Electronic

Lou Reed “Metal Machine Music” (RCA, 1975)

Here it is, Lou Reed‘s most controversial and divisive release. I know a critic who hates the Velvet Underground and all Reed solo records—except for Metal Machine Music. There are probably a fair amount of noiseniks who share that opinion. On the other hand, about 99.3% of humanity would likely run screaming from MMM after 32 seconds of track one. In between those extremes are reasonable folks such as your blogger, who have plenty of time for VU’s catalog, who own a grip of Lou solo LPs, and who will spin MMM every few years, just to clean out the pipes. Like a mental enema, or something. It’s called cranial hygiene. Look into it.

Anyway… MMM stands as one of the most disruptive aesthetic decisions in a legendary rock artist’s career. (Can you imagine the looks on the faces of RCA’s brass and PR department upon first clapping ears to it?) The sounds on this 64-minute double album (divided into four sidelong pieces) are almost unprecedented in Lou’s career. Maybe only certain parts of the Velvets’ “I Heard Her Call My Name” and “Sister Ray” approach MMM‘s relentless discord and torrents of corroded, chromium tones that wash over you like radioactive sludge.

Of course in 2026, MMM doesn’t sound as confrontational as it did 51 years ago. So many releases since have taken the noise genre to more extreme realms (hear: Merzbow, Masonna, Whitehouse, et al.). But none except for Pat Metheny’s Zero Tolerance For Silence and Neil Young & Crazy Horse’s Arc appeared on an American major label, as MMM did.

Blandly classified on the front cover as “An Electronic Instrumental Composition,” MMM can be viewed as a soliloquy of nihilism and a sonic middle finger extended to RCA Records. It’s more punk than any canonical or cult-fave punk record, even though it surfaced a year before punk arose as a codified genre. Or, MMM can be construed as perhaps the most abrasive ambient album ever. The album’s ability to elude easy categorization is one of its strengths.

In his original liner notes, Reed writes with a speed-freak’s reckless clarity and hilarity. He seems at once facetious and utterly serious. “This record is not for parties/dancing/background, romance. This is what I meant about ‘real’ rock… Most of you won’t like this, and I don’t blame you at all. It’s not meant for you.” Everyone who bought “Walk On The Wild Side” and boogied to “Rock And Roll” must have been mortified.

As The Stranger’s Dave Segal wrote on the Seattle paper’s blog in 2015: “MMM is the Big Bang of noise rock, a monument to artistic freedom and hubris, a testament to the superiority of uppers, and an efficacious lease-breaker… It’s a fathomless howl from a tormented soul who’d undergone shock therapy yet also written some of the tenderest ballads ever to coax tears from curmudgeons. It’s an aural signifier of a significant portion of the human condition, splattered onto tape with surgical care, ready to be dipped into at any point in its hour-plus trajectory of disgust. There is a kind of bruised-armor dignity in its occasional spikes of triumphal fanfares. Metal Machine Music commiserates with your misery—with more of the same.” Maybe not coincidentally, Segal tells me that his tinnitus has been worse than ever this year.

The avant-garde classical ensemble Zeitkratzer later performed MMM at the MaerzMusik festival in 2002, lending the oft-scorned LP a degree of respectability. Damn the haters; Lou had the last rueful laugh. -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.

Dexter Wansel “Life On Mars” (Philadelphia International, 1976)

Respect is due to Dexter Wansel, the Philadelphia musician/producer who passed away on May 31 at age 75, for, among many other feats, his vastly influential debut album, Life On Mars. He’d made his name as an in-demand session keyboardist at Sigma Sound Studios for artists such as the O’Jays, Yellow Sunshine, MFSB, and Billy Paul. Wansel also had played with Stanley Clarke, the Jacksons, and Grover Washington Jr. After signing with Philadelphia International Records as an in-house arranger, producer, and composer, Dexter launched his auspicious solo career, making a huge splash with Life On Mars.

Inspired by David Bowie‘s “Life On Mars?” this record stands as Wansel’s peak. It’s an outward-bound jazz-funk opus that can hold its own with Herbie Hancock and Lenny White‘s contemporaneous releases. “A Prophet Named K.G.” kicks off the record with brash, brassy cop-show jazz-funk that would make Quincy Jones do a double take. Similarly cinematic is “Stargazer,” a sweeping, aerodynamic theme for an imaginary TV sci-fi series that may remind some of the breathless one for The Jetsons cartoon. The title track’s glimmering ambient intro gradually gives way to an elegant strut into galactic funk. Derrick Graves’ probing bass line and the backing corona of vocals by Carla Benson, Barbara Ingram, and Evette Benton elevate this jam to even greater heights. When Wansel goes wild on the ARP 2600, it truly separates the astronauts from the earthbound.

