Jim Nothing - 2024 - Grey Eyes, Grey Lynn

 

Melted Ice Cream – MICV015

The cover looks like a neighborhood remembering itself through several incompatible systems. A blurred hillside occupies the upper photograph, while the lower image shows some kind of skeletal shelter, frame, garage structure, or unfinished room. Architectural diagrams run along the top and bottom edges, their little boxed forms and cross-braces suggesting routes, rooms, windows, or instructions for assembling a place. A broad salmon-colored stripe divides the images, smaller marks repeat across the bottom like missing letters, and an upside-down number 23 sits near the corner as though the sleeve has been rotated, misfiled, or recovered from a planning office after its original purpose was forgotten. Nothing is centered in the conventional sense. The record appears less illustrated than mapped.
Grey Eyes, Grey Lynn performs a similar operation upon inner-city Auckland. It maps a place through bicycles, pubs, roads, trees, shorelines, long afternoons, feedback, old drinking habits, cats, flowers, gambling screens, fading light, and people whose identities are revealed only through the way the singer notices them. The neighborhood is never introduced through famous landmarks or a tourist’s elevated view. It appears from inside daily movement, one avenue, garage, window, bar, road surface, and patch of changing light at a time.
The title joins a person to a suburb so closely that the boundary between them disappears. Grey eyes look at Grey Lynn, but Grey Lynn may also be looking back through those eyes. A person becomes a local weather system, while the neighborhood acquires a face. Grey is not treated as the absence of color. It contains overcast light, asphalt, old timber, evening, memory, melancholy, silver guitar tone, and the soft visual grain of the cover photographs. Lynn supplies the human sound at the end, almost a name spoken after the color has settled.
Jim Nothing is another wonderfully misleading construction. It sounds self-erasing, as though James Sullivan has stepped aside before anyone can accuse him of importance. Yet the songs are filled with evidence that nothing is never actually nothing. A cat playing in a doorway matters. A bicycle matters. The last leaves on a tree matter. A quiet afternoon matters. An old-timer placing a bet matters. The joke inside the name is that someone calling himself Nothing has become unusually attentive to all the small somethings other people discard as background.
“Hourglass” begins with time converted into landscape. Sand belongs both to the instrument measuring time and to the beach where time is often temporarily forgotten. The song keeps returning to the fact that time will not come back, but the music refuses to sound defeated. Guitars sparkle, drums move forward, and the backing vocals add warmth around the central warning. The hourglass keeps track even when the person does not, yet the song itself creates another relationship with time. Two and a half minutes can be replayed, allowing the same passing moment to return without pretending that the listener remains unchanged.
The production history gives that opening track another meaning. Its first recording was clean enough to make Sullivan uncomfortable. The professional microphones and studio clarity produced something recognizably good, but not yet recognizably Jim Nothing. He returned to the garage, added overdubs and layers of feedback, and allowed the song to acquire the abrasions through which his own identity became audible. This is not a simple preference for bad sound over good sound. It is the recognition that technical improvement can sometimes remove the conditions under which personality becomes visible.
A perfect recording may reveal every instrument while hiding why the musicians needed to make it. Garage noise restores scale. The listener can sense the walls, limitations, cold air, improvised setup, and decisions made without an institution waiting to approve them. Feedback is not damage placed over the song. It is the garage asserting that the song passed through an actual room.
“First Bite” introduces one of Sullivan’s marvelous miniature people: a pill vampire wearing dad shoes on a Sunday, watching a cat play in the doorway while competence gradually subsides. The description is funny because its details refuse the grand authority usually granted to a vampire. Immortal darkness has reached middle age, pharmaceutical dependence, practical footwear, and quiet domestic observation. Yet the figure is not merely mocked. There is tenderness in the act of seeing someone so exactly.
The phrase “enough is never enough” opens the song outward. Appetite survives every attempt to domesticate it. Medication, consumption, attention, affection, entertainment, work, intoxication, and self-improvement all promise a point of sufficiency that continually moves. The pill vampire does not need a Gothic castle. Contemporary life provides subscriptions, prescriptions, screens, and Sunday afternoons in which hunger can continue without ever clearly identifying what it wants.
“Wildflowers” moves into the inverted seasonal world of a Southern Hemisphere December, where Christmas belongs to heat, melting roads, swimming, and plants releasing themselves into summer air. Sullivan even hesitates between “tarmac” and “bitumen,” allowing the material beneath his feet to become linguistically unstable. This tiny uncertainty is part of the album’s charm. The singer does not need to know the approved word before the road can carry him.
The flowers, seeds, heat, roadside quicksand, and psychedelic memory turn the song into a local summer mythology. Falling becomes successful because the people once “tripped” and “fell so well.” The line transforms failure into an art of landing. Youth is remembered not as a period when nothing went wrong, but as a time when falling could still feel collaborative, funny, and temporarily free of permanent consequence.
“Easter at the RSC” constructs a secular religious service inside a sports and social club. Old-timers try their luck at the TAB, spectators send hand signals toward the referee, beloved songs play, doors stay open, and the repeated instruction to “sell your car” arrives like advertising, prophecy, and financial emergency fused into one phrase. Easter traditionally concerns death, return, and transformed life. Here resurrection may mean winning a bet, finding a gap in the replay, surviving the long weekend, or exchanging an automobile for whatever dream feedback promises.
The RSC becomes a neighborhood church whose rituals are gambling, sport, alcohol, screens, memory, and familiar company. The song does not treat these practices as degraded substitutes for something sacred. Repetition, hope, disappointment, communal watching, and belief in unlikely reversals already make them religious in structure. One in a million remains almost certainly impossible, but people gather because impossibility becomes easier to hold in company.
The title song is the album’s emotional center because it joins escape fantasy to the discovery that remaining can also become meaningful. The singer remembers drinking himself beneath the table and mentally driving state highways, wishing to leave while physically staying in the same place. Travel happens first as imagination, the road becoming available inside the mind before the body follows it.
Then the song slows into a tree-lined avenue, fading light, books, grey eyes, Grey Lynn, and “Marquee Moon.” Television’s great song of nocturnal urban revelation becomes part of an Auckland afternoon without swallowing the local scene. The reference is not a badge displayed to prove taste. It names the way music from another city can enter a neighborhood and change its light. New York guitar lines pass through decades and hemispheres until they become part of two people reading quietly in Grey Lynn.
The song’s deepest movement is from wanting to get out toward learning how to see where one already is. This does not mean every urge to leave was immature or mistaken. A place can feel imprisoning during one period and beloved during another because the observer, relationships, habits, and available futures have changed. Home is not a fixed property of geography. It is a changing agreement between location and attention.
“Can’t Find It Now” lasts barely more than a minute and turns absence into a problem of insufficient brightness. Whatever has been lost may still exist, but there is not enough light to distinguish it. This could describe memory, purpose, an object misplaced in a room, a former self, or the first reason a song was begun. The piece leaves before the search can become dramatic, respecting the ordinary way lost things remain lost. Most disappearances do not receive conclusions. People simply stop looking for the day.
“Raleigh Arena” is a love song to a road bicycle and one of the purest expressions of physical freedom on the record. The title names Sullivan’s beloved bike, but it also transforms the city into an arena entered through pedaling. Movement requires no fuel purchase, timetable, permission, or sealed compartment. The rider is exposed to weather, traffic, gradients, smells, sounds, and sudden changes in the neighborhood, but this exposure is part of the freedom rather than a flaw in it.
Its motorik pulse creates a road beneath the words. Repetition becomes rotation, each musical circuit resembling another turn of the wheels. The lyric is almost childishly direct: riding feels good and free, and everyone should have access to such a machine. That simplicity becomes political without acquiring a slogan. The bicycle is inexpensive relative to a car, physically empowering, spatially modest, and capable of converting a city from something passed through behind glass into something continuously encountered.
The song also explains the album’s method of observation. Walking and cycling operate at the speed at which small features become visible. A person in a car moves between destinations. A person on a bicycle experiences the material connecting them. Grey Eyes, Grey Lynn is written from that connecting material.
“Lucky Charm” asks to become a protective object for another person while admitting that years, seasons, and unrealized possibilities continue moving. A charm is carried because someone believes proximity to it may influence chance. The singer does not promise complete protection or control. He wants to be the small object accompanying another person through uncertainty.
This modest scale saves the song from romantic conquest. The desire is not to own the beloved’s future but to become something fortunate within it. Even the movement from “lucky charm” to “lucky one” and finally “only one” feels less like increasing possession than language gradually admitting the full size of its hope.
“The Shimmering” returns to the shore at night, where streetlights, stars, waves, reflections, and human figures begin sharing one unstable surface. Shimmering occurs when light cannot remain fixed. It trembles upon water, glass, leaves, metal, and the eye itself. The object appears to move because illumination keeps changing its angle.
This is also how memory works across the album. Events do not return as solid reproductions. They shimmer according to the present from which they are recalled. A drunken period, bicycle journey, pub afternoon, psychedelic summer, or person’s eyes may look different each time memory’s light reaches them. The song accepts that instability as beauty rather than evidence that the memory has failed.
“The Present” performs the album’s most graceful word-turn. “You are the present” identifies another person as both the current moment and a gift, while “I’m the afternoon” makes the singer a temporary portion of the day. One person is time itself; the other is weather passing through it. The lyric keeps nodding toward the past while remaining bittersweetly aware that staying is an active decision.
This may be the record’s quiet philosophy. The past deserves recognition without being allowed to govern every room. Escape remains imaginable without being automatically necessary. The present is not an empty interval between what has been lost and what may arrive later. It is another person sitting within the afternoon.
“Sundown Clown” turns evening into permission. Once the sun disappears, clowning begins, drinks are poured, and everyone does whatever is necessary to continue. The clown can be comic freedom, intoxicated foolishness, emotional disguise, or the self who emerges when daylight’s duties release their grip. The world keeps spinning around the singer, the listener, and the neighborhood whether the night becomes celebration or avoidance.
The song does not condemn drinking despite the title track’s memory of drinking beneath the table. It recognizes that the same act can belong to different chapters. A drink can accompany friendship, ritual, escape, dependence, or ordinary pleasure. Songs do not need to issue one permanent verdict upon every behavior they contain.
“Out of Reach” is full of nearly graspable purity: a tree clinging to its final leaves, moonlight tea, flowers, Antipodean stillness, and medicine dreamed into existence. The repeated insistence that something is pure begins sounding less certain with every return. Purity may be precisely what remains unreachable.
This is fortunate. Pure scenes, pure genres, pure memories, pure motives, and pure identities usually exist only after inconvenient material has been removed. Jim Nothing’s music is valuable because it refuses that cleaning. Jangle carries feedback. sweetness carries sadness. A garage shares authority with a proper studio. New Zealand guitar history coexists with local details too peculiar to become generic heritage.
“The Pass” closes in a town where gold once drew people toward the river and then disappeared. Bells continue ringing although almost nobody remains to hear them. Words have been written into rock, ribbons are cut, and commemoration survives the community whose life supposedly gave the ceremony meaning. The song turns a former mining settlement into a meditation upon how places continue after their economic purpose has been extracted.
It is a darker companion to Grey Lynn. One place remains inhabited through attention; another has become monument, inscription, and echo. The bells ring for everyone, but nobody is left. The record ends by asking whether a place lives through buildings, population, memory, repeated sound, or the person who carries its story elsewhere.
Grey Eyes, Grey Lynn gathers these questions without becoming burdened by them. Its melodies remain immediate, guitars shine and fray, drums keep the songs lightly airborne, and backing voices create small openings around Sullivan’s understated delivery. The album’s intelligence never needs to announce itself because it is embedded in what gets noticed.
The cover’s floor plans, photographs, colored blocks, and unexplained number finally resemble a personal archive being converted into shelter. One image shows landscape; another shows construction; the diagrams offer possible arrangements without telling us which one was completed. Perhaps the album itself is the completed room.
It has been built from a garage, a studio, a bicycle, a neighborhood, friends, flowers, wagers, forgotten towns, and time passing through grey light. Jim Nothing stands at the center by refusing to behave like a center. The songs keep looking outward, where nothing important is happening and everything is.

