As any audioblogger will tell you, finding a logical context for the music presented on a site is one of the more challenging aspects of maintaining and contributing to it. There are probably a few dozen records that I own that I cherish and praise, yet because of stylistic considerations and their inherently arcane nature, I rarely get the chance to expound upon them in a single collective post. This should resolve the issue, as I present the first of hopefully more installments on some of the more stranger, or ‘esoteric’, if you will, favorites in my collection. An open mind and healthy taste for adventure are highly recommended here.

Devo Hardcore Devo, Vol. 2: 1974-1977 Rykodisc 1991

One of the more lesser-known pieces of pop music trivia is that before the ’80s New Wave, oddball stage costumes, and the universal success of “Whip It,” Akron, Ohio’s Devo recorded some of the most bizarre, incomparably brilliant music ever committed to tape. Four-track tape, that is, which is the recording medium of which the band’s two Hardcore compilations are sourced from. These basement demos were unearthed by Rykodisc and released in 1991 before going out of print, and are now fetching steep prices on the online auction market, but they’re worth every cent – especially the second volume, which is even more delightfully warped than the first. It’s a heady challenge to describe the material here without succumbing to schoolgirl-like levels of giddiness, but I’ll try to rein my enthusiasm down to a manner of coherency. Hardcore Vol. 2: 1972-1977 (1991) contains all of the following: surf guitar freakouts, slick power punk, candy-coated pop songs, psychedelic rave-ups, serene electronic mood pieces, and the most impressive application of shitty malfunctioning synths that I’ve ever heard in a “pop music” context. Hell, there are so many tracks that are just beyond description I would have an aneurysm trying to explain them. Let’s just say that they’re in spirit with the cover, a shot of the band wearing 3D glasses and fake plastic breasts accompanied by half-naked women in various sexual poses, perfectly in line with the “what the fuck exactly is going on here?” mantra that reverberates around the listener’s head when first hearing the record. I don’t even care for the rest of Devo’s catalogue; the Hardcore volumes, on the other hand, are truly something special.

“Can You Take It? – Devo 3:02 (Hardcore, Vol. 2: 1974-1977, Rykodisc 1991)

Bernard Herrmann The Day the Earth Stood Still 20th Century Fox 1951

While it would certainly be a tough call, my vote for greatest film composer of all time would have to go to Bernard Herrmann. Generally speaking, I’m not one for soundtracks and other programmatic music without their corresponding visuals (blaxploitation titles and various Morricone works excluded), but Herrmann’s scores stand up so well as “absolute music” that I’ll gladly pick up anything with his name on it regardless of whether I’ve seen the accompanying film or not. There is a chain of thought that most people follow whenever they hear the name “Herrmann,” which goes something like, “Hitchcock – Janet Leigh shower scene – now-parodied “eek!-eek!” strings – horror music,” but Herrmann’s score for The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) is eons more frightening. From a strictly instrumental standpoint, what the composer did here was entirely groundbreaking at the time, employing two theremins, amplified strings, organs, vibraphone, and various brass and percussion – light years ahead of the standard four-section orchestra that was de rigueur in the film music industry back then. The effects that Herrmann wrings from this setup are simply astonishing: dark swells of sonorous brass combined with the psychotic electronic hum of the two theremins, nervous violin drones and chilling bursts of white noise from the clashing cymbals. There are a couple of Copland-ish “Americana” pieces to break the tense atmosphere halfway through, but by and large, this is edge-of-your-seat music that begs for headphones and a dark environment. For purely sentimental reasons, Vertigo (1958) will always remain my favorite of Herrmann’s scores, but The Day the Earth Stood Still comes in damn close as a runner-up. (This score was re-recorded in 2003 by Varese Sarabande with Joel McNeely conducting, and while its fidelity is crystalline compared to 20th Century Fox’s transfer from the master tapes, the original is still to be preferred.)