As its title suggests, “You Can Be What You Wanna Be” is a supremely earnest self-esteem-booster in the form of the bubbly jazz-funk bangers found on Hancock’s Thrust and Man-Child. Wansel sings in falsetto, which isn’t optimal, but the fantastic drum and congas break compensates for that. Wansel’s best-known song, “Theme From The Planets,” begins with one of the most sampled drum breaks ever (shout out to drummer Darryl Brown and percussionists Joe Johnson and Charles Collins), with over 300 documented on WhoSampled. Then Wansel’s wickedly sensual and sinuous synth motif intertwines with Bobby Malach’s smoky sax and the song lifts off for distant interstellar realms. Soooo smoooooth. “Rings Of Saturn” is an ideal LP-closer, a swirling, valedictorian space-jazz meditation that sends you to the exit signs with a deep sense of poignancy. A couple of oleaginous R&B ballads kill the momentum, but overall, Life On Mars is a thrilling journey that’s as sophisticated as it is thrilling. -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.

Herbie Hancock “Sextant” (Columbia, 1973)

One of the hardest things for a music fanatic to do is name a favorite Herbie Hancock album. Like his former bandmate Miles Davis, the virtuoso keyboardist/composer has had so many phases in his eventful career, with so many peaks in myriad styles. But for me, Sextant might be #1. If nothing else, it boasts my fave cover, created by the excellent Robert Springett. But to the music…

Sextant contains three epic tracks, averaging 13 minutes. Combine this structure with the extremely uncompromising nature of the music, and one longs for any photos and/or footage of Columbia Records execs listening to the finished product and hearing no commercial potential whatsoever. Imagine their facial expressions… and try not to laugh. Sextant is the first LP in an extraordinary run Hancock had for Columbia, encompassing Head Hunters, Thrust, the Death Wish OST, Man-Child, and Secrets. Undoubtedly, Sextant remains the farthest-out record among them all. Crossings, which Warner Bros. released in 1972, soars pretty high, too, but it’s not nearly as intense as Sextant.

The shortest piece here at 9:19, “Rain Dance” starts with the most tantalizing array of bleeps and eruptions from Herbie’s keyboards and Dr. Patrick Gleeson’s Arp 2600; think Morton Subotnick (also on Columbia!) going to town in a jazz-funk frenzy. This section’s been sampled 35 times, and even that seems low. Gradually, the rest of Hancock’s world-class band jump in to embellish the splendid chaos that the good doctor instigated. It sounds like the soundtrack to a major cyborgian malfunction or an outtake from Gil Mellé’s score for The Andromeda Strain. “Rain Dance” was so far ahead of its time, many heads still ain’t ready for its discombobulating brilliance 53 years later.

“Hidden Shadows” is a slightly more conventional species of psychedelic fusion in the vein of Bitches Brew and On The Corner (on both of which Herbie played, of course). Bassist Buster Williams and drummer Billy Hart really work some coiled magic here, creating a humid funk churn, bolstered by Herbie and Gleeson’s space-dusted keyboards and synths and Buck Clarke’s root-chakra-aligning conga and bongo slaps. At over 19 minutes, “Hornets” offers almost too much pressure-cooking heat. It’s another white-knuckler of busy jazz-funk exploration, full of artful aggression, a bass line that elegantly drills to Earth’s core, and pugnacious quacks from saxophonist Bennie Maupin’s kazoo. This isn’t your dad’s jazz, amigo. Everyone here’s playing as if they have huge chips on their shoulders, and it’s freaking exhilarating.

Sextant found Hancock and his band of explorers taking jazz to extremes seldom traversed outside of Sun Ra’s omniverse. Columbia Records’ executives and accountants could not be reached for comment. -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 United States Of America “The United States Of America” (Columbia, 1968)

Maybe you heard the news: The innovative musician/composer Joseph Byrd passed away on November 2 at age 87. However, as I type, no media outlet has written an obituary. WTAF?! This scandalous state of affairs has nudged me to review the great man’s crowning achievement—the lone album by his short-lived group, the United States Of America. (I hope to cover Byrd’s other major-label opus, 1969’s The American Metaphysical Circus by Joe Byrd And The Field Hippies, in the not-too-distant future.)

In the late-’60s explosion of rock creativity, few artists sounded like the USA. Their only real peers were Silver Apples, White Noise, Fifty Foot Hose, and Spoils Of War. These were bands that threaded electronics into psych-rock songs that often included passages of wild improvisations—or, free form freak-outs, as the Red Crayola called them. The six members of the USA were profoundly talented, led Byrd’s ingenious arrangements and advanced skills on organ, piano, harpsichord, synth, and calliope. In Dorothy Moskowitz, the USA had a singer whose pipes could stoke your libido and melt your heart. Hers was one of the definitive psychedelic-era voices.