David Grubbs & Loren Connors - 2024 - Evening Air

 

Room40 – RM4226

The cover contains a horizon but refuses to declare where the horizon is. Loren Connors’s monochrome painting appears to divide into air, water, shore, fog, and dark land, yet each region quietly leaks into the others. A pale band seems to hover above a heavier black field. Tiny marks near the lower edge might be reflected light, distant structures, waves, scratches, or places where the painted surface has remembered the hand that crossed it. The image is called A Coming to Shore No. 21, but it does not show arrival as a clean event. Shore remains something emerging gradually from atmosphere.
Evening air behaves similarly. It cannot be pointed to as an object, yet it changes every visible object. Heat leaves the ground, distances soften, sounds travel differently, and forms that were obvious in afternoon light begin surrendering their borders. Evening is not night, but the certainty of day has already begun withdrawing. Connors and David Grubbs make music inside that transition. Guitar and piano remain recognizable, but neither instrument consistently occupies the expected ground. Notes arrive, fade, reflect, and occasionally become indistinguishable from the space around them.
The label name adds another quiet chamber. Room40 originally points elsewhere, toward codebreaking and hidden transmissions, but here the words become literal again: a room containing forty possible meanings, or the fortieth room reached after all familiar rooms have been exhausted. This music does not feel designed for a large public square. It creates a room whose dimensions are determined by attention. Listen casually and it may seem almost empty. Listen closely and the apparent emptiness develops doors, drafts, distant motion, and the acoustic evidence of things waiting outside sight.
The two musicians first met as a duo more than twenty years earlier in the chapel at Green-Wood Cemetery. That origin remains audible even though Evening Air was recorded in a studio. A chapel teaches sound to behave differently. Silence is no longer the absence between events but part of the architecture holding them apart. A single note can establish height, stone, distance, and the presence of bodies attempting not to disturb one another. Connors and Grubbs do not reproduce church acoustics here. They preserve the courtesy such acoustics demand.
“Evening Air” begins with Grubbs at the piano and Connors on electric guitar. The pairing might suggest a clear division between struck notes and sustained ones, piano providing points while guitar provides atmosphere. The performance immediately complicates that expectation. Grubbs allows chords and isolated tones to hang long enough that the piano begins behaving like weather. Connors’s guitar enters with gestures so thin and carefully placed that they can resemble marks made upon paper rather than amplified strings.
Neither musician appears interested in filling what the other leaves open. This is more unusual than it sounds. Much improvisation is governed by response: one player makes a statement, another replies, and musical intelligence becomes visible through speed of recognition. Connors and Grubbs practice a slower form of recognition. A sound may be answered by allowing it to remain unanswered. Respect becomes audible as restraint.
The title piece does not develop toward conquest. It develops toward acquaintance. Piano and guitar gradually learn the pressure each can exert without forcing the shared air to become private territory. A low piano tone may alter the emotional color of a guitar line without touching it directly. A guitar sound may make the decay of the previous chord suddenly noticeable. The musicians communicate not only through what they play but through what each performance causes us to hear in the other.
“Choir Waits in the Wings” introduces a group of singers who never enter. The title locates them beside the stage, prepared but withheld. Their waiting becomes more powerful than an actual choral entrance because imagination can supply a choir larger than any recording budget. Every sustained guitar tone or gathering piano resonance begins to suggest voices assembling behind a curtain.
A choir traditionally converts separate breathing bodies into collective speech. The individual singer becomes part of a larger mouth. Connors and Grubbs accomplish something almost opposite. Two instrumental voices remain clearly separate while occasionally producing the sensation that a third body has formed between them. The imaginary choir is not added to the music. It appears within the overlap.
The wings are also where performers remain visible to one another while hidden from the audience. They contain preparation, nerves, whispered instructions, props, dust, practical labor, and the ordinary bodies that will soon enter a stage and become symbolic. This album often feels as though it remains in that side space, listening to art before art has completed its public transformation.
The long first side belongs to Grubbs’s piano and Connors’s guitar. The second side changes the furniture. Connors moves to piano for “The Pacific School,” “Enjoyment of Ruins,” and “Child,” while Grubbs takes the electric guitar. The reversal is not presented as a stunt. No announcement tells the listener to admire their versatility. The instruments simply begin revealing different temperaments under different hands.
Connors’s piano playing has a beautiful untrained exactness, not because it lacks knowledge but because it refuses the instrument’s social pressure to demonstrate pianism. The piano carries an enormous historical institution inside it: conservatories, recitals, domestic respectability, composition, virtuosity, and the authority of Western notation. Connors approaches it as a field of available sounds. A key is permitted to be one event rather than evidence of mastery.
“The Pacific School” lasts barely two and a half minutes, yet its title opens toward an ocean and an institution at once. A school can teach doctrine, but it can also be a moving community of fish whose coordination has no visible conductor. Pacific can name an ocean or a condition of peace. The piece hovers among these meanings. Connors’s piano tones appear as dark bodies briefly surfacing while Grubbs’s guitar supplies water, current, or the reflected sky.
The Pacific is too large to be seen as a whole from any shore. It must be understood through local encounters: one wave, harbor, crossing, map, storm, memory, or horizon. The same is true of musical traditions. Nobody hears an entire lineage. A listener receives one record, one performance, one borrowed influence, and gradually imagines the larger sea from those partial contacts.
“Enjoyment of Ruins” is a dangerous title because ruins are beautiful partly through damage someone else may have suffered. A collapsed factory, burned home, deserted institution, or abandoned town can become visual pleasure once the people harmed by its failure have left the frame. Ruin photography often turns consequence into texture.
The piece does not sound triumphant enough to celebrate destruction. Its enjoyment is quieter and more ethically uncertain: the pleasure of hearing forms after their intended function has ended. A broken wall reveals layers hidden during the building’s useful life. A failed machine becomes sculpture. A musical phrase interrupted before resolution exposes the assumptions through which listeners expected it to continue.
Connors and Grubbs do not construct complete melodic buildings and then theatrically destroy them. They begin with fragments already carrying the dignity of remains. The listener is not invited to mourn the missing whole because there may never have been one. Ruin becomes a method of composition in which gaps are original features rather than later damage.
“It’s Snowing Onstage” is the album’s magnificent disturbance. Both musicians take up electric guitars, creating a denser, more confrontational field, and Connors unexpectedly moves to drums. The surprise is not that percussion appears but that it behaves according to no familiar contract. The drums do not stabilize the guitars by supplying a dependable rhythmic floor. They enter like objects dropped into weather.
Snow onstage makes the boundary between representation and environment collapse. Stage snow is artificial weather, flakes manufactured to create an image for an audience. Actual snow would disrupt equipment, alter surfaces, endanger movement, and potentially force the performance to stop. The title leaves us between those conditions. Is the stage convincingly pretending to be outside, or has the outside entered and begun damaging the illusion?
The guitars gather in rougher formations than elsewhere on the record. Their lines push, hover, and occasionally lock together before separating again. Connors’s drumming introduces impacts that seem less interested in measuring time than in proving that time has a body. A drum is struck, air moves, the room answers, and the guitars must continue in a world changed by that impact.
The piece is the longest act of weather on the second side, yet it never becomes a storm in the conventional free-improvisation sense. Its tension comes from unpredictability without aggression. Snow is quiet while transforming every surface it reaches. The track covers the stage this way, changing the visibility and footing of everything already present.
“Child” closes the album in a little over two minutes. Knowing the composition’s history gives the miniature tremendous gravity: a mother’s child killed by the freight trains that once ran through Manhattan’s West Side streets. Yet no voice explains the story here. Connors plays piano while Grubbs’s guitar remains near him, and grief is returned to the condition before narrative organizes it.
A child is a person, a relationship, a future, and a word adults continue using after the person it names has grown or died. To a parent, the child may remain “my child” beyond every alteration of age and even beyond death. Language preserves the relationship while reality removes the body.
The brevity refuses monumental mourning. Public memorials often enlarge grief into architecture because ordinary scale seems incapable of carrying it. “Child” remains small. This makes its absence feel closer. The piece resembles an object kept in a drawer, touched rarely because it contains more feeling than its physical dimensions should permit.
Grubbs does not attempt to replace Suzanne Langille’s absent voice or imitate the emotional information words once carried. His guitar remains a companion to Connors’s piano, perhaps carrying what another person can carry when grief itself cannot be shared equally. One person experiences the central loss; another remains nearby without pretending proximity creates complete understanding.
This has been the ethic of the whole album. Collaboration does not require merging identities. Connors and Grubbs preserve difference so carefully that their moments of convergence become extraordinary. They do not constantly prove that they are listening. They create conditions in which listening can be inferred from the survival of each other’s space.
After two decades, their return is not framed as unfinished business finally completed. Evening Air does not attempt to update Arborvitae, exceed it, or demonstrate everything learned during the interval. Time is allowed to exist between the records without becoming a burden the new music must explain.
This may be why the album feels simultaneously old and newly made. Piano and electric guitar carry no obvious timestamp here. There are no fashionable production gestures announcing 2024. Yet the music could only have been played by these people at this stage of their lives and history together. Timelessness is not the absence of time. It is time felt without being advertised.
Room40 is an ideal home because the label repeatedly treats listening as an active physical and philosophical practice rather than passive receipt. Its releases often enlarge the space between almost nothing and almost too much. Evening Air remains near the first boundary, but close listening reveals that almost nothing may contain an impossible amount.
The cover painting finally stops resembling a landscape and becomes a score. Dark horizontal fields indicate duration. Pale bands indicate air. Tiny marks become notes, boats, distant lamps, or incidents in the painted surface. The coming to shore may be the music approaching audibility, the musicians approaching one another, or the listener gradually recognizing a form that was present before recognition.
Arrival never becomes complete. The shore continues emerging. The choir continues waiting. Snow continues falling upon an indoor stage. The child remains held inside two minutes of sound. Evening enters the room without opening a door.

