc contains covers of the same six
songs, from “Bitches Brew to “Pharaoh’s Dance” with the difference being that the fusionish first
74 minutes disc is a trippy “Headphones Mix” while the Stockhausenish second 49 minute disc is meant
to be blasted outta your speakers at maximum Miles-like volume. And yeah, as you might’ve guessed from the radically
different total track times, each disc contains different versions.
Trust me, this one’s almost as good as if Miles had recorded
– Miles Runs The Voodoo Lounge Down (Columbia) :: Worst Rolling Stones tribute album ever.
ROCK PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Desmond Grundy – Tiles From The Amber Room (Mouthful Of Records) :: In case
you weren’t paying attention the first time around and don’t remember what I said about DG’s first self
released album Oddly Enough way back in MB278, I’ll reiterate for ya:
“So I’m spinnin’ the
first song and suddenly thinking that, no, the absolute last thing I wanna do is say that Desmond is the new Lou
Reed ’cause he seems to be way too normal to be saddled with that kind of calamitous tag. But every time I
hear the gnarly destorto guitar grinding up behind him, I get flummoxed into thinking that I’m listening to some kinda
vintage Velvet Underground gradation. And suddenly I’m thinking, yes, that’s cool because nobody sounds
like Unca Lou anymore—not even the old reprobate himself ’cause he’s way too normal these days
to be saddled with that kind of calamitous tag.”
In other words, I didn’t need to have the wisdom of Solomon
to know that this here Grundy had what we in the rock writin’ biz call potential. But the big question on every seasoned
tout’s mind the second time around is: can Desmond deck ya again? Well, as my old pal the Kingfish would say: “He
sho’ nuff can!”
First of all, the album title is straight outta spooky Lynch City where the busses never run
on time—if ever. Even better, he plays all of the instruments by himself in the best Todd Rundgren studio-spazz tradition.
Finally, his voice—which vacillates between Loaded romance and Tonight’s The Night dissipation—is
buried beneath a swirling miasma of destorto fuzzed up beach blanket bohemia that makes Exile On Aladdin Sane St.
sound like like Wish You Were Here.
I just hope that his next album sucks ’cause I’m getting tired of sounding
like a palooka from Payolaville.
Be seeing you!