Album Reviews

Yo La Tengo “New Wave Hot Dogs” (Coyote, 1987)

Goofy title and all, New Wave Hot Dogs was the beginning of a fantastic run of albums by New Jersey indie-rock stalwarts Yo La Tengo. That stretch from this one to President Yo La Tengo, Fakebook, May I Sing With Me, and Painful plowed a narrow but very rich seam of tough-and-tender rock that used the Velvet Underground’s fertile catalog as a template. Might as well borrow from the best, right?

Yo La Tengo—guitarist/vocalist Ira Kaplan, drummer/vocalist Georgia Hubley, and bassist Stephan Wichnewski (later James McNew)—seem to have inhaled the VU oeuvre as prepubescents, and New Wave Hot Dogs was the result. Nobody simulates the cooler side of the Velvets better than YLT—except for the Feelies. Of course, when you’re band includes a former rock critic (Kaplan wrote for NY Rocker) who sings like a higher-pitched Lou Reed acolyte, siphoning influences from the Velvets is expected. At least these superfans had the guts to wear their fandom on their sleeve by covering the deep cut “It’s Alright (The Way That You Live).”

But, to be fair, YLT generate their own distinctive ax heat; check out the rancorous rave-up “House Fall Down,” the PSF Records-esque speed-freak eruptions of “The Story Of Jazz,” the twisted noise jam “Let’s Compromise” (featuring guest guitarist from Bongwater, Dave Rick). Another guest, dB’s guitarist Chris Stamey, delivers a Bubble Puppy-esque solo on “Lewis.” Kaplan glazes his understated Velvetoons with feedback that stays just long enough to make its point. The too-brief “Lost in Bessemer” proves that YLT could forge a moving, intimate instrumental, too; it’s their “Embryonic Journey.”

Alternately manic and contemplative, New Wave Hot Dogs leaves a pleasant afterglow. It took YLT a while to shake their VU obsession, but they’ve gone on to hack their own niche in the indie-rock stratosphere. However, it’s odd that they’ve let New Wave Hot Dogs (and the equally wonderful President Yo La Tengo) languish in out-of-printland for over 35 years. Or maybe it’s some legal b.s. beyond the band’s control? Whatever the case, it’s problem that needs rectifying. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Bongwater “Double Bummer” (Shimmy-Disc, 1988)

Following in the footsteps of the Mothers Of Invention, with whom they share a perverse sense of humor, Bongwater made their debut album a double. Led by actor/performance artist Ann Magnuson (see her in The Hunger, Making Mr. Right and other films) and former Butthole Surfers/Shockabilly bassist and renowned producer Kramer, Bongwater made a unique, albeit small splash in the indie-rock world with their sprawling debut. Their wry parodies, mutated glam rock, wide-eyed psychedelia, and inventive cover versions of famous rockers’ fluke hits and deep cuts made Bongwater a quirky cult band who deserve wider recognition.

The distinctive Kramer production stamp permeates all four sides and 27 songs of Double Bummer. The sound’s largely shrouded in a soupy fog; imagine Butthole Surfers on less potent drugs. A polluted stream of consciousness runs through this scrambled, rambling soundscape, as Magnuson sings and reads from her dream diary while Kramer laces tracks with vocal snippets from Richard Nixon, John F. Kennedy, ignorant right-wingers, argumentative people on the street, etc. In this cacophonous collage, everything is fragmented, skittish, askew, out of focus. The prevalent mode is truly fugged hallucinogenic rock—a kind of slo-mo psychedelia swelling with muted grandeur and subaquatic guitar scrawl by Dave Rick.

Kramer’s unpredictable flights of lunacy and lucidity bring us inspired versions of Gary Glitter Band’s “Rock & Roll Part 2,” Johnny Cash’s “There You Go,” the Monkees’ “You Just May Be The One,” the Beatles’ “Rain” and “Love You To,” Soft Machine’s “We Did It Again,” and a Chinese translation of Led Zeppelin’s “Dazed And Confused.” The latter will make you laugh until you fly.