Maryrose Crook & The Renderers - 2006 - Ghosts Of Our Vegas Lives

 

3 Beads Of Sweat – 3BOS 1009.2

Four nocturnal creatures float against a brown field like brooches removed from the clothing of the dead. They resemble moths, but ordinary moth anatomy has been embroidered, jeweled, armored, and ceremonially altered. Pearls hang from one set of wings. Another creature carries a metallic structure across its body like a tiny coffin, shield, or mechanical heart. Their antennae curl upward, their wings display eyes and patterns, and each insect occupies its own pocket of empty space beneath Maryrose Crook’s looping blue title. They are specimens, ornaments, spirits, and performers waiting for the casino lights to return.
The cover does not show Las Vegas. There are no hotels, slot machines, fountains, marquees, cars, crowds, or desert highways. Instead, it shows what may remain after Vegas has disappeared: four glamorous insects dressed for an evening whose human guests never arrived. The spectacle has contracted from architecture into tiny bodies. Sequins have become wing markings. Pearls have become defensive camouflage. Entertainment has survived as evolutionary strangeness.
A moth is drawn toward artificial light with such determination that attraction may become fatal. Las Vegas is a city built almost entirely from artificial light, a vast machine for pulling bodies toward promises of luck, pleasure, wealth, reinvention, and temporary exemption from ordinary consequence. To place moths on the cover of Ghosts of Our Vegas Lives is therefore to place desire itself under glass. The creatures approach illumination without understanding the machinery producing it.
The title does not say “ghosts of our lives in Vegas.” It says “our Vegas lives,” suggesting that Vegas is not merely a location. It is a kind of life people construct wherever illusion, risk, glamour, performance, and private desperation become inseparable. A Vegas life may be lived in Christchurch, Port Chalmers, a coastal town, a suburban room, a marriage, a touring band, or an imagination that keeps wagering its remaining hope on the next illuminated sign.
“Ghosts” makes those lives retrospective. Perhaps the people survived while earlier versions of themselves did not. Perhaps certain ambitions, lovers, rooms, bands, habits, and imagined futures continue moving after their actual circumstances have ended. A ghost is not simply the dead. It is something that has lost material authority without losing emotional influence.
The album itself became such an object. Recorded in 2002 and withheld until 2006, it spent four years existing without public life. The performances had occurred, the tape held them, and yet the record had not entered the chronology through which listeners ordinarily understand a band. By the time it appeared, it was already transmitting from an earlier room. The release did not document the present. It allowed an unfinished past to begin haunting the present officially.
That delayed existence distinguishes it from a conventional Renderers album. Brian and Maryrose Crook had long served as the band’s twin compositional centers, their voices and songs creating different entrances into the same damaged country landscape. Here every song belongs to Maryrose. Brian remains crucial, but as guitarist, sound-maker, arranger, editor, and atmospheric conspirator rather than alternating author. The billing acknowledges the shift precisely: Maryrose Crook with the Renderers.
This does not reduce the band to anonymous accompaniment. It changes the emotional geometry. The musicians gather around one writer’s cosmology and help its weather become physical. Thom Bell’s bass and Robbie Yeats’s drums establish ground without making that ground safe. Brian’s guitar behaves less like commentary than climate, arriving as heat, electrical pressure, distant machinery, metal collapse, or a horizon darkening faster than expected.
Maryrose’s voice occupies the center without dominating it through volume. She sings with the authority of someone who has already entered the dangerous place and has no need to exaggerate its danger for visitors. Her delivery can feel weary, watchful, tender, and strangely formal. She does not chase the song. She allows it to approach at its own pace, even when the instruments begin mutating around her.
“Under the Sea” opens below ordinary visibility. The sea is not treated as recreational water or picturesque coastline. It is depth, pressure, concealment, and a second world existing beneath the one in which people breathe. The arrangement moves sparsely enough that every event acquires distance. Lesley Johnson’s cornet appears not as a bright brass declaration but as a small procession heard through water, a sad choir reduced to one instrument and refracted by the surrounding space.
The opening establishes one of the album’s central movements: calm is created carefully enough that its destruction matters. When the song eventually gives way to grinding metallic force, the change does not feel like a routine loud section inserted for dynamic variety. It feels as though something enormous has crossed beneath the previously still surface. The sea has not changed character. The listener has finally perceived what was living deeper down.
Underwater existence is a useful image for memory. Events remain preserved but inaccessible in their original form. Light reaches them altered. Speech becomes pressure and vibration. Objects drift away from the places where they entered. The person looking down from the surface may see only darkness while an entire wreck, city, animal population, or former life continues below.
“Dream That You’re Driving” transfers this submerged state into motion. Driving in a dream combines apparent control with unstable geography. Hands hold the wheel, yet roads rearrange themselves, destinations move, passengers appear without explanation, and brakes may stop obeying physical law. The driver performs competence inside a world being generated faster than it can be understood.
Driving is also one of the great private theaters of modern life. A person sits alone inside a metal room while landscapes pass, music plays, remembered conversations restart, and futures are rehearsed. Movement can resemble escape even when the road eventually returns the driver to the same emotional address. Dream driving intensifies that contradiction. The body may not move at all while consciousness travels enormous distances.
The Renderers’ music is particularly suited to this uncertain road. Country rhythm implies travel, but psychedelic abrasion makes the destination unreliable. The song can suggest highway space without promising that the highway belongs to the waking world. Guitar becomes weather passing the windshield. Repetition becomes road markings. The voice remains the one familiar object inside a landscape that may dissolve at any moment.
“Night Train” introduces another vehicle, but trains differ from cars in one essential respect: the passenger does not steer. A railway follows an existing line, and its freedom consists only of moving rapidly through a route decided elsewhere. The familiar railroad rhythm gives the song bodily momentum, yet that momentum contains fatalism. Once aboard, the traveler may change compartments, look through another window, or pull an emergency brake, but cannot persuade the tracks to lead somewhere new.
Night intensifies this surrender. The train moves through places the passenger cannot properly see. Occasional lights indicate houses, crossings, stations, factories, or roads, but most of the world becomes black land inferred through vibration. Sleep and wakefulness exchange places. The carriage becomes a temporary community of strangers whose separate destinations are joined by machinery.
This is where the album’s patience becomes distinct from simple slowness. A slow song can merely delay arrival. The Renderers make duration feel inhabited. Repeated motion gradually alters the listener’s sense of scale, much as a train’s constant rhythm can make speed feel stationary. The song does not need to race because the rails have already removed the possibility of stopping casually.
The title track gathers the album’s central words into its longest and most elaborate chamber. “Ghosts of Our Vegas Lives” sounds glamorous before it sounds tragic. Vegas gives the ghosts costumes, lighting, mirrors, cocktails, velvet ropes, stage entrances, and an audience that may or may not exist. These are not pale figures wandering a ruined farmhouse. They are spectral entertainers who remember exactly how the room looked when everybody still wanted something from it.
Brian Crook’s lead guitar becomes one of those ghosts. Maryrose has singled out his solo from the song years later, and the attachment is understandable. The guitar does not simply decorate her composition. It enters as another character, ominous and strangely articulate, saying what cannot be translated into the singer’s language without reducing it. The marriage between songwriting and guitar noise becomes almost literal here: one partner establishes the haunted architecture, the other opens an electrical passage through its wall.
A Vegas life depends upon surfaces. Casinos hide clocks and daylight so that time becomes difficult to measure. Carpet patterns, mirrored ceilings, artificial skies, themed rooms, and constant sound prevent emptiness from becoming obvious. Even loss is surrounded by celebration. Lights flash when machines pay out, but the larger building survives because most wagers disappear silently into it.
A ghost performs the opposite operation. It makes hidden loss visible. The apparition is evidence that an apparently completed event remains unresolved. By joining Vegas to ghosts, the song reveals the sorrow required to maintain spectacle. Every illuminated promise creates a shadow populated by the people, chances, identities, and years consumed in its pursuit.
The phrase “our Vegas lives” also avoids moral superiority. These are not the degraded lives of strangers being observed from outside. They belong to “us.” Everyone constructs some illuminated version of the self and places bets upon its survival. A musician wagers years on songs. A painter wagers solitude and labor on images that may not be understood. A lover wagers vulnerability on another person’s continued presence. A listener wagers time on the possibility that unfamiliar sound will eventually open.
“A Little Strange” shrinks the scale after the title track’s grandeur. Strangeness rarely arrives by announcing total otherness. More often, one detail fails to align. A familiar room contains the wrong object. A person speaks in a nearly normal tone while one phrase changes the meaning of everything around it. A song follows a recognizable structure until keyboards begin casting a color that does not belong to the expected hour.
Maryrose’s keyboard contribution gives the track another interior. Keyboards can imitate orchestras, organs, furniture, machinery, and weather while remaining physically compact. On a record devoted to ghosts, they are ideal instruments because they allow absent bodies to appear as timbre. A choir can arrive without singers. A church can arrive without stone. A carnival can flicker briefly inside an otherwise empty landscape.
