Two further current enthusiasms: Mala - 50 per cent of Digital Mystikz - delivers a haunting, twangy, beaten-down bit of electro-dub called I Wait Pt 2. "Come meditate on bass weight" was (and may still be) DMZ's slogan back in the middling noughties. Had Lee Perry met Ennio Morricone on an empty platform at Morden station, this is what they might have said...
If we were working on a list of songs about plate tectonics - we're not - this next one would be well into the top four. We know next to nothing about Viet Cong (that's the band) but Continental Shelf (that's the track) welds skyscraping noise with a sad-sounding strain of industrial funk to strangely nostalgic effect.
We discover in our pocket a crumpled pink Post-it note on which is written the word 'mallard.' For several days we wonder what it means. No answer presents itself. Anxious that an important internet meme has passed us by, we Google it. We learn something about ducks and also steam engines. Then we recall that Mallard was the name of a group formed by former members of Captain Beefheart's Magic Band in 1974 and that we spotted a copy of their first album going for a quid in a shop in Tottenham. We go back to Totttenham to get it. It's gone. Despite the involvement of Ian Anderson from Jethro Tull, Wikipedia reliably informs us that it never "achieved any sort of commercial success." We accept that. Below, the Captain on the grid.
Some time ago we hazarded some mild speculation on the relationship between the means of musical production and, y'know, music itself. Here, in fact.
We were thinking about this again in the context of bedroom-produced, laptop electronica: music made by private people in private places, assembled and disseminated digitally but never actually performed. And that reminded us of this nice little piece by Lauren Laverne on the relationship between technology and creative activity. In the digitised 21st century, the sound of the city is a small, dry whir at the edge of your attention span, like the hum of laptop's fan.
Anyway, we were idling around the local Oxfam when we spotted what we thought was a CD by Deptford Goth - mysterious purveyor of the sort of spectral, synthesised, Mac-made soul that soundtracks grey afternoons in empty London parks. We like this sort of thing so we picked it up, only to discover that it was in fact a CD by Fat Goth, lairy purveyors of pun-spattered grumble-rock. We like this sort of thing as well. Creepy Lounges put us in mind of long-gone but never quite forgotten heroes of grubby misanthropy, Earl Brutus. Here are the two goths to battle it out: the night before and the morning after.