Bongwater’s catalog is long out of print and even the career-spanning, four-CD box set came out in 1998 isn’t easy to obtain. It’s about time somebody—maybe even Kramer’s own Shimmy-Disc label—reissued their four cool albums and the 1987 EP, Breaking No New Ground!, that kicked it all off. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

The Fall “I Am Kurious Oranj” (Beggars Banquet, 1988)

The 10th studio album by British post-punk legends the Fall was the soundtrack to a Michael Clark & Company-helmed ballet about William of Orange, founder of the Dutch Republic. Fascinating, but not essential knowledge in order to enjoy this platter. I Am Kurious Oranj more than stands on its own as a collection of gnarled pop songs.

By all rights, the Fall should have been in the twilight of their career by 1988, the 11th year of their existence. But, as we know, Mark E. Smith and company had more good decades left up until the leader’s death in 2018. And 1988 was particularly rewarding, as the Fall issued two ruling albums: I Am Kurious Oranj and The Frenz Experiment. If anything, they seemed to be attaining a second peak; the first occurred during the Grotesque (After The Gramme) through Hex Enduction Hour/Room To Live era. The 1988 Fall may have sounded slicker than in previous incarnations, but they in no way had lost their potent riff-mongering capacity and penchant for resonant guitar textures, thanks to Brix Smith and Craig Scanlon. Bassist Stephen Hanley, keyboardist Marcia Schofield, and drummer Simon Wolstencroft were also in excellent form. And Smith waxed as bilious and baffling as ever on this diverse full-length.

Oranj found the Fall dabbling in some non-rock zones, imposing their uniquely warped aura on them, and proving that bastardization is often more interesting than “authenticity.” For example, the Fall slip into righteous reggae mode on “Kurious Oranj” and apply acid-house moves on “Win Fall C.D. 2080” without losing any of the group’s mesmerizing allure. “New Big Prinz” mutes Gary Glitter Band’s menacing riff from “Rock & Roll Pt. 2” with wonderful results. “Overture From ‘I Am Curious Orange'” may boast the prettiest melody of any song in the Fall’s enormous canon. “Wrong Place, Right Time,” with its sphincter-loosening funk rhythm, possesses a devastating swagger and is DJ gold. The eerily chirping “Bad News Girl” and the effulgent “Cab It Up!” conclude the album in memorable fashion, with Schofield’s sprightly keyboard motifs inspiring goofy smiles.

I Am Kurious Oranj is a typical Fall LP in that it frequently surprises with new twists on old themes. The Fall weren’t really progressing here; rather, they were expanding in several directions at once. The album stands as a testament to the band’s restless ingenuity. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Straitjacket Fits “Hail” (Flying Nun, 1988)

On their classic debut album, New Zealand quartet Straitjacket Fits blended the Chills’ achingly beautiful melodic sensibilities with Sonic Youth’s soaring drone science. The result was a distinctive hybrid that doesn’t owe too much to either band. In the esteemed Flying Nun tradition, guitarists/vocalists Shayne Carter and Andrew Brough (who passed away in 2020) write exquisitely crafted songs that stick in your mind forever—well, that at least holds true for me, so far.

Straitjacket Fits’ best songs pierce the soul with the bittersweetness of the human condition. Carter’s tear-streaked voice casually floats over the glorious din, verging on melodrama, but always avoiding it. Carter and Brough wrote like sensitive poets, but never made you cringe. Some choice lines: “Your words feel homesick/Watch them flounder in mid air”; “Your skin crawls to escape my hand”; “Her speeding, her freedom’s what’s appealing to me/To stop her in her tracks/Match an act with flat tactics of attack.”

Some of these songs are so breathtaking (especially “Hail,” “She Speeds,” “Dead Heat,” and “Fabulous Things”), I am tempted to base religions on them. “Sparkle That Shines” (which appeared on the UK and US versions, but not on the original NZ release) and “Fabulous Things” are Brough tunes that capture his magically delicate touch; his melodies are paradoxically fragile, yet built to last for eternity. He would go on to pen even greater songs on 1990’s Melt such as “Down In Splendour” and “Such A Daze.” I do wish the Fits had given Brough more real estate on their records… or perhaps he just wasn’t that prolific. Whatever the case, more of Brough’s genius tunesmithery would’ve been nice.