The title’s understatement is important. “A little strange” is what people say when they have not yet decided whether something is dangerous, beautiful, embarrassing, supernatural, or merely unfamiliar. The phrase keeps judgment suspended. That suspension is central to Maryrose Crook’s art, where exquisite rendering attracts the eye toward scenes whose implications remain unstable.
“Storm from the East” makes direction meaningful. Weather arriving from the east carries different associations depending upon where the observer stands, but the title treats the storm as a force with origin, intention, and travel. It has crossed distance to reach this particular place. The horizon becomes a form of warning.
Storms reorganize scale. Human structures that appeared permanent become temporary arrangements of timber, glass, roofing, wire, and habit. Air becomes visible through what it moves. Trees reveal wind direction, windows reveal pressure, and electricity reveals vulnerability by disappearing. A storm does not introduce fragility. It demonstrates the fragility already built into the calm day.
The Renderers excel at this threshold between atmosphere and event. Guitar distortion can hover for long periods as meteorological possibility before becoming impact. Drums can indicate a front moving closer without simply increasing speed. Bass gives the weather mass. Maryrose remains the observing consciousness, not untouched by the storm but lucid enough to describe its approach.
“Fall of the Earth” expands disaster beyond weather. The title may mean the earth dropping away, civilization collapsing upon it, or the season of fall belonging to the planet itself. It could name geological failure or moral descent. Its relatively brief duration prevents apocalypse from becoming luxurious. The world falls in three and a half minutes, leaving little time for speeches.
Apocalyptic music often flatters listeners by positioning them among the exceptional survivors. Destruction clears away bureaucracy, routine, debt, and social embarrassment, allowing hidden courage to emerge. “Fall of the Earth” carries no need for such heroic fantasy. The title is almost impersonal. The earth falls, and the individual voice becomes one small consciousness inside the motion.
Placed after “Storm from the East,” it suggests escalation, but also the human tendency to interpret every approaching darkness as totality. A storm becomes the end of the world because the mind experiences danger from its own center. The planet may continue while one person’s world ends completely.
“Blood of the Angels” gives celestial beings bodies. Angels are usually imagined as spiritual messengers beyond ordinary flesh, yet blood implies circulation, injury, lineage, sacrifice, and death. To see angel blood would mean that the supposedly immortal can be wounded. It would also mean the sacred has entered matter deeply enough to stain it.
This image belongs naturally beside the jeweled moths. Both angels and moths possess wings, but wings do not guarantee escape. The cover creatures appear magnificent while remaining pinned within the square. Their ornament may be armor or evidence of captivity. “Blood of the Angels” treats beauty similarly. Beauty is not protection from violence. It may make the wound more visible.
Maryrose’s larger visual world repeatedly brings holiness, insects, flowers, organs, ghosts, meat, jewels, demons, and domestic objects into close proximity. The categories do not remain clean because experience does not keep them clean. The sacred can be grotesque. The grotesque can be tender. A wound can produce an image of unbearable beauty without becoming good.
“Sea of Total Darkness” returns to the album’s opening element, but all remaining light has been removed. “Under the Sea” still implied a surface somewhere above. A sea of total darkness has no visible boundary and no guaranteed direction upward. Depth becomes absolute environment.
This is where the band allows psychedelic rock to swell most openly. Wah-wah and large guitar distortion turn the sea into unstable electrical matter, something less like realistic water than a mind attempting to imagine endlessness. The effect risks excess, but excess belongs to the subject. Total darkness should not behave tastefully. The instrument searches the blackness and repeatedly returns altered.
Darkness can be terrifying because it removes evidence, but it also removes spectacle. Vegas cannot operate without visibility. Signs, games, faces, money, surveillance, and desire all require illumination. In total darkness, the architecture of temptation loses its authority. The person may be lost, but the machines designed to guide that loss have gone silent too.
The sea is an especially powerful opposite to Vegas. One environment is engineered to keep human attention occupied continuously. The other exceeds human attention completely. Casino space is constructed so that nothing appears accidental. Oceanic space remains indifferent to whether anyone interprets it.
“The Outgoing Queen” closes the record with a figure who is leaving power, leaving a room, leaving life, or perhaps simply leaving the stage before another queen enters. “Outgoing” can describe sociability, departure, a telephone line, mail being sent, or a person whose term is ending. Each meaning gives the queen a different sadness.
A queen embodies public visibility. Clothing, gesture, ceremony, lineage, and controlled appearance transform one person into a symbol larger than private life. An outgoing queen must separate from that symbol while everyone continues looking. She may be gracious, furious, relieved, erased, or already turning into an image through which the next era will remember itself.
As the album’s final song, it also feels like Maryrose dismissing the ghosts after their performance. The moths have completed their night flight. The vehicles have reached darkness. The storms have crossed. Angels have bled. The sea has removed the remaining lights. What exits is not merely a character but the authority that held the sequence together.
Yet departure is never complete on a recording. The outgoing queen can be summoned again instantly. She leaves each time and is never gone. This is the peculiar mercy and curse of recorded sound: an ending becomes repeatable, preserving the exact gesture of release while preventing release from becoming final.
The album’s labels sound almost designed by the music. Three Beads of Sweat reduces bodily effort to a tiny visible sequence, three drops proving that internal heat has reached the surface. Tinsel Ears suggests hearing decorated with cheap glitter, festive and artificial, perhaps slightly ridiculous. Together they unite labor and ornament, the physical and theatrical, which is exactly where Maryrose’s songs live.
Tinsel imitates precious metal without pretending to possess its permanence. It shines for a season, tangles easily, and is eventually packed away or discarded. Vegas is tinsel architecture enlarged to civic scale. The jeweled insects on the cover elevate this cheap shimmer into devotional ornament, but their luxury still feels homemade and biologically impossible.
The album’s long gestation adds another form of tinsel time. Recorded in 2002 and released in 2006, it arrived after the period that created it had already begun receding. A lesser record might have felt delayed or outdated. Ghosts of Our Vegas Lives benefits from appearing out of sequence. Its music was never trying to report the newest moment. It was already listening for what survives moments.
Its connection to New Zealand guitar music is unmistakable, but it does not rely upon the bright jangle often used internationally as shorthand for that history. The Renderers belong to a murkier geography where country music, free noise, post-punk, psychedelia, and maritime dread share weather. American forms cross the Pacific and return altered by distance, local musicians, unstable recording conditions, and landscapes that refuse to behave like imported mythology.
Calling the music Southern Gothic is useful only if “southern” is allowed to rotate on the globe. The American South does not own decaying houses, religious dread, family ghosts, rural isolation, violence, desire, storms, or damaged grandeur. Canterbury and Otago can generate their own haunted south, one in which the sea replaces the swamp and the light falls from another angle.
Maryrose’s authorship sharpens this distinction. She does not merely sing inside a masculine tradition of doomed wanderers, murder ballads, damaged cowboys, and desert prophets. She constructs her own occult geography from queens, angels, moths, dreams, storms, vehicles, and oceans. The characters are not introduced through explanatory biography. They arrive already carrying symbolic charge, as figures do in dreams and paintings.
This may explain why some listeners experience the album’s repeated slow builds as too much of one method. The songs do share weather, duration, and a tendency to move from spacious restraint toward larger disturbance. But repetition here is not laziness. It is ritual architecture. The album keeps placing different symbolic bodies into the same atmospheric machine to learn what each one reveals under pressure.
A storm, train, moth, queen, angel, driver, and ghost all move differently, but each is caught between destination and disappearance. The train follows rails. The driver follows a dream. The storm follows pressure. The moth follows light. The queen follows ceremony. The ghost follows memory. The album asks whether any of them is truly choosing the route.
The cover offers no ground for its creatures to land upon. Each floats alone, richly decorated and anatomically improbable, while the title curls among them like smoke from a vanished sign. Their solitude is not absolute because they share the same brown night. They form a constellation, and the listener supplies the lines connecting them.
That is what the songs do across fifty minutes. They do not rush to prove their relationship. They remain separated by titles, silences, and different imagined landscapes until a larger design gradually appears. Sea connects to sea. Driving connects to trains. Storm connects to planetary fall. Angels connect to queens. Vegas connects to every beautiful mechanism that survives by persuading us not to look behind its light.
When the album ends, the ghosts have not been exorcised. Exorcism would require naming what entered, determining that it does not belong, and forcing it outside. Maryrose Crook grants the ghosts citizenship. They are not invaders of life. They are what our previous lives become once we can no longer inhabit them directly.
The lights dim, the wager ends, the queen departs, and four jeweled moths remain awake on the cover, carrying the entire abandoned casino upon their wings.

Etienne Pelosoff - 2018 - Trve Brutal Black Jazz

Self-released – none

 The cover places the album title directly across a shaved human forehead as though genre has become a medical condition, prison tattoo, initiation mark, or warning written upon the body before it is released into public. The eyes below have been enlarged and whitened until attention itself looks painful. They do not gaze calmly toward the listener. They appear trapped at the instant of discovering too much. A thin red border contains the face without making it feel secure, turning the square into a specimen window through which something overexcited has noticed us first.

