Zitat:If this record is the sound of disaster, then Ive been missing out by playing it safe. Charles Peirce and friends throw down a bizarre and eminently enjoyable collection of frenzied beats, bizarre samples, Western atmospheres, cartoon themes, and noir filth. As the titles play on words indicates, "You Only Live Once" is a mutant Bond theme, with shredded beats and digital sounds stretched to their limits, with an admirable chugging bass line. "Countdown to the End" similarly plays on old-school spy music and drumnbass. Its exemplary of the albums imaginative and playful nature.

If there’s a similar sound out there, it would be Jim Thirlwell with his Steroid Maximus project, but Ends decidedly more aligned with the “big beat” electronic school. On the other hand, the superb horns of "Ruin Anyone Anywhere Anything," thrown atop rapid-fire drums and rhythmic embellishments, does bring Thirlwell to mind. This song may just drive you to steer your car off the nearest cliff at high speed while grinning ear-to-ear. After all, there’s even an early Swans sample.

Another name that occasionally comes to mind is Steinski, especially when Peirce tosses in the occasional clever sample, like on "World Went Down." Its title is a case in point, mixed with super-fast rhythmic constructs and an overall jazzy feel. "Fit to Die" likewise lays down a very amusing sample over breakneck beats, and begging you to sing along.

The songs often morph suddenly from one personality to another. "Mr Guns (The Theme From 11th Street)" switches abruptly from quietly pretty to intensely noisy, then moves on to noir-ish jazz punctuated by gunfire and heavy digital glitches. The attention-getting "Brooklyn Home Invasion" opens with a funky guitar sound, then deteriorates into a glorious mess of percussion assault before picking up the pieces and carrying on.

Ends kinship with folks like Speedranch and the Tigerbeat6 cadre is evident in both the playfulness and their willingness to pull the listener down into really heavy digital muck. But what makes this album succeed is his attention to constructing a compelling story in each song. The distinct samples and varying instrumentation give each piece a real personality, while common themes based on stylistic choices – noir, spy tunes, even rockabilly and big band – tie the album together. An impressive piece of work.

Deranged schrieb:<> Depeche Mode - Playing The Angel

Zitat:Lye By Mistake - Arrangements For Fulminating Vective (09.05.2006) [Lambgoat Records]


Was kennt man nicht alles an verschiedenen Metal-Stilrichtungen. Da gibt es Progressive Rock und Metal der neue spielerische Grenzen auslotet. Es gibt auch Grindcore der Aggressivitaet und Geschwindigkeit ins beinah unertraegliche steigert. Und zudem gibt es noch Jazz. Verworrene Gitarrenarrangements die den Hoerer mit zart – verschrobenen Klaengen in emotionale Gefilde jenseits aller mit Worten fassbarer Eindruecke entfuehren.

Warum also diese schwelgerische Einleitung? Lye by Mistake machen alles GLEICHZEITIG! Songs wie „If We Were Intense, This Song Would Be A Boyscout” beginnen rockig-verspielt, steigern sich zum Grindcore-Inferno und enden in zarten Jazzplaenkeleien ohne sich dabei zu zieren. Man stelle sich eine Jamsession von Kenny Burrell, The Dillinger Escape Plan und Devin Townsend vor.

Zu exakt um improvisiert zu sein. Zu verschachtelt um nach fuenf mal Hoeren, geschweige den beim ersten mal schon verstanden zu werden. Musik fuer Musiker, fuer Avantgardeliebhaber, fuer sehr, sehr schlecht gelaunte Jazzer, oder sehr, sehr betrunkene Metaller. Voellig schraeger Math-Jazz-Grind. Mit tanzbaren Rumba-, Flamenco-, Sonstwas-Einlagen wie in „900 Seconds In Search Of Jerry“ und, und, und.... Es waere wohl einfacher zu sagen welche Musikrichtungen NICHT in der knappen halben Stunde aufgegriffen werden.