When I listen to Hail, I feel a holy quiver—except when the sugary, unnecessary cover of Leonard Cohen’s “So Long, Marianne” is playing—and I am convinced that Shayne Carter and Andrew Brough were two of the greatest songwriters in rock history. Yet they’re not even in the conversation when that topic arises. And that’s just not right. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Throwing Muses “Throwing Muses” (4AD, 1986)

This stunning debut LP by Boston quartet Throwing Muses is as enduring as Love’s Forever Changes, as mysterious as Wire’s 154, and as otherworldly as Clock DVA’s Thirst. That it’s the product of three Rhode Island-based women and a dude who were all around 20 years old at the time of its creation makes it all the more impressive.

Throwing Muses contains the paradoxical elements found in many classic albums: gorgeous complexity, serene tension, sinister innocence, and erotic intelligence. Singer-songwriter Kristin Hersh’s voice spasms, flutters, an soars as if she were a female Tim Buckley; her words follow a logic known only to herself (or perhaps not) and sound like an alien poetry that conjures the subconscious’ scarred effluvia. Pretentious? Hell yes. But pretentiousness isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and it’s certainly an asset with this band.

On this record, Throwing Muses—who also consisted of guitarist/vocalist Tanya Donelly, drummer David Narcizo, and bassist Leslie Langston—were twisting rock intro unique shapes, creating new standards of beauty, and damn near reinventing the concept of the song. You can listen to this album hundreds of times and learn something new about it each time. It’s proof that obscurity is a virtue.

The crazy thing? Throwing Muses is scarce in the wild and online, and even CD versions of it are pricey. Hell, it’s not even on $pot1fy. We really could use a reissue of it on all formats. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Half Japanese “Music To Strip By” (50 Skidillion Watts, 1987)

After beginning their career with noisier, more inaccessible albums such as 1/2 Gentlemen/Not Beasts, Loud, and Our Solar System, Maryland group Half Japanese eventually became more proficient on their instruments, wrote more structured songs, and enlisted pro producers such as Shimmy-Disc boss Kramer to oversee their recordings. All of these changes led to their greatest LP, Music To Strip By.

Half Japanese’s wild sixth album rambles all over the musical spectrum like a sugared-up toddler. Led by guitarist/vocalist Jad Fair, Half Japanese animated their blues, jazz, speedcore, R&B, and No Wave with a wrongheaded, primitive minimalism that threw a new light on these styles.

Throughout the record, Fair seems like the kind of guy who got taunted throughout his school years and for revenge later channeled his pent-up venom into music. He possesses the ultimate nerd whine (Fair’s influence manifested in Violent Femmes’ Gordon Gano); on Music To Strip By, he uses it with devastating effect on his quirky songs about a mother who needs to strip to support her family, hot dogs, intellectually slothful teens, demonic ouija boards, prehistoric animals, and FBI gigolos, among many other things.

The album starts with the amazing “Stripping For Cash,” a euphoric gush of high-energy rock that extrapolates upon the peak parts of the Velvet Underground’s “What Goes On.” The rock-ribbed blues of “Thick And Thin” won’t make anyone forget Howlin’ Wolf or Muddy Waters, but for a bunch of geeky Caucasians, it’s pretty tough. “Hot Dog And Hot Damn” sounds like Ornette Coleman’s Prime Time, as interpreted by riled-up 5th-graders. “Sex At Your Parents’ House” channels the Contortions, albeit without the reckless rage of their late frontman, James Chance. This piece broke new ground for Half Japanese.

A shocking departure, “The Price Was Right But The Door Was Wrong” is a J.J. Cale-style speed boogie. Similarly, “US Teens Are Spoiled Bums” manically rambles like something off Meat Puppets II. “Silver And Katherine” is another shocker—a tender, sincere ballad with the feathery gravitas of the Velvet Underground’s “Pale Blue Eyes,” but augmented by blissful sax ripples. The relatively straightforward cover of “La Bamba,” a Mexican folk song that Ritchie Valens made famous with his 1958 hit, is somewhat out of place here, but charming nonetheless. My favorite cut on the album is “Diary,” on which Fair’s voice seethes with what seems like a lifetime of bitterness over the leanest white-boy blues ever: “I’ll write in my diary/What you did to me/And leave it on the table/For all the world to see/… I might even make it into a movie.” Damn.