The lettering matters. TRVE BRUTAL BLACK JAZZ is not typeset in elegant jazz typography or rendered through an elaborate black-metal logo whose branches require botanical study before the words can be deciphered. It is written by hand, unevenly, like the conclusion reached during a sleepless night and immediately applied to skin. The phrase is simultaneously boast, joke, manifesto, and diagnosis.
“Trve” belongs to black metal’s old theater of authenticity. Replacing the U with V gives modern language a pseudo-ancient severity, as though the music has been carved into stone rather than advertised online. Within metal culture, the spelling can be used sincerely, defensively, or mockingly. It evokes arguments over purity, commercial compromise, correct production, acceptable influences, and who possesses the authority to determine whether another person’s darkness is genuine.
Jazz has its own authenticity tribunals. Musicians and listeners have argued over swing, bebop, free improvisation, fusion, electric instruments, funk, synthesizers, smoothness, composition, virtuosity, tradition, and who is or is not preserving the music’s true spirit. Miles Davis spent much of his career walking directly through those arguments while changing clothes. The word “trve” therefore does double work. It mocks black-metal gatekeeping while quietly reminding us that jazz listeners have also defended imaginary borders with remarkable ferocity.
Pelosoff does not resolve these disputes by choosing the correct side. He constructs music so flagrantly impure that purity becomes an unusable category. Blast beats coexist with horn arrangements. Distorted guitars make room for electric bass articulation. Extreme vocals are followed by clean singing and scat-like gestures. Jazz harmony is not placed politely over metal rhythm, nor does a saxophone merely arrive to certify adventurousness. Each language is made to perform tasks normally assigned to the other.
The title’s funniest word may be “jazz.” Black metal has accumulated an enormous visual vocabulary of forests, ruins, corpse paint, illegible logos, medieval weapons, snow, Satan, and deliberate deprivation. Jazz can still be lazily imagined through suits, clubs, cigarettes, polished instruments, intellectual concentration, and respectable cultural institutions. Trve Brutal Black Jazz forces the corpse-painted forest creature to attend rehearsal with the horn section and forces the conservatory player to continue soloing while the building catches fire.
Yet the fusion is not just a joke, because Pelosoff clearly loves the materials being disturbed. Humor creates the permission to begin, but musicianship keeps the premise alive after its initial surprise. A novelty mashup usually exhausts itself as soon as the listener recognizes both ingredients. Here recognition is only the entrance. The arrangements keep asking how groove, improvisation, modal space, dissonance, blast beats, funk articulation, and metal aggression can modify one another structurally.
“So What” is the perfect opening challenge. Miles Davis’s original is among the most recognizable statements in modal jazz, spacious enough to make restraint feel radical. Its famous bass figure establishes the piece without crowding it, while the harmonic movement leaves musicians room to shape long melodic thought. The title itself carries a shrug. So what? It dismisses the demand for explanation before the music has even begun.
Pelosoff turns that shrug toward genre authority. You are not supposed to combine this canonical piece with black metal? So what? The transformation does not simply place distortion over the original melody. It changes the emotional meaning of the composition’s space. In the Miles Davis recording, openness can feel cool, poised, exploratory, and conversational. Here open space becomes exposed ground across which something violent may charge without warning.
The bass remains crucial because it carries the piece’s identity through the mutation. Black metal frequently treats bass as a shadow beneath guitar, valuable for weight but difficult to distinguish as an independent voice. Pelosoff, being a bassist, refuses that hierarchy. The instrument does not merely reinforce the floor. It remembers where the composition came from and keeps that ancestry audible while guitars and drums attempt to burn the family documents.
The arrangement also reveals that coolness and aggression are not true opposites. Both can depend upon control. Miles Davis could create intensity by withholding sound until the exact moment it mattered. Black metal can create intensity through apparently continuous excess, but effective excess also requires placement, dynamic judgment, and collective discipline. Pelosoff translates one kind of controlled pressure into another.
“Tritone Labyrinth” follows by locating a shared piece of musical mythology. The tritone has long been surrounded by the story of the diabolus in musica, the devil in music, whether or not the simplified popular version of its historical prohibition is accurate. Metal inherited the interval as instant symbolic darkness. Jazz absorbed it as one among many available tensions, a sound capable of implying dominant harmony, instability, altered color, or a route toward unexpected resolution.
The title does not call it a tritone bridge, doorway, or weapon. It is a labyrinth. Once inside, the listener cannot move directly from jazz to metal or metal to jazz. Every turn reveals another passage, and the categories used to enter become unreliable guides. Swing may lead toward blasting percussion. A metal riff may expose an underlying jazz voicing. Saxophone can behave like a lead guitar, while guitar can become percussive interruption.
A labyrinth differs from a maze because it has often been associated with ritual movement rather than merely confusion. One enters, follows a winding route toward the center, and returns altered by the journey. “Tritone Labyrinth” treats dissonance this way. The unstable interval is not a problem awaiting correction. It is the architecture within which the musicians discover freedom.
Clean and extreme vocals further complicate the route. Metal often divides these techniques into moral or dramatic roles: the scream as monster, pain, aggression, or corruption; clean singing as humanity, beauty, memory, or release. Jazz uses the voice differently, allowing syllable, timbre, phrasing, and improvisation to detach from literal language. Pelosoff permits the voices to cross these functions. The scream can become rhythmic material. The clean voice can sound uncanny rather than reassuring.
“See-Line Satan” performs the record’s boldest act of linguistic mutation. Its foundation is “See-Line Woman,” the traditional song that Nina Simone transformed into a hypnotic portrait of a dangerous, desirable, economically powerful woman. Pelosoff converts the woman into Satan, replacing seduction with temptation, clothing with infernal costume, money with prayer, and romantic ruin with the sale of a soul.
The change is funny at first because “See-Line Satan” sounds like a pun discovered by someone who immediately reorganized an entire ensemble around it. But the substitution reveals an existing connection. The woman in the inherited lyric already possesses powers that respectable society historically coded as supernatural: sexual autonomy, mobility, economic exchange, the ability to attract a man and leave him damaged. Turning her into Satan does not introduce danger from nowhere. It makes the older song’s moral anxiety grotesquely explicit.
Something is lost in that transformation too. Simone’s performance grants the woman charisma, opacity, and control. She is not simply a demon inserted to teach men a lesson. She moves through colors, clothing, money, attraction, and disappearance with an authority that the listener cannot possess. Pelosoff’s Satan is more conventionally legible, equipped with blood, flesh, a crown, fire, prayer, and a contractual soul. The mysterious woman becomes the official administrator of evil.
The music partially resists that simplification. Its slow spiritual groove, horn colors, vocal interplay, and gathering pressure keep the character unstable. Satan is not confined to black-metal shrieking. The figure enters a musical language rooted in blues, work song, dance, repetition, and Black American performance history. European occult theater has wandered into a much older house and discovered that it does not control every room.
This makes the phrase “black jazz” unusually charged. In “black metal,” black ordinarily points toward darkness, evil, occultism, negation, and a specific genre history largely shaped in Europe. Jazz is a Black American art form whose history cannot be separated from race, migration, oppression, community, innovation, labor, and cultural theft. The same word enters the album title carrying radically unequal histories.
Pelosoff does not appear to be making a theoretical argument about that collision. His stated premise is personal and musical: Miles Davis meeting Mayhem, freedom in jazz meeting darkness in black metal. But the covers prevent the listener from treating jazz as neutral raw material. Miles Davis, Nina Simone, James Brown, and Marcus Miller are not interchangeable representatives of sophisticated harmony or funky rhythm. Each carries a particular history, authority, and cultural world.
The best moments on the EP occur when Pelosoff’s metal vocabulary does not merely conquer those sources but becomes less stable through contact with them. “Soul Power” is especially important because funk restores the body that certain forms of extreme metal attempt to transcend. Black metal may seek coldness, distance, inhumanity, atmosphere, and the sensation of leaving ordinary flesh behind. James Brown’s music insists upon hips, feet, sweat, breath, repetition, command, response, and the exact location of the beat inside a social body.
“Soul Power” therefore presents a more difficult fusion than simply adding a horn solo to blast beats. Funk depends upon musicians agreeing precisely about where not to play. The pocket is collective negative space, a disciplined arrangement of attacks and absences that makes the body anticipate recurrence. Extreme metal often creates momentum through saturation. Pelosoff must make density and pocket coexist without allowing either to become decorative.
The arrangement moves between vocal violence, churning guitar, horns, bass-driven funk, stereo percussion exchanges, blast beats, and renewed groove. Instead of smoothing these transitions, it enjoys the seams. The listener is allowed to feel one musical government being overthrown by another every few seconds. The instability becomes exhilarating because the musicians sound capable of surviving each transfer of power.
James Brown’s phrase “soul power” also changes meaning in this setting. In funk, soul power can name communal vitality, racial pride, bodily knowledge, performance authority, and the force generated when individual musicians become one rhythmic organism. In black metal, the soul is more likely to be damned, rejected, frozen, sacrificed, or handed to Satan. Pelosoff places “soul power” after “See-Line Satan,” making possession and empowerment collide. Satan wants the soul as property; James Brown wants the soul activated.
“Tutu” brings in another historical argument. Pelosoff does not choose an acoustic Miles Davis composition from the period most safely protected by jazz respectability. He chooses Marcus Miller’s title piece for the 1986 album Tutu, a record already shaped by synthesizers, sequencers, drum machines, funk, studio construction, and debates about whether Miles had moved too far from approved jazz practice.
That choice is central to the EP’s intelligence. Pelosoff is not violating a pure original. He is mutating music that was already hybrid, technological, controversial, and forward-looking. Marcus Miller supplied much of Tutu’s compositional and instrumental architecture, while Miles’s trumpet moved through a world of programmed rhythm and electronic surface. The piece had already asked how an iconic jazz voice might survive inside contemporary production.
Pelosoff answers by pushing it into another contested modernity. Blast beats and distorted guitars do not destroy the tune’s elegance. They reveal how durable its central contour is. The melody can pass through violence without losing identity, while the metal surrounding it begins acquiring the sleek nocturnal movement of Miller’s arrangement.
The bass becomes almost comically powerful here, but the comedy arises from delight rather than mockery. Black metal has entered the Marcus Miller zone, where low frequencies are allowed to articulate, snap, converse, and occupy erotic space rather than merely producing subterranean fog. One can hear why Pelosoff’s project had to be led by a bassist. The bass is the diplomatic channel through which the genres first recognize one another.
Samples or fragments of speech associated with Miles and Marcus further complicate authorship. The historical figures appear as voices inside their own transformation, not literally approving or rejecting it but haunting the experiment. The cover version becomes a conversation across time in which one party cannot respond directly. Pelosoff’s reverence is real, yet reverence here means altering the object rather than preserving it behind glass.
The title track finally attempts to make the invented genre exist without leaning upon a recognizable standard. “Trve Brutal Black Jazz” must prove that the phrase can name a living musical system rather than a collection of clever covers. It responds with the EP’s most concentrated collision: extreme vocals, blasting percussion, saxophone abrasion, choir-like voices, heavy guitar, jazz harmony, and shifting rhythmic authority.
The track initially seems to be announcing chaos, but repeated listening reveals arrangement beneath the apparent riot. Instruments are introduced and withdrawn so that the ear can register their functions before the next collision. The mix is dense without completely erasing individual players. That achievement matters because genre fusion often fails through politeness or mud. Polite fusion places each influence in a separate, clearly labeled section. Muddy fusion piles everything together until the concept is more audible than the music.
Pelosoff takes a third route. The elements interfere with one another while retaining enough shape to be recognized. Saxophone does not wait for the metal band to stop. Choir and growl coexist. Groove emerges inside violence rather than after it. The music becomes an argument in which everybody speaks simultaneously but has rehearsed the argument carefully.
The album’s home production reinforces its thesis. Pelosoff did not simply compose and play. He mixed and mastered the work, determining how much territory each incompatible element could occupy. Mixing becomes a political act at this level. Should the horns sit above the guitars or be buried inside them? Should the bass behave like metal support or funk leadership? Should the blast beat dominate the room or become one texture among many? Every fader decides which tradition must accommodate the other.
His solution is not always subtle, but subtlety would be a strange demand to impose upon something called Trve Brutal Black Jazz. The record’s exaggerated surface is part of its honesty. It does not pretend that genre boundaries evaporate naturally when talented people enter a studio. The boundaries crash, grind, interrupt, and occasionally produce sparks more memorable than a seamless blend could provide.
The humor protects this collision from becoming an academic exercise. “Who said you can’t headbang to jazz?” is an intentionally simple question, almost a slogan for a T-shirt or coffee mug. Yet the question contains a useful correction. Jazz was never disembodied music intended solely for seated analysis. Dance, rhythm, physical communication, sweat, nightlife, sexuality, and communal motion are fundamental to its history. Headbanging is not the first body movement brought into jazz. It is merely one more body movement translated into the room.
Likewise, black metal has never been purely primitive or anti-intellectual. Behind its cultivated rawness lie composition, harmonic decision, studio experimentation, mythology, visual design, and intense historical self-consciousness. Pelosoff does not force intelligence upon metal by adding jazz. He places two musics with different ways of hiding and displaying intelligence into direct contact.
The cover’s widened eyes now appear less possessed than overeducated. They have seen too many possible connections to return to genre innocence. The forehead has become a blackboard, but instead of equations it carries the conclusion: TRVE BRUTAL BLACK JAZZ. The hand lettering makes the discovery look urgent enough that typesetting would have wasted dangerous time.
Calling the music “trve” becomes the final joke because its truth comes from refusing orthodoxy. The record is most authentic when it behaves improperly. It honors Miles Davis by changing. It honors James Brown by demanding bodily participation. It honors Nina Simone by recognizing the dangerous force inside repetition, even while transforming her character into something more theatrically infernal. It honors Marcus Miller by allowing the bass to govern. It honors black metal by taking its darkness seriously enough to let darkness encounter other colors.
The EP was released on Halloween, the annual moment when ordinary people publicly wear false identities in order to reveal real appetites. Costumes are fake, but the pleasure of transformation is genuine. Trve Brutal Black Jazz operates through the same paradox. Its exaggerated Satanism, whitened eyes, “trve” spelling, and impossible genre label are costumes. Inside them, Pelosoff finds an earnest musical freedom.
A lesser joke record would ask us to laugh because jazz and black metal supposedly do not belong together. This record gradually makes the opposite idea funny. After half an hour, the old separation begins looking arbitrary. Blast beats and swing are both organized motion. A saxophone squeal and a distorted guitar harmonic can occupy neighboring emotional territory. Funk bass and metal riffing can negotiate shared weight. Improvisation and extremity can both seek the point where control becomes revelation.
The most brutal act here is not sonic aggression. It is the destruction of the little border office inside the listener that keeps asking each sound to show its passport.
The eyes remain wide because the customs agents have fled.