“Prelude/Outer Space/Radar” – Bernard Herrmann 3:50 (The Day the Earth Stood Still, 20th Century Fox 1951)

JD & The Evil’s Dynamite Band Explodes Across the Nation Soul Fire 2001

With no information to glean from the production credits on the jacket and little coming up in the way of a Google search, I still know next to nothing about JD & The Evil’s Dynamite Band. I mail-ordered an LP copy of Explodes Across the Nation (2001) from the Truth and Soul site a few years ago without hearing a note of the music, one of those rare caution-to-the-wind moments that I can’t afford now that my income isn’t of the disposable variety. What a jewel this album is – albeit one that’s been nicked, scratched, cracked, and submerged in a barrel of used motor oil. In terms of pure vibe, Explodes’ closest comparison would be the scorched-earth, apocalyptic funk of Miles Davis’ Agharta/Pangaea (1975) records, but weirder, grittier, and, well, much more “evil.” The funk here is raw, loose, and almost otherworldly, with backward vocal samples, torture-chamber percussion, and a menacing voice whispering, “DIE” on occasion. Song titles include “Beer (So Nice) Right On” and “My Beach, My Waves, Fuck Off!” This is precisely what funk shouldn’t be – inaccessible, cryptic, drugged to a near-comatose state of hypnosis – but it works marvelously. I’d be tempted to sacrifice one of my toes to hear another full-length from the group, assuming the members are actually mortals instead of ghosts who haven’t already dissipated into the ether. If you like your funk with a sinister, uneasy edge, you’ll love this (then purchase the above Miles records, along with Dark Magus [1974] and On the Corner [1972]).

“Heavy, Heavy… Heavy” – JD & The Evil’s Dynamite Band 4:19 (Explodes Across the Nation, Soul Fire 2001)

Peter Thomas Film Musik Polydor 1997

German TV and film composer Peter Thomas experienced a bit of a resurgence in his work during the late ‘90s, as everyone from Jarvis Cocker to Stereolab eagerly cited his music as a heavy influence on their own material. A handful of European labels rushed to issue as many Thomas “lounge” compilations as the market could handle, all but ignoring his horror and spy soundtracks as well as his more experimental works (he actually invented and developed a synthesizer called a ThoWeiphon). Film Musik (1997) was one of the few that got it right, a two-in-one disc that combined Thomas’ soundtracks for the 1960s German television series Edgar Wallace and Jerry Cotton. Like many of the greats, Thomas was at his best when he took unthinkable risks with his music, and Film Musik is loaded with cues that flagrantly span extremes: free jazz colliding with a bluesy sitar, a rollicking ballpark organ pitted against tense brass figures, a dreamy harp accenting a thick buzzing guitar, and so on. It would be convenient to dismiss this music as little more than camp or kitsch, which is an incredible disservice to Thomas’ ingenious arrangements, to say nothing of his sheer balls when it came to instrument combinations. Even the players here sound hesitant, unsure, and not a little clumsy, which only adds to the music’s charm, as one envisions the guitarist scratching his head uneasily at the direction of “noisy beach-party surf guitar solo.” With nearly 50 cues and vignettes, there’s enough Thomas here to snack on for weeks, which is why I believe it’s the best introduction to his anomalous sound-world.

“Der unheimliche Mönch” – Peter Thomas 2:45 (Film Musik, Polydor 1997)

Various Artists Princess Nicotine: Folk and Pop Music of Myanmar (Burma) Sublime Frequencies 2004

Whenever I feel like my listening tastes have stagnated and there’s little hope for any sort of new music exciting me anymore, I conveniently (and arrogantly) remind myself that there are seemingly hundreds of thousands of “world music” records out there that are just waiting for my ears to discover them, ravage them for weeks, then spew out some psychobabble on this site about how incredible they are. I was likely in one of these moods when I picked up a used disc of Princess Nicotine (2004) for five bucks in a CD Spins a few years ago, intrigued by the cover art and the fact that I had little idea of what Burmese pop music actually sounded like. And I’m still struggling to describe, with any sort of accuracy, how bizarre and flat-out amazing the music contained within this disc is. Princess Nicotine was compiled by a gentleman named Alan Bishop, who journeyed to Myanmar back in God-knows-when and purchased and/or traded armfuls of 45s and cassettes until he had his dozen favorites to compile here: batshit-insane signatures and stop-start patterns that only a grindcore band could match, pastoral love songs based on mind-warping microtonal scales, thunderstorms of percussion aerobics with a de-emphasis on pulse, stoned mid-tempo psychedelia, gongs, chants, harps – it’s all here. I guarantee that you’ve never heard anything like it, and here’s the best part: it’s all fucking phenomenal. There is a wonderful looseness to the ensemble playing, even when executing some sickeningly complex passage, that simply can’t be replicated, and the sheer number of unidentifiable instruments bouncing around the mix is enough to keep me entertained for hours. Kneejerk descriptors like “snake charmers on crack” are not only condescending, naïve, and flat-out ignorant on my part, but more importantly, they prove how futile it is to place everything in the context of Western musical systems and thought – and so help me Christ if I hear someone bitch about the fidelity. Princess Nicotine has become something of a rarity since it went out of print some time ago, but if you happen to stumble across it, by all means pick it up immediately. Just trust me on this one. You’ll be thanking me for years.