On much of Music To Strip By, Half Japanese sound like a twisted pop band working on a miniaturist scale. Ex-Butthole Surfer bassist Kramer’s sparse production is ideal for this approach. In this case, less really is more. These tunes will leave you laughing, crying, and disbelieving in gasps. It’s quite possibly the greatest 22-song album ever. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

A.R. Kane “69” (Rough Trade, 1988)

To appreciate 69, the debut album by the UK’s A.R. Kane, you have to shed your rock expectations and simply drift in the alien aura that Alex Ayuli and Rudy Tambala summoned from Buddha knows where. While early singles like “When You’re Sad” and “Lollita” relied on noisy surfeit (critics of the time somewhat accurately described them as “the black Jesus And Mary Chain”), most of 69 is downright spare, yet strangely moving. But does it rock? Not really.

That A.R. Kane subsequently were classified as “shoegaze” is not totally on point, either, although they did have elements of that genre. Actually, the duo were more diverse than their shoegaze contemporaries, delving into dub, Miles Davis’ late-’60s/early-/’70s jazz fusion, acid house, and sampladelic dance music (cf. M|A|R|R|S’ Pump Up The Volume).

As for 69, there’s a watery disorientation to much of it, an exploratory restlessness that recalls Tim Buckley’s Starsailor and Can’s Future Days. (Simon Dupree And The Big Sound/Gentle Giant member Ray Shulman produced and contributed bass; his role in this sonic triumph should not be underestimated.) Singer Ayuli’s voice here is a small, unmoored presence buffeted by breezes and gales of sound. It’s a voice deflated of all tension—a pure embodiment of bliss.

69‘s opening cut, “Crazy Blue,” catches you off-balance right away. A feather-light, quasi-jazz romp embroidered with shimmery halos of guitar, it totally goes against the grain of A.R. Kane’s previous recordings. “Suicide Kiss” starts almost funkily before it quickly dissolves in billows of guitar haze, while still maintaining a semblance of song structure. “Baby Milk Snatcher”—which originally appeared on 1988’s brilliant Up Home! EP—sounds like a meticulously carved masterpiece in the context of 69‘s general amorphousness.

“Dizzy,” “Sulliday,” “Spermwhale Trip Over,” and “The Sun Falls Into The Sea” are unprecedented (from a late-’80s perspective) sketches of souls in various states of exaltation. One must conjure ludicrous metaphors to describe these songs, and honestly, it’s too hot right now for me to do that. Go through moldering issues of British mag Melody Maker for examples.

Ultimately, 69 doesn’t douse me in the icy ecstasy that Up Home! does. However, in its own enigmatic way, 69 is a weird trip worth taking. A.R. Kane’s intentions were baffling, and that’s always a positive, in my book. Every foray they made surprised in rewarding ways. Thirty-six years after its release, 69 is still flummoxing heads and revealing new, fascinating facets. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

The Feelies “Only Life” (A&M, 1988)

The Feelies’ major-label debut found them with a slightly more in-your-face production, and, against conventional wisdom, they actually benefitted from it. Their previous album, 1986’s The Good Earth, though beautiful, sounds like it was recorded with moss-covered mics (R.E.M.’s Peter Buck co-produced).

Only Life, the New Jersey rock group’s third album, is a veritable guitar feast. Glenn Mercer and Bill Million deftly twine their electric and acoustic riffs around primal, mantric rock structures. These musicians don’t invent new guitar lexicons; rather, they create subtle dialects on the Velvet Underground’s ur language, which they “speak” as fluently as any band in the USA.