Germ Lattice - 2024 - Gipping Through the Ages

 

Horn of Plenty <O – none

Three red hands rise from an orange floor beneath a green brick wall. Their fingers do not point toward any recognizable object. They reach, signal, claw, conduct, surrender, or attempt to touch something outside the picture. At the left, a long striped form descends around the corner of a pink wall. It could be a snake, tail, cable, river, intestine, plant root, or badly installed piece of infrastructure. The image has the direct color and uncertain anatomy of a child’s painting, yet the hands cast enough unease to prevent innocence from settling over it. They look trapped beneath a structure assembled from cheerful colors.
Anna Brass’s cover gives Germ Lattice an ideal entrance. Every component is recognizable until one tries to explain its relationship to the others. Walls define space without forming a coherent room. Hands imply bodies that the image withholds. The striped creature appears to have traveled from somewhere beyond the frame, but whether it is entering or escaping remains unclear. Perspective is present only as a rumor.
The same instability governs Gipping Through the Ages. Drums, bass, synthesizer, voice, microphone, and magnetic tape are familiar objects, but the album rearranges the authority among them. A drum is not guaranteed to behave like rhythm. A voice is not obligated to deliver language. Tape is not merely the passive surface preserving a finished performance. It bends duration, masks events, exaggerates overload, and occasionally appears to seize control of whatever the trio intended to play.
The title seems to mutate “ripping through the ages” by replacing speed and violence with the River Gipping. The phrase still moves through history, but now it does so at river pace, carrying sediment, industrial residue, reflected buildings, lost transportation systems, vegetation, rubbish, and local names downstream. “Gipping” also becomes a verb invented by the record. One can apparently gip through time, neither walking nor driving but being conveyed by a waterway whose course has been repeatedly modified by labor, commerce, engineering, neglect, and restoration.
A river is a natural process that humans continually attempt to turn into infrastructure. It is straightened, dredged, locked, dammed, measured, polluted, redirected, mapped, and named. After enough alteration, the distinction between landscape and machine becomes difficult to maintain. Germ Lattice performs a comparable operation upon post-punk. The recognizable water still flows, but locks, barriers, tape loops, overdriven channels, abrupt edits, and unusual microphone positions keep changing its course.
The band name combines microscopic origin with imposed structure. A germ is a tiny living source from which something larger may develop, but it may also be an infectious agent carried invisibly between bodies. A lattice is an orderly framework of crossing lines, a repeated structure that can support growth while restricting its possible directions. Germ Lattice therefore suggests life beginning inside a grid, contamination learning to use architecture, or a small idea propagating through a system designed to contain it.
That is exactly what happened in the condemned shopping centre. The trio entered a building whose commercial function had failed but whose rooms still offered temporary shelter. A shopping centre is designed to guide movement, visibility, spending, background music, lighting, and desire. Once condemned, those systems lose authority. Empty units become studios, storage spaces, unofficial venues, workshops, shelters, or dead zones waiting for demolition. Germ Lattice germinated inside retail architecture after retail had withdrawn.
The setting matters because the record does not sound like musicians trying to recreate the romance of a conventional rehearsal room. It sounds as though the room itself has become suspicious of music. Surfaces reflect sound incorrectly. Mechanical residue enters the microphones. Voices encounter dead retail space and return less human. The building may no longer sell products, but it continues processing whatever passes through it.
The group’s list of prohibitions is another lattice. No improvisation. No jamming. No overdubs. Keep the tracks short. These rules might appear hostile to spontaneity, especially when the finished album sounds so unstable, but restriction can generate stranger decisions than unlimited freedom. When overdubbing is forbidden, a problem cannot be repaired later by adding another layer. It must be incorporated into the live structure. When jamming is forbidden, repetition must be designed rather than discovered through leisurely playing. When tracks must remain concise, every collapse has to occur on schedule.
Live tape processing opens a loophole inside these rules. The musicians may not overdub a later correction, but the present performance can still be copied, delayed, obscured, bent, overloaded, and returned to itself while it happens. Tape becomes an accomplice operating at the edge of the agreement. It obeys the ban on post-production while creating multiple temporal versions of the same instant.
“Judas Gap” begins at a real East Anglian threshold. The Judas Gap weir sits on the Stour near Flatford, regulating water at the point where freshwater and tidal systems meet. It belongs to a landscape famous through John Constable’s paintings, yet Germ Lattice approaches the area through the name of a concrete barrier rather than pastoral beauty. Constable country acquires a betrayal, a gap, an eel passage, engineering, flood control, and a border at which one kind of river becomes another.
The track enters through a sparse bass figure and kick pattern whose apparent simplicity gradually reveals unstable surfaces. This is characteristic of the album. The trio rarely begins with chaos. It begins with an object plain enough to be trusted, then changes the conditions around it until trust becomes embarrassing. Vocals are cut into cries, syllables, and pressure. Drums stretch into strange tonal bodies. Synthesizer sounds arrive with the abrasive force normally associated with damaged metal rather than electronic precision.
“Judas” adds spiritual treachery to the geographical barrier. A gap is an absence, opening, interval, weakness, or route through. Judas is the person whose closeness enabled betrayal. Together, the words imply that the breach was built into the relationship from the beginning. The structure protects one side while exposing another.
A weir performs this moral ambiguity physically. It controls water for human purposes but becomes an obstacle to migrating life. The fish pass added to Judas Gap acknowledges that an engineered solution produced another problem requiring further engineering. Germ Lattice’s music works through these accumulating corrections. Tape repairs nothing cleanly. Each intervention leaves another sonic obstruction that the piece must learn to cross.
“Misprint Maker” moves from hydrology into reproduction. A misprint is usually treated as an accidental defect in a process whose purpose is faithful duplication. Calling someone a misprint maker changes error into craft. The maker does not fail to reproduce the original. The maker specializes in producing wrong originals.
This is a powerful description of folk transmission. Traditional songs survive because people remember, mishear, shorten, relocate, rename, and alter them. A lyric crosses generations without remaining identical. A melody acquires local contours. The authoritative version may turn out to be merely the best-documented mistake.
The track’s woody, homemade resonance places folk memory beneath tape-scrubbed percussion and mangled voice. Germ Lattice does not attach a traditional melody to an experimental arrangement as proof of roots. It treats tradition itself as degraded media, something repeatedly copied through human bodies until origin and error become inseparable. The misprint is not outside cultural continuity. It is how continuity stays alive.
This also explains the abstract vocals. Language is present, but intelligibility is not treated as the voice’s highest purpose. Words become local material, carrying accent, rhythm, emotional pressure, and oral history even when semantic clarity has been rubbed away. A listener receives the social fact of speech without being granted complete access to its message.
“Gipping” removes even more conventional structure. Pitched-down groans, machine fuzz, and separated percussive events turn the river into an industrial organism. This is not a field recording of flowing water and not an electronic illustration of pastoral Suffolk. The track sounds closer to the historical work performed upon a river: locks opening, mills turning, channels narrowing, barges passing, banks reinforced, water forced through a system whose components age at different speeds.
Turning Gipping into a verb also rescues the name from being only a label on a map. Rivers are often grammatically passive. They are crossed, diverted, polluted, restored, or viewed. Here the river acts. It gips. It moves through the ages and carries the ages through itself.
Tape gives this movement a peculiar geology. Recorded time is normally expected to proceed at a stable speed. Slow the tape and seconds acquire weight; speed it up and matter appears to lose mass. Germ Lattice uses these shifts not as psychedelic decoration but as temporal erosion. A sound recorded moments earlier can return as though buried for decades.