“The American Metaphysical Circus” uniquely kicks off this unique LP. A circus music intro gradually morphs into a patriotic marching tune, then shifts into a dreamy psychedelic-pop ballad streaked with nerve-frazzling electronic twitters and whistles as Moskowitz sings like a stoned princess. You can really hear her influence on Broadcast’s Trish Keenan. The lyrics paint a gnomically metaphorical picture of the US as a very unnerving spectacle. “And the price is right/The cost of one admission is your mind,” Dorothy sings, and it feels as if truer words have never been intoned. The electronics get denser and crazier as the song progresses, before Byrd returns to the patriotic bit, with the sarcasm laid on thickly.

Then comes a jump cut to the album’s fiercest psych-rock burner, “Hard Coming Love.” The absolutely stinging guitar lead sounds like Howard Roberts during his tenure with David Axelrod’s Electronic Prunes (bafflingly, no one’s credited with guitar). Have you ever had sex on LSD? Well, if not, just listen to “Hard Coming Love” and you’ll have an idea. The bridge is simply a mad-scientist synth progression, showing the USA’s flamboyant flouting of convention. By contrast, “Cloud Song” is a ballad of unearthly beauty, marked by a courtly harpsichord motif. When Moskowitz coos “How sweet to be a cloud/Floating in the blue,” it sounds like ’60s Joni Mitchell dissolving in Owsley’s finest.

Electronic bird sounds speckle “The Garden Of Earthly Delights,” whose gothic baroque psych dazzles with its fantastic dynamics. Boosted by a seriously bulbous bass line, “I Won’t Leave My Wooden Wife For You” offers loony psych à la Lothar And The Hand People. The lyrics depict a married, hypocritical, suburban man who’s having an affair with a younger co-ed. The coda of patriotic, sentimental orchestrations sounds naggingly familiar.

Side 2 begins with another tangent, “Where Is Yesterday.” Following a hymnal chant in Latin, the track blossoms into gothic-pop splendor, marked by a mesmerizing vocal arrangement featuring violinist Gordon Marron and Moskowitz singing in quasi unison. Their voices and the music are as stunningly gorgeous and ominous as Scott Walker at his darkest. “Coming Down” is archetypal psych rock that should’ve been a hit. Leaving Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” in the (angel) dust, it’s one of the most cogent songs ever about drug trips, blessed with the revelatory refrain, “Reality is only temporary.” We’re gently brought down to Earth with “Love Song For The Dead Ché,” a romantic swirl of a ballad that deliquesces in a lavender and turquoise haze. The only dud here, “Stranded In Time” is a violin-heavy “Eleanor Rigby” epigone sung by Marron.

The album ends with the three-part suite “The American Way Of Love.” Suite 1, Metaphor For An Older Man, starts with some snide, Mothers Of Invention-like rock, then shifts into trippy and turbulent violin and electronics. California Good-time Music is a spot-on parody of the Mamas & The Papas. Love Is All delivers more Zappa-esque tomfoolery, before it turns into a brain-scrambling “remix” of the album, snippets of every song recurring like a bonkers flashback. The editing is brilliant and ahead of its time. What an insane climax to a one-of-a-kind classic.

Rest in power, Joseph Byrd, you genius you. -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.

Sly & Robbie “Language Barrier” (Island, 1985)

Formerly ubiquitous drummer Sly Dunbar and bassist Robbie Shakespeare are better known for their session work than for their own releases, and it’s easy to understand why. Jamaica’s best-known rhythm section has forged deep grooves for a panoply of stars both in their native reggae and dub styles as well as in funk, R&B, rock, pop, trip-hop, and jazz modes. A partial litany of collaborators includes Grace Jones, Bob Dylan, Madonna, the Rolling Stones, Sinéad O’Connor, Gilberto Gil, and Tricky, as well as with fellow countrymen Black Uhuru, Sugar Minott, and Peter Tosh, among many others. The Sly & Robbie imprimatur bestowed quality on records and in concerts for decades in multifarious contexts, until the latter’s 2021 death.

Among the duo’s own albums, 1985’s Language Barrier stands as one of the most interesting. Produced by Material bassist Bill Laswell, Language Barrier boasts a large, varied cast of musicians: Wally Badarou, Bernie Worrell, Herbie Hancock, Dylan, Manu Dibango, and Afrika Bambaataa, among others. Distinguished company! Laswell had the best Rolodex in the biz in the ’80s and ’90s.

Anyone expecting trad reggae or dub on Language Barrier will be disappointed. That’s not how Sly & Robbie—and Laswell—rolled in those days. Opener “Make ‘Em Move” telegraphs the dominant approach with prowling electro-funk in the realm of Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit” and Art Of Noise’s “Close (To The Edit),” but with militant alpha-male vocals by either Bernard Fowler or Bambaataa. Featuring