To be blunt, the Feelies display just two kinds of songs on Only Life: the pastoral, meditative chime, à la “Sweet Jane” (side one) and the accelerating chug à la “Foggy Notion” (side two), with occasional forays into whammy-barred spaciness. But within any given song there’s an omnipresent tension between those two styles. Only Life actually thrives on its sameness. As with the Wedding Present, the Feelies sound better as the tempo of their music increases. And they ingeniously sequenced Only Life so that each song gets subtly and progressively faster. Also worth noting: the high-velocity jangle train that is “Away” would segue well into Meat Puppets’ “Away” from Up On The Sun. Pure coincidence or…?

The Feelies’ music always has been devoid of raunch, even on their most manic LP, 1980’s Crazy Rhythms. There’s something monkish about their devotion to rock the VU way. They found what they do best and honed it to perfection on Only Life. Mercer’s affectless, Lou Reed-like voice heightens the sense of sexlessness on these 10 songs. It’s a comforting voice, a kindly whisper or humble exhortation imparting vague, clipped phrases such as “Got a ways to go/So much to know.” Paradoxically, his unexpressive voice profoundly moves you.

In a decision that’s very on-the-nose, the Feelies cover “What Goes On” (one of my favorite songs ever) with blinding speed, but unfortunately add little to the Velvets’ original. Well, who could, really? But it made Lou richer, and that’s what really counts.

Ultimately, the music on Only Life is a romp through the grassy hills of childhood and an urgent shuffle through the subway stations of adulthood. It stands as one of the greatest rock records of the ’80s. (Bar/None did the last vinyl reissue of Only Life in 2016. It’s time for another one.) -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Trouble Funk “Drop The Bomb” (Sugar Hill, 1982)

Do you like to party? Trouble Funk can help facilitate that. The Washington, DC ensemble are the standard-bearers of go-go, a strain of chunky, percussion-heavy funk and call-and-response rapped vocals that’s organically geared to activate bodies and stimulate libidos. When you need music that’s even more muscular and obsessively drilled than James Brown’s J.B.s, call on Trouble Funk.

The title track’s an apt entry point for Trouble Funk. “Drop The Bomb”‘s lyrics identify which crews Trouble Funk would like to obliterate with explosives. Now, that’s pretty mean and blunt, but we don’t go to TF for nuanced, insightful verses. You can find more food for thought in any random big city’s graffiti. (If the bombs are metaphors for TF’s songs, I take all of this back.) Rather, we listen to them for grooves that have infinite playback and sweat-inducing potential. And “Drop The Bomb” ranks as one of TF’s most inspirational jams in a catalog loaded with same. Extra credit for the wild synth tomfoolery streaking across the potent polyrhythms and general party sounds.

The album’s other smash, “Pump Me Up,” stands as one of the vaunted Sugar Hill label’s most iconic rap tracks. It’s been sampled at least 160 times (mostly for the amped, stuttered refrain of the title) and is by far their most streamed song on $p0t1fy. “Pump Me Up” leverages maximal funkiness with a killer subliminal bass line, elasticated synth bow bows, whistles, and robust hand-percussion embellishments. Hell, even UK drum & bass maverick Squarepusher lifted the rousing “pumppumppump me up” part for “Fat Controller.” The instrumental breaks must have caused mayhem wherever B-boys/girls gathered… and probably still do.

Beyond these best-known Trouble Funk cuts, the LP has three other crucial tunes. In “Hey Fellas,” call-and-response raps and vocals ping-pong over momentous horn charts, kinetic congas (or are they timbales?), clap-augmented funk beats, and synth bass hot and thicc enough to shatter Funkadelic’s “Flash Light.” It’s a pretty scorching way to start an album that intends to rile up revelers. “Get On Up” is absurdly lit funk for maximal strutting, with satisfying cowbell clonks and some of the hardest-hitting clapper beats and girthy bass purrs outside of a Roger Troutman studio session.

The album’s final track, “Don’t Try To Use Me,” is an ill-advised descent into baby-making balladry. Rare is the funk outfit who can write tolerable slow songs that don’t OD on schmaltz and saccharine. This inexcusable indulgence lasts for over six minutes, but, thankfully, it’s at the record’s end, so it’s easy to skip. This is the only dud on a platter that ranks among the greatest in the pure realm of mood elevation and ass-moving. As Trouble Funk shout, “You gotta shake that thang!” -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Scientists “Blood Red River” (Au Go Go, 1983)

Considered by some to be harbingers of grunge and by others as goth, Scientists always struck me more as Australia’s Stooges. Now, that remote country has fostered many bands with Iggy & company’s DNA, but nobody outside of Birthday Party captured the Stooges’ menacing, seething quality with as much pizzazz as Scientists.