Doch wenn man sich diesem Chaos hingibt, so merkt man auch das diese Jungs aus St. Louis mehr sind als nur die Summe oben genannter Bands. Gluecklicherweise wird etwas eigenes und neues in dieser Sparte geschaffen. Irgendwie hat man nach diesen 31 Minuten das Gefuehl etwas verstanden zu haben. Einen unerklaerlichen Effekt wie ihn etwa David Lynch Filme auf das Gemuet ausueben, vermag auch diese Scheibe dieser Sonderlinge zu erschaffen. Das mag daran liegen, dass wirklich und ausschliesslich auf staendige Veraenderung gesetzt wird. Feine Thrash-Riffs (aus denen andere Bands ganze Songs machen) tauchen hier fuer 3 Sekunden auf, um einer voellig unerwarteten aber doch fuer sich ebenso mitreissenden Jazzbridge zu weichen, die ihrerseits  in wabernde Gitarrenspielereien muenden um ganz „ambient maessig“ auszuklingen. Es werden schlichtweg alle Register gezogen die sich in der neueren und neuesten Metalszene anbieten. Von Laut bis Leise, knallend bis schmeichelnd, traeumerisch bis brutal, von Stille bis Noise ist alles auf dieser einen halben Stunde zu finden.

Was hier geschaffen wurde scheint wie ein extraterrestrischer Meteor in die bekannte Musiklandschaft zu knallen. Es schillert, es glueht, es pulsiert, es riecht nach Jasmin und Schwefel zu gleich und ist wohl fuer weniger als 0,01 % der Metalhoerer auf dieser Erde von Interesse. Wer Meshuggah zum Fruehstueck hoert und sich mit Virulence zum Mittagsschlaefchen bettet, der mag getrost bei http://www.lyebymistake.com zugreifen. Alle anderen die auf weniger riskante und turbulente Weltraumausfluege stehen, moegen einen weiten Bogen um diese Scheibe machen.

Zitat:The Blood Brothers - Burn Piano Island, Burn! [ArtistDirect; 2003]
Rating: 9.1

I stand on one side of a great divide, surrounded by over-analytical obsessives in tattered, earthtone clothes, our confidence or insecurity dependent on the obscurity of our record collections. We sigh in disdain at the revelers across the chasm, whose pink hair, studded belts and denim signify clueless victimization at the hands of made-up TRL rebels and one-word "garage" bands. Weve been eyeing each other with suspicion and contempt for years, but taking stock of the current situation, it seems that, for their uncritical record collections, the Manic Panic pagans are having a lot more fun than the sheepish, socially retarded "aesthetes" around me.

Though Im probably too old to party with the opposition, Im lately having more fun observing their exuberance than enduring the paranoid stares of a thousand overcautious pretenders to the taste-making throne. Id been looking for a way out of here for months when I caught the daring stare of an obnoxious 21 year-old siren with-- naturally-- a Neurosis patch stitched to her bike bag. She led me away from the shit-talking, permanently dissatisfied masses, her fluorescent jelly bracelets my beacon in pitch black, until, rounding a sharp corner, the flaming pyres of a mile-long overpass lit up the night sky. I crossed this burning bridge last weekend, and learned I have Seattles Blood Brothers to thank for completing this monumental span, which Refused broke ground on some years back.

The Blood Brothers early singles and full-length debut, This Adultery Is Ripe, barely rose above forced, overeager screamo; they had moments, but were very late to a game played best by Rorschach and Born Against. As with their recent tourmates Milemarker, however, The Blood Brothers grew in leaps and bounds, offering hugely improved compositions and a more authentic mania on their second LP, 2002s March On, Electric Children! They made the bold and/or questionable decision to sample Nine Inch Nails "Perfect Drug" on "Kiss of the Octopus", then closed the album with an exasperated solo piano version of "American Vultures". Dramatic gear shifts like this are a dangerous dare: you either drop your transmission or leave the competition in the dust. Id lost sight of The Blood Brothers since March On, and didnt know if theyd pulled ahead or fallen behind. As soon as I caught Burn, Piano Island, Burn in the rearview, I took my foot off the gas in defeated awe. Theyve lapped me.