“Really Strange and Weird Things” – Sein Sah Thin 3:15 (Princess Nicotine: Folk and Pop Music of Myanmar [Burma], Sublime Frequencies 2004)

It never fails to amaze me how much strange and exotic music exists in the spaces of the cosmos, waiting to be created, performed, or in a recent case, rediscovered. I had only known of Brigitte Fontaine from a brief (but scene-stealing) guest appearance on a Stereolab 12″ years ago and her collaboration with Sonic Youth on SYR 6 (2002). Then last month, while perusing the nooks and crannies of eMusic, I stumbled upon a curious little rarity that I would have never found otherwise, titled Comme á la Radio (1969). I’ve been mildly obsessed with it ever since.

Brigitte Fontaine was born in 1939 in Morlaix, Finistére, the extended northwestern tip of France. She began recording in the late ’60s, first collaborating with Jean-Claude Vannier, who had worked with Serge Gainsbourg as arranger. Throughout the ’70s Fontaine’s output increased with a series of bizarre, otherworldly pop records, many of which enlisted the questionable talents of Areski Belkacem, whose gruff tenor contrasted - often uneasily - with her dry, silky voice and surrealistic poetry. Actually, “pop” is a relative term; if Fontaine’s records fell under the veil of what constitutes popular music, it wouldn’t be on this planet, however, the couple did release a beautiful double LP in 1977 titled Vous et Nous which is somewhat tame but no less highly recommended. There is an abundant (and perhaps definitive) discography on her own site, and seeing as her records continue to fetch extravagant import prices, eMusic is really the best way to go for now.

In the midst of the cultural turbulence of the late ’60s, Fontaine had an opportunity to record her fourth album with the Art Ensemble of Chicago, whose unorthodox jazz experimentation and avant-garde theatrics were beginning to find favor with a large audience. Comme á la Radio was the result, and arguably remains the strangest item in Fontaine’s catalog. Wadada Leo Smith is also accounted for in the proceedings, and Areski’s presence isn’t as dominant or instrusive as on later recordings. The music itself is difficult to convey, but throw these descriptors in a pot and see what the imagination comes up with: hypnotic percussion jams, North African snake charming exercises, ethereal musique concréte pieces, and smoky basement-club jazz are but a few of the treasures contained within. It’s unknown whether psychotropic substances were ingested during the sessions or served as the basis for inspiration here (what, drugs?), but taken on its own terms, the music is fascinating and immensely rewarding with subsequent listens.

“Tanka II” (the album is sequenced so that it appears before “Tanka I”) is one of the shorter tracks on the record and is built from a busy, percolating pattern on hand drums. Fontaine whispers seductively like she’s possessed as Malachi Favors’ thick upright interjects a three-note motif sparingly but effectively. At 1:41 the drums abruptly halt as Fontaine continues speaking over what sounds like an impromptu woodwind rehearsal.

“Tanka II” – Brigitte Fontaine 2:04 (Comme á la Radio, Saravah 1969)

Fontaine’s influence has distilled into more artists than I care to list, but what immediately struck me about “L’été l’été” was it’s uncanny similarity to some of the more serene moments on Talk Talk’s peerless masterpiece Laughing Stock (1991); excluding the vocals, the fluid, churning body of brassy sound here is strikingly reminiscent of “Taphead” in texture and color. Areski chants the dark theme while Fontaine mourns sensually and delicately, eventually mirroring him at the conclusion. The entire track has an exotic, voyeuristic air to it, much like listening in on a séance while hiding in the shadows.

“L’été l’été” – Brigitte Fontaine 3:56 (Comme á la Radio, Saravah 1969)

“Le Noir c’est mieux choisi” is the closest thing to a recognizable “song” on the album and as a peculiar touch, serves as its final track. Fontaine exudes a carefree abandon as she sings the idyllic melody over an acoustic guitar progression, which continues to repeat over a cello and Latin percussion. It’s a great example of how she could play it “safe” and melodic when she desired; or, from a different perspective, she did whatever the hell she wanted as her whims saw fit.