Led by vocalist/guitarist Kim Salmon, Scientists released a self-titled debut album in 1981 whose bubbly power-pop/punk songs didn’t hint at the brooding heaviness that animates their 1983 mini-album, Blood Red River. To these ears, they sounded like lightweight also-rans on that first LP. In retrospect, it makes sense that soon after The Scientists was released, two members left to join the Hoodoo Gurus. Bringing in drummer Brett Rixon, bassist Boris Sujdovic, and guitarist Tony Thewlis had a salubrious effect, as Scientists transformed into a very different and much ornerier beast.

“When Fate Deals Its Mortal Blow” stands as one of the greatest openings to a record ever. Salmon sneers a revenge tale like Lux Interior’s meaner, Down Under Döppleganger while the guitars squeeze out radiated sparks and the rhythm section metronomically marches down a muddy trench with grim certitude. Swagger overload right out of the gate! “Burnout” motors down the garbage-strewn alley with a brutal grunt of a bass line, staccato, pugilistic beats, and guitars like zipping wasps. The song eventually accelerates into a thuggish yet disciplined freakout.

“The Spin” starts exactly like Birthday Party’s sinister blues-rock churn “King Ink,” making it one of the least-surprising moments on Blood Red River. Following in BP singer Nick Cave’s footsteps, Salmon gets off a pitch-perfect, feral Iggy howl. “Rev Head” foreshadows British heavy psychonauts Loop, with some maniacal, Suicide-like repetition (hence the Martin Rev-referencing title) and Alan Vega-esque shouts thrown in for good measure.

One of the coolest songs of the ’80s, “Set It On Fire” forces your mouth agape with jaw-harp-enhanced Stooge-adelia, powered by a thrusting, lascivious bass line, plus well-timed, Jimi Hendrix-meets-Andy Gill guitar explosions. The title track ends the record with sparse, menacing blues rock that, if you saw it stalking toward you, you’d cross the street to avoid it.

Scientists would get trashier and thrashier on 1986’s Weird Love, but for my money, they decisively peaked on the short yet potent Blood Red River. (In 2015, Numero Group reissued Blood Red River. That’s probably the easiest and most cost-effective way to obtain it.) -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

The Isleys “Brother, Brother, Brother” (T-Neck, 1972)

You really can’t go wrong with any ’60s or ’70s Isleys album. Their long-term quality control has been impressive, especially for a group that’s charted with regularity. With bros Ernie (guitars), Marvin (bass, percussion), and Ronald (vocals) in peak form and brother-in-law Chris Jasper contributing crucial piano and tambourine embellishments, Brother, Brother, Brother was truly a family affair. I bet Sly Stone was a fan.

This is the album where the Isleys’ love of pop singer/songwriter Carole King really blossomed. Even if you’re not a King aficionado, though, you gotta appreciate what the Isleys do with her tunes. The opening “Brother, Brother” is a tender King ballad elevated by Ronald’s sublimely smooth and warm vocal timbre. I’m not a big fan of ballads by soul/funk artists, but the Isleys were, uh, kings in this realm, up there with Al Green and Bill Withers. King and Toni Stern’s “Sweet Seasons” is ambling, congenial commercial R&B that smoothly segues into “Keep On Walkin’,” whose chugging soul rock is marked by Ernie’s unimpeachably funky guitar riffing and Truman Thomas’ Deep Purple/”Hush”-evoking organ.

On “Pop That Thang,” the Isleys return to the squirming, über-funky sound in the vein of the instantly infectious and oft-covered “It’s Your Thing.” “Lay Away” offers yet another variation on that slow, rutting funk groove. It’s pure fucking music, but this time the lyrics conflate love with consumerism. Who knew the Isleys were so cynical? The most popular cut on streaming services, “Work To Do” was my anthem when I worked at a certain Seattle alt-weekly, because of my onerous deadlines, you see. Man, this song resonates. It doesn’t hurt that the rolling, laid-back groove counters the lyrics’ hyper-responsible message—a very satisfying paradox. Plus, it features one of Ron’s most moving vocal performances—which is saying a lot.