“Flat Track” may be the record’s most compact title machine. East Anglia is famously low and expansive, a landscape where horizon often dominates height. A track can be a song, railway, footpath, animal trace, racing surface, data channel, or strip of magnetic tape. “Flat track” therefore describes geography, transport, recording technology, and the band’s linear compositional method simultaneously.
Flatness is not emptiness. In low country, small elevations matter more because they interrupt so little. A church tower, embankment, pylon, warehouse, tree line, or flood barrier can organize an entire view. Germ Lattice’s arrangements work similarly. Because they refuse ornamental density, a slight shift in bass, microphone level, tape speed, or vocal placement becomes architectural.
The song title also quietly mocks the idea that linear music must be straightforward. A track can run flat and still lead somewhere disorienting. Railways follow clear lines while carrying passengers into unfamiliar territory. Magnetic tape travels predictably between reels while the recorded information becomes increasingly unstable. Structure and uncertainty are not enemies here. Structure is the mechanism through which uncertainty advances.
“Ousehouseband” compresses a river into a musical occupation. The house band belongs to a specific room, venue, club, television program, or institution. It knows the local acoustics and performs repeatedly for changing audiences. The Ouse house band would belong to the river, playing for embankments, drainage works, mud, boats, fields, floodplains, pumping stations, birds, and whatever is carried toward the Wash.
The Great Ouse has long been altered for navigation and drainage, making it another East Anglian zone where landscape is inseparable from continuous maintenance. Water does not simply flow through the region. It is negotiated with. Pumps, channels, banks, gates, and human memory participate in keeping the land habitable.
Germ Lattice makes repetition sound like maintenance rather than hypnosis. The same patterns must continue because the system depends upon them, but every repetition exposes wear. A rhythm holds the ground while tape and voice reveal that the ground is not as solid as the rhythm claims.
The word “house” adds shelter and electronic music to the title. A house band may play house music inside a house threatened by water. The pun is ridiculous enough to keep the regional seriousness from becoming heritage-page reverence. Germ Lattice values place without embalming it.
“Possible Triptych” introduces visual structure. A triptych contains three connected panels whose full meaning depends upon their arrangement. Medieval and Renaissance triptychs often placed a central sacred event between related side images; later artists used the form to fracture narrative or show multiple states of one subject.
A trio is already a possible triptych. Bass, drums, and synthesizer can become three panels. Three musicians can remain separate while contributing to one scene. Live tape complicates the form by creating phantom copies, so the triptych is never guaranteed to contain only three things. The word “possible” admits that the structure may exist only if the listener chooses to perceive it.
This uncertainty is central to the album’s visual logic. Anna Brass’s cover could itself be a damaged triptych: pink wall and striped creature at left, green brick field at upper right, red hands below. Each region contains different rules of color and perspective. Their relationship is possible rather than proven.
“Quag-time” may be the album’s most exact description of its temporal sensation. A quag is boggy ground that yields beneath weight. Quag-time is therefore time that cannot support the person moving through it. The harder one struggles toward the next moment, the deeper the present seems to hold the body.
Ordinary rhythm divides duration into reliable units. Quag-time retains the pulse while making the surface around it unstable. Tape drag, overloaded microphones, elastic drum tone, and obscured voice create the feeling that clocks continue functioning somewhere above while lived time sinks below them.
East Anglian wetland history makes the title more than psychological metaphor. The region’s apparent solidity depends partly upon centuries of drainage and water management. Ground can be an achievement rather than a natural certainty. Turn off enough pumps, neglect enough channels, breach enough banks, and the older water geography begins returning.
A condemned shopping centre is another kind of quag-time. It has ceased moving forward as commerce but has not yet completed its transition into rubble or redevelopment. The building remains suspended between uses, officially finished but physically present. Art thrives in such intervals because normal value systems have temporarily lost their grip.
“Ground Truth” ends by invoking a term used when maps, models, remote observations, or automated classifications must be checked against conditions in the actual place. A satellite can report one thing; someone standing in the mud may discover another. Ground truth is the moment abstract information meets wet boots.
That is an ideal conclusion for a record preoccupied with place but resistant to picturesque representation. Germ Lattice does not offer East Anglia as a collection of scenic images. It provides barriers, river names, distorted voices, demolished futures, quags, flat tracks, and material recorded inside compromised architecture.
Ground truth is not necessarily comforting. The model may be elegant because it has excluded the irregular facts that reality insists upon. Tape, overloaded meters, live performance, and the absence of overdubs preserve irregular facts inside this album. The recording cannot pretend that every sound arrived according to plan.
The official description calls the record a palimpsest, and the word fits with unusual precision. A palimpsest is a surface whose earlier writing has been erased so that new writing can occupy it, while traces of the previous text remain visible. Gipping Through the Ages is full of such surfaces. Folk practice shows through post-punk. River history shows through modern infrastructure. Failed retail architecture shows through a rehearsal studio. Live performance shows through tape manipulation. The Fall, Dome, Metabolist, Tools You Can Trust, The Shadow Ring, and concrète practice may flicker in the grain, but none becomes the final inscription.
The cited presence of W.G. Sebald is especially appropriate. His writing repeatedly makes East Anglian walking into a method for encountering several eras simultaneously. A road, ruin, seaside structure, painting, field, or ordinary object can open into war, colonial commerce, personal memory, migration, or catastrophe. Place is never merely where the body currently stands. It is an archive whose documents have been exposed to weather.
Laura Oldfield Ford’s influence points toward another kind of layered walking, one that reads housing estates, underpasses, condemned buildings, redevelopment zones, graffiti, and leftover urban space as political memory. Germ Lattice’s brutalist shopping-centre studio joins Sebald’s historical drift to Ford’s attention to architecture under pressure.
Mark E. Smith appears less as a vocal impersonation than as permission to treat speech as abrasive local evidence. The Fall made repetition sound like interrogation rather than comfort. A riff could continue until the room confessed something. Germ Lattice inherits that suspicion while removing guitar from its expected throne and allowing tape to question the testimony.
The album is frequently described as post-punk, but it does not sound interested in joining another revival. Revivalism cleans historical styles until they can circulate as contemporary products. Germ Lattice dirties the inheritance again. The group does not restore an old building. It moves into the condemned one and discovers what still works.
This makes Horn of Plenty an amusingly apt label name. A cornucopia promises endless abundance, but the music is made through refusal, limitation, scarcity, and the careful reuse of damaged material. The plenty arrives not through adding more instruments but through discovering how many identities one sound can possess after being recorded, replayed, masked, and pressured.
The cover’s hands may therefore belong to the musicians. They reach from below the picture toward the walls, not to escape but to test the structure. The striped creature could be tape itself, entering from another room, curving around architecture and leaving a dark trail. It could also be the River Gipping transformed into a serpent and invited into the shopping centre.
The brick wall is green rather than gray. The floor is peach rather than concrete. Ruin is not presented in tasteful documentary monochrome. Anna Brass turns it into a chromatic folk nightmare, preserving the directness of a hand-painted sign while allowing every object to remain unresolved.
Gipping Through the Ages does the same with regional history. It refuses to decide whether the past is beautiful, contaminated, useful, ridiculous, or dangerous. History is simply present, moving beneath contemporary surfaces and occasionally forcing a hand through the floor.
The album ends at ground level, but the ground continues shifting. Rivers remember earlier routes. Buildings remember earlier functions. Tape remembers sounds while changing their bodies. Folk memory remembers inaccurately and survives because of the inaccuracies.
A germ enters the lattice. The lattice attempts to determine its shape. Thirty-eight minutes later, the structure is still standing, but something alive has spread through every gap.