“Le Noir c’est mieux choisi” – Brigitte Fontaine 5:02 (Comme á la Radio, Saravah 1969)

Most of Comme á la Radio isn’t easy listening by any means, but it is worth approaching and deserves a serious listen. It’s also a refreshing reminder that relevant, challenging music can be just as exciting today as it was nearly forty years ago.

Some time ago, Heather and I had the privilege of watching one of the classics of 60’s Italian cinema, La Decima vittima (The Tenth Victim). Along with Indagine su un cittadino al di sopra di ogni sospetto (Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion), it is director Elio Petri’s shining hour. The groovy sci-fi film stars Marcello Mastroianni and ultra-sexy femme fatale Ursula Andress as two contestants on a deadly game show where the goal is to kill ten opponents for TV audience gratification. This beautifully shot, color-saturated work of genius viciously lambastes the advertising industry, ridiculous Bohemian ideologies of the era, the news media, and pop culture’s sad fixation with reality television thirty years ahead of its time. Absurd “futuristic” gadgets appear like rejects from a Bond flick. A hippie cult of sun worshippers gathers on the beach daily to weep at sunrise and sunset. Mastroianni wears Bono shades. Andress’ brassiere is a double-barrelled cannon. There is just so much goodness in this film it’s almost too much to bear. Needless to say, we both loved it.

This past Friday, after three-plus hours of sifting through the racks of vinyl at Mystery Train, I unearthed my white whale, my unattainable jewel, my Holy Grail, if you will. Nestled among the L’s in the soundtracks section was Piero Piccioni’s double-LP score to this magnificent cult film. It’s nearly impossible for me to describe the music for La Decima vittima without blathering incoherently like a giddy schoolgirl, but rarely has such wonderfully campy, deliciously warped magic been captured as on these two records.

Piccioni is second only to Morricone (and arguably Rota) in the ranks of the Italian film music masters, and the 22 cues here demonstrate precisely why. I suppose big band cocktail jazz led by a demented circus organ would be the best description, but it’s so much more than that. From a technical standpoint, Piccioni’s employment of theme-and-variation is simply impeccable, as is his orchestration; his use of dissonances is phenomenal (that Bb7#9 chord is one of the most clever tricks ever), and the fact that the instrumentation - the horn charts in particular - never gets stale or tired while recycling the theme is a testament to his extensive jazz background. Then again, when you have the ubiquitous Mina joyously scat-singing over one of the greatest themes in modern cinema, how can you possibly go wrong?

And then there’s the arsenal of various psychotic carnival organs, which acts as the glue for the entire score. And the rich bubbly warmth of the production, complete with tape degradation, gorgeous reverb, and that classic overdriven tube compression from the period. The main title opens with some charmingly goofy sound effect, followed by - what else? - gunshots. Mina enters with an organ trio to provocatavely belt out the theme. Notice the saturating reverb that enters at 2:25 and inexplicably disappears at 2:42 - ?!? - sure, why the hell not? The last half of the track features some of the finest organ vamping on the record, which somehow manages to simultaneously be well-suited yet grossly inappropriate.

“La Decima Vittima (Main Title)” - Piero Piccioni 4:58 (La Decima Vittima, Easy Tempo 1965)

“La Decima Vittima #3″ is a variation of the main title and is a piano trio piece with the addition of guitar and organ. But listen closely to the musicians, who sound like they’re trying to hold back their laughter for the sake of a professional session; and what kind of drugs is the piano player on? At 3:00 Mina bursts in with an orgy of sound that just slays.

“La Decima Vittima #3″ - Piero Piccioni 4:16 (La Decima Vittima, Easy Tempo 1965)

“The Chase” is a cue for the obligatory chase scene, and is a frenzy of hyperactive drumming and stinging organ stabs.

“The Chase” - Piero Piccioni 1:53 (La Decima Vittima, Easy Tempo 1965)

A fine example of Piccioni’s lusher orchestration is “The Trap,” a darkly sexual and hypnotic lullaby that drifts along seductively.

“The Trap” - Piero Piccioni 3:14 (La Decima Vittima, Easy Tempo 1965)

Really, some things just have that ability to immediately ease you into a soft, drooling state of mind-numbing bliss, and this soundtrack is one of them. My enthusiasm for this stuff is worthy of the lunatic fringe.