On “It’s Too Late,” the Isleys slow this 1971 Carole King smash hit—not unlike what Isaac Hayes did with “By The Time I Get To Phoenix”—and elongate it to 10:31 while infusing it with so much soul, Ms. King had to admit that the brothers had outshone her. Rumors that she dabbed her eyes with her massive royalty statements could not be confirmed at press time. The album ends with “Love Put Me On The Corner,” a ponderous yet poignant ballad with Thomas’ organ carrying much of the churchy weight. I would’ve sequenced the album to end with “It’s Too Late,” but what do I know? I’m just a lowly blogger.

The good thing about these vintage Isleys albums—besides all of the fantastic soul and funk gems filling them, of course—is that they’re pretty easy to find and relatively inexpensive. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Karuna Khyal “Alomoni 1985” (Voice, 1974)

The Nurse With Wound List—which appeared in the UK avant-garde group’s 1979 debut album—opened many minds to a lot of amazing, weird music. Of the nearly 300 artists whom NWW acknowledged as influences on their music, Japan’s Karuna Khyal (and its brother band, Brast Burn) remain perhaps the most mysterious.

But you know what? The dearth of information regarding these phenomenal bands only enhances the listening experience. These bizarre aural documents—Karuna Khyal’s Alomoni 1985 and Brast Burn’s Debon—seemingly manifested magically. Their creator, one Takahashi Yoshihiro, apparently had no interest in claiming ownership or reaping whatever rewards would come from these bafflingly unique masterpieces. And that’s beautiful.

Consisting of two sidelong tracks that total 48 minutes of mind-boggling music, Alomoni 1985 sounds as if it were improvised under the influence of potent hallucinogens… in a remote cave. One may hear a slight connection to fellow Japanese psychonauts Taj-Mahal Travellers, but Karuna Khyal are a much stranger proposition. Like the Travellers, KK occasionally veer into eerie-drone territory, but more often they’re twisting rock and experimental music into unprecedented shapes.

Alomoni 1985 begins with a lurching beat and a wonderfully warped string instrument snarling a mutant blues riff, as the singer chants as if spellbound. A harmonica mirrors that fantastic riff while the heavy, burdened beat continues to trudge. An abrupt transition into a sinister chug follows, almost Chrome-like in its machine-mantra motion, but more organic than those Bay Area industrial-psych madmen ever sounded. Things get very intense and abrasive, and I can imagine a lot of listeners bowing out here.

There’s a stretch in the first track that comes off like Captain Beefheart & The Magic Band covering Can‘s “Yoo Doo Right” while being sucked into a vortex—and this is the album’s most accessible passage! The singer definitely has that gravelly Don Van Vliet timbre, but his language will be indecipherable to most Western ears. (“Kwannik kwannik kwannick TOOLAAAHHH,” eh? Can I get an “amen”?) Some studio black magic eventually turns the voice into nightmarish hall-of-mirrors murmur. It’s too much, man.

The second track starts with some of diabolically scary wind noises, insistent kick drums, and more enigmatic muttering and bellowing. What the hell is happening? I’m not sure, but the oddly angled, chunky proto-techno action foreshadows American weirdos Black Dice by about 30 years. The track gradually morphs into a disturbing marching-band/arcane-ritual procession that takes the Mothers Of Invention’s “Return Of The Son Of Monster Magnet” to the next dimension. Karuna Khyal—whoever they were—proved themselves to be operating on a whole other level of genius.

What few original copies of Alomoni 1985 exist on the second-hand market go for hundreds of dollars. Your best chance of obtaining the vinyl for a reasonable price is Phoenix Records’ unofficial 2012 reissue (which Discogs has banned). Or you could search for Paradigm Discs’ 1998 CD. Finally, if desperate to hear the album, you can stream it. But wear good headphones for optimal brain-bonking. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.