Turn Up That Noise

An eclectic survey of recent recordings.

Stephen Grimstead, Editor

Frank Pahl, In Cahoots

Mumble and Peg, Wondering In Volume

Idiot Flesh, Fancy
(Vaccination)

The three most recent releases from Oakland, California’s indomitable Vaccination Records live up to the company’s name – like an actual medical vaccination induced by needles, these records are sure to raise a few blisters and

Idiot Flesh: Vaccination Records’ cacophonous beast at play

scar the easily impressionable for life. Although the three artists in question (Frank Pahl, Mumble and Peg, Idiot Flesh) have little in common, their current CDs all share similar packaging (well-designed die-cut covers) and boast excellent production.
However, the music contained within the discs is as radically different as is shit from Shinola. The most accomplished of the bunch is helmed by Michigan madman Frank Pahl (In Cahoots). Not exactly a household name, Pahl is best known for his work with the galvanic group, Only A Mother (who appear here, as do other fringe fixtures, including Eugene Chadbourne, Renaldo and the Loaf, and Blue Sun Quintet). Pahl’s peculiar brand of musicianship could best be described as daringly diverse, steeped in nocturnal nostalgia and existing in that realm of strange twilight lyricism where Tom Waits, the Residents, and Captain Beefheart dwell. For the discriminating listener unafraid of banjos and ukuleles, In Cahoots provides a wealth of instrumental invention and an ever-shifting tectonic tone. Highly recommended to people of above-average intelligence who wallow unashamedly in textural sound.
The second CD in the bunch (Wondering In Volume) originates from Mumble and Peg. The release is a curious mix of acoustic atmospheres punctuated by overwhelmingly depressing lyrics. The artwork on the disc package features disturbing pen-and-ink illustrations of a lactation-obsessed scheming mutant infant. However, it’s not a wholly unpleasant experience, and several of the songs are quite remarkable – imagine Nirvana without the electric grunge, or the late Harry Nilsson on a particularly frustrating and bitter day, and you’ve got some idea of what Mumble and Peg sound like.
Bringing up the rear is a band that defies categorization, Idiot Flesh, with their newest manifesto, Fancy. This is a cacophonous beast at play, guaranteed to send your neighbors rushing to lock their doors and windows. A gleeful morbidity is on display here, and you have to admire these ersatz Satanists for their tumescent theatricality, wherein they strive to bury rock opera and not to praise it. Any band that can run the gamut from a 10-minute onslaught devilishly deconstructing T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” (“The Straw”) and follow it with a short, scintillating sacrilegious satire (“Cheesus [Dance Mix]”) deserves to be heard. Not for those whose ears and sensibilities are easily offended, but great fun for all other hedonistic heathen on holiday. – David D. Duncan
(Contact Vaccination Records at P.O. Box 20931, Oakland, CA 94611. Web Site: www.vacrec.com)

Robert Grant, Unleavened Bread, (Yep Roc)

One of the spoils that falls to those in “buzz bands” is the opportunity to clear out the closet. Big Ass Truck guitarist Robby Grant has availed himself of that perk by releasing five (or so) years of home recording on the Chapel Hill label Yep Roc, which handled the Truck’s Sack Lunch E.P. earlier this year. The name of this release was lifted from the title of a book (featured on the CD’s cover) authored by some other Robert Grant, and for a lo-fi collection it couldn’t be more appropriate, like a wink from the musical Grant that says, “Hey, I’m just trying stuff out here.” However, as might be expected, when you “just try stuff out,” some of it works and some of it doesn’t.
Like a lot of records with minimal production, Unleavened Bread works better the more you listen to it. The distractions of no-fidelity fade into the background, revealing some pretty clever genre-mulching avant-rock. Tracks that seemed like losers the first time around can’t even be recognized by the third listen – literally lost – as their appeal wins out over first impressions. Grant contorts his voice and shoots broken-string guitar daggers throughout, indulging in some fine lyrical near-nonsense along the way. What’s not to like about a song titled “Vegas” that rhymes “Wayne Newton” with “crap shootin’”? And surely there’s a big place in home-recordists’ hearts for a song called “Forever New Favorite Gadget.”
While a solid three-quarters of the tracks vindicate themselves with repeat listens, a few are plain incorrigible. “Forehead Neck” is one where Grant’s Weenish vocal strains get the best of him, for example, and the instrumental “Hey There Champ” should simply be quarantined before it spreads.
Nonetheless, the most interesting thing about this record is that, except for “Spry Dead” (the hook of which was later appropriated for a Big Ass Truck song) and the occasional funky run, you’d never guess Grant had anything to do with B.A.T. Instead, this record is filled with songs based on going against – rather than with – the groove, and the best among them are barking like mad to be let out of the house. – Jim Hanas

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