Jacket Burner - 2025 - Tonite

 

Goodbye Boozy Records – GB 216

The cover removes nearly every luxury traditionally associated with becoming a rock star. There is no stage, crowd, amplifier wall, colored light, smoke machine, photographer’s dramatic angle, or carefully maintained expression. One masked figure stands against blackness holding a white Gibson SG, wearing a denim jacket covered in buttons, black jeans, and Converse sneakers. His body has been cut out so completely that he appears suspended rather than standing. Above him, JACKET BURNER has been scrawled in white like a name painted quickly across a practice-room wall. Beneath him, TONITE promises an event that may already be happening in a bedroom where nobody else has been invited.
A gray circle announces “4 BRAND NEW TRACKS OF NO BUDGET SHIT-ROCK.” The wording functions as disclaimer, advertisement, insult, and quality guarantee. “No budget” explains the means of production while refusing to apologize for them. “Shit-rock” lowers expectations so aggressively that taste loses its power to intimidate. The buyer cannot complain that the record lacks refinement because refinement has been identified in advance as the enemy.
The mask gives this anti-presentation a character. V. Tiers is visible enough to become recognizable but hidden enough to avoid becoming an ordinary personality. The body supplies the required punk evidence: guitar, jacket, badges, narrow legs, sneakers, and confrontational posture. The face, where celebrity would normally be manufactured, has been replaced by two eyeholes and black fabric.
A mask can create mystery, but this one also creates economy. There is no need for hair, makeup, expression, age, beauty, charisma, or photogenic confidence. The image strips the performer down to an anonymous operator of the instrument. Anybody could be inside, although the one-person nature of Jacket Burner makes the hidden identity feel less communal than privately theatrical. The mask allows an isolated musician to manufacture a band member, frontman, villain, mascot, and audience surrogate from the same body.
The name Jacket Burner contains an argument about punk identity. A leather or denim jacket is both practical clothing and portable autobiography. Bands, affiliations, politics, places, repairs, stains, and years accumulate across its surface until the jacket becomes evidence of a life. Burning it could mean rejecting punk costume, destroying one’s history, refusing membership, escaping an old identity, or simply creating enough heat to survive another cold night.
The figure on the cover has not burned his jacket. He is still wearing it. This contradiction is excellent. Jacket Burner does not stand outside punk uniform laughing at everyone who participates. He enjoys the uniform enough to photograph himself in it while choosing a name that threatens its destruction. The project inhabits punk and insults it simultaneously, which is often where punk remains most alive.
“Tonite” uses one of rock and roll’s favorite misspellings. “Tonight” belongs to calendars and ordinary prose. “Tonite” belongs to marquees, handbills, record sleeves, cheap neon, songs promising action after dark, and announcements printed before anyone knows whether an audience will appear. Removing the silent letters makes the word faster. It looks as though spelling itself has no time to behave correctly.
Tonight also has a special power within short-form rock and roll. The future does not require a five-year plan. Transformation only has to survive until morning. Tonite we leave. Tonite we fight. Tonite we get drunk, get lucky, get thrown out, start a band, ruin a friendship, fall in love, or finally become the person suggested by the jacket. Tomorrow can deal with whatever remains.
The title track arrives with exactly that compressed urgency. The drums do not establish a grand entrance. They begin as though the record has caught them already moving. Guitar distortion fills the available space without turning the riff into shapeless noise. Bass provides enough body to make the song hit rather than merely scrape, while the voice arrives from behind its narrow electronic tunnel.
That vocal sound is essential to the Jacket Burner character. A conventionally full, intimate vocal would reveal too much ordinary humanity. The payphone-receiver treatment compresses the voice into an intercepted message from someone who has only a handful of coins and no interest in conversation. It is close enough to understand but damaged enough to resist emotional inspection.
The recording’s intelligence lives inside its cultivated ignorance. Jacket Burner wants the sensation of something made too quickly, too cheaply, and with too little concern for proper technique. But genuinely careless recordings often collapse into one indistinct frequency pile. Here the instruments remain legible. The dirt has been arranged.
That is one of garage punk’s great concealed arts. The record must sound as though anyone could make it while being assembled by someone who understands exactly how a riff, drum pattern, vocal filter, and brief lead break must fit together. Too much polish ruins the fantasy of immediate necessity. Too little judgment ruins the song. Jacket Burner lands in the narrow gutter between them.
“Livin’ Like a Creep” turns social failure into a lifestyle declaration. “Creep” is normally a judgment issued by someone else. It identifies the person who watches incorrectly, speaks incorrectly, desires incorrectly, dresses incorrectly, or remains present after the room has silently asked him to leave. By claiming the word, the song removes some of its disciplinary power. The rejected figure becomes the narrator rather than the object being discussed.
The dropped G in “Livin’” matters as much as the missing letters in “Tonite.” Correct grammar belongs to a world where time and social acceptance remain available. Jacket Burner reduces language until it fits the speed of the record. The words have already put on their leather and left the house.
Living like a creep is different from merely being one. It suggests routine, habitat, economics, and daily practice. The creep wakes up, eats, works, shops, listens, watches, desires, grows bored, and returns to the same room. Alienation is not one dramatic exclusion. It is a domestic schedule.
The one-person-band structure gives that theme physical form. V. Tiers does not require musicians to arrive, agree, rehearse, or approve the song. Isolation becomes production efficiency. Guitarist, bassist, drummer, singer, engineer, and imagined gang are stacked from performances by one person. The bedroom is both the site of alienation and the machine through which alienation becomes shareable.
This is a quiet triumph hidden beneath the record’s self-abuse. The project advertises contempt for its own species while depending upon strangers across the world to press, distribute, review, purchase, archive, and enjoy it. Misanthropy becomes a social object. “I hate everybody” is recorded partly because somebody out there may understand.
Goodbye Boozy is the perfect label name for this contradiction. “Goodbye” suggests departure, rejection, sobriety, death, or the end of the night. “Boozy” suggests the night has already become chemically untidy. The label’s Italian base connects a solitary New Mexico recording to a global underground whose participants may never occupy the same room. Loneliness travels unusually well on seven-inch vinyl.
“Cold Leather” is the EP’s clearest miniature anthem. Leather is supposed to retain warmth, smell, wear, sweat, and the shape of the body beneath it. Cold leather suggests clothing removed from its owner, a motorcycle seat before dawn, an empty jacket hanging in a room, or a style whose original danger has hardened into costume.
Punk leather carries decades of accumulated symbolism. It can mean protection, sexuality, toughness, music allegiance, working-class utility, outlaw fantasy, or expensive imitation of those things. Once detached from the person, the jacket becomes an empty declaration. Cold leather is identity waiting for a body.
The song’s sing-along quality keeps the image from becoming merely bleak. A chorus makes private isolation available to group participation. Even if the words concern boredom or sleaze, the form creates temporary company. The creep is no longer alone because other voices can enter the same damaged phrase.
This is where Jacket Burner’s relationship with classic punk becomes especially satisfying. The music recognizes that a memorable hook is not a betrayal of rawness. The Ramones, Dead Boys, first-wave KBD obscurities, Oblivians, Spits, New Bomb Turks, and countless home-recording mutants understood that abrasion becomes more contagious when attached to something the body can remember after one hearing.
The SG on the cover adds another layer. Its shape has become inseparable from hard rock, garage music, punk, and the fantasy of lightweight electrical aggression. The bright white guitar almost glows against the black clothing, making the instrument more visible than the person. V. Tiers has concealed the face but displayed the means of attack.
“Mere Mortals” closes the record by changing the scale from social creep to species judgment. A “mere mortal” is a limited human viewed from the perspective of gods, monsters, machines, aliens, superheroes, or anybody temporarily convinced of superiority. The phrase diminishes humanity by emphasizing death, weakness, ignorance, and bodily limitation.
Coming from a masked bedroom musician, the grandiosity becomes funny. One person has recorded every instrument at home, put on a cheap black mask, and begun addressing the rest of humanity as inferior biological material. This is not delusion accidentally captured on tape. It is deliberate rock and roll theater created from the cheapest available ingredients.
The song’s reported command to exterminate mortal scum completes the transformation. The bored creep has become an interstellar despot in under seven minutes. Punk allows this inflation because performance does not require realism. A person with no budget can assume the authority of a tyrant, alien, monster, or stadium god for ninety seconds, then remove the mask and check whether the recording clipped too badly.
The humor prevents contempt from becoming oppressive. Jacket Burner’s misanthropy is too exaggerated to function as a serious program for human relations. It is cartoon hostility, the pleasure of saying the ugliest possible thing through a voice that sounds barely capable of surviving its telephone wire.
That does not make the alienation false. Humor gives it mobility. Boredom and loneliness become difficult to express once they lose novelty. Friends may offer advice; institutions may provide categories; culture may demand inspirational recovery. A stupid mask and a fast riff can carry the feeling without forcing it to become respectable.
Truth or Consequences gives the project an almost impossibly appropriate geographical origin. The New Mexico town took its name from a radio quiz show after agreeing to rename itself as part of a publicity event. A real place accepted an entertainment title and continued living inside it long after the original stunt. The name sounds biblical, legal, and existential, yet its history belongs to broadcasting and promotion.
Jacket Burner makes music within the same collision. The songs sound like consequences without telling us exactly what truth produced them. The masked figure could be hiding from judgment, preparing to issue it, or acknowledging that the distinction between performer and character has become impossible to maintain.
The desert setting matters even though the music does not advertise regional scenery. A remote town can intensify the logic of a one-person band. There may be no ready-made scene, ideal drummer, compatible schedule, nearby studio, or audience waiting around the corner. Rather than treating those absences as a reason not to begin, V. Tiers turns absence into method.
Home recording removes several gatekeepers but introduces a different confrontation. Nobody else is present to reject the weak riff, suggest another take, or insist that the song is finished. Freedom becomes an argument with one’s own judgment. The artist must become collaborator and enemy, cheering section and heckler.
Jacket Burner solves this by making speed part of the aesthetic. A ninety-second song does not have time to develop self-conscious respectability. Once the central riff, rhythm, and vocal posture have been found, completion becomes more valuable than refinement. The project can move immediately to the next minor catastrophe.
The pressing of 250 copies preserves that scale. Two hundred black-and-white sleeves and fifty blue variants are enough to create scarcity without pretending the object belongs to a luxury market. The record remains a cheap message designed to move hand to hand. Its physical existence is almost disproportionate to its duration: vinyl, labels, sleeve, ink, shipping, storage, and international distribution built around six minutes of noise.
That disproportion is beautiful. The culture surrounding a tiny punk record can become much larger than the recording itself. Somebody draws or assembles the cover, somebody presses the vinyl, somebody boxes it, somebody writes a catalog number, somebody orders it across an ocean, somebody files it on a shelf, somebody rips it, and somebody later hears it in a future its maker could not inspect.
The phrase “no budget” therefore stops meaning “no value.” Money is only one way of measuring what entered the object. Time, attention, frustration, electricity, taste, humor, accumulated listening, and willingness to risk embarrassment are present even when the studio invoice is zero.
Tonite does not attempt to rescue rock and roll, reinvent punk, or explain the emotional condition of humanity. Its accomplishment is more compact. It makes four tiny machines that turn boredom into forward motion.
The cover figure remains frozen between poses, feet dangling over the title as though gravity has been removed from the bedroom. The mask hides the person, but the buttons on the jacket reveal chosen affiliations. The guitar is spotless white. The surrounding black swallows every sign of location.
There is nowhere to go, nobody to impress, and no budget available.
Tonite is happening anyway.