Drowningman recently flipped the switch on hardcore with their mathematical fury, but The Blood Brothers take things even farther, stripping away the violence and meathead confrontation, setting grindcores high-pitched wailing and tempo freakouts against deliberate, menacing vocals informed by Ian Svenonius and, in places, The Thes Matt Johnson. Milemarkers Satanic Verses (which I savaged for its inconsistency) obviously drew something from The Blood Brothers approach, but Burn, Piano Island, Burn (recorded by Ross Robinson) is frighteningly more slick in production, promotion, technique and import. Yet its full of so much substance that its composite opposition-- heady art vs. commercial appeal-- is almost self-negating. This record is impossible.

After their half-minute statement of intent ("Guitarmy"), "Fuckings Greatest Hits" borrows a funk-era Stevie Wonder guitar riff that, incredibly, winds around a trademark Jesus Lizard bassline. The songs bloodthirsty chorus never lets up, flailing wildly out of the gates. While the albums title track begins in even more overtly reptilian territory (borrowing from "Killer McHann"), its also more controlled than its spastic predecessor, slowing things down to a follow-along pace, and showcasing the almost feminine, metallic squeal that dominates the record and draws Korn and Melt-Banana fans in equal number. The central choruses of "Burn, Piano Island, Burn" are among the catchiest moments on the record, offering pagan incantations from a surreal cut-and-paste evisceration of society, but these messages are hidden in the records lyric sheet, all but indecipherable on tape. "I buried my bride of eight-inch fingers deep in the hungry quicksand/ I buried our child of pineapple skin where the generic sunsets sparkle so bland."

The lead single "Ambulance vs. Ambulance" is heavily evocative of The The, running like "Infected" or "Jealous of Youth" at 45 RPM in its calmer moments, but the smooth, speedy verse is shattered by a stabbing pre-chorus attack, teasing before the song launches into a four-chord bullet train refrain. For its simplicity, the chorus is welcome reprieve from the murderous shrieking and stop/start chaos that can make this album completely overwhelming on a straight listen. The breakdown is indicative of sinister intent, one of few moments youll decipher without text aides: "Youll never see your wife and children again/ So tell us what was going through your head/ When you looked into their eyes and said/ "No thanks, Ill take the hooker instead."

The swaying reggae tempos behind "Every Breath Is a Bomb" are an unfortunate low-light on this otherwise superb album-- think No Doubt on bad acid-- but beyond that ill-advised trip, the problem with Burn, Piano Island, Burn is the very one they set out to attack. Its hard to take hardcore anywhere new. Of the three major breaks with expectation, two fail, and in addition to the melting image of Gwen Stefani Im stuck with, "God Bless You, Blood Thirsty Zeppelins!" conjures Marilyn Manson-ian melodrama in its second half, where overdone zombie choruses preface chugging, straight-ahead radio rock.

In contrast, The Blood Brothers third break with form is stunning and completely unexpected. "The Shame" stomps a sedated march, a sincere ballad that arises in a perfect dawn chorus for the lecherous all-nighter in their wake, shamefully admitting, "Everything is going to be just awful when were around." The reverse-guitar ache and mounting snare rolls are unnecessarily interrupted, however, as a minute or so of the by now too familiar screamo explosions come crashing down. "The Shame" would have made a better straight finale without the regression; that the song cuts off in midstream is enough of a middle finger to convention.

Burn, Piano Island, Burn balances so perfectly between commercial appeal and untainted creativity that its as if the band have been digitally inserted atop a mountain no man can conceivably climb. Like their cutup artwork, The Blood Brothers offer an incongruous marriage of humor, hate and heresy, proving themselves a dedicated collective of disparate brilliance. Burn, Piano Island, Burn devours illusion, and unites clashing factions by reducing them to powerless spectators: The pretentious and the preening look pretty much the same with their jaws on the floor.

-Chris Ott, March 24th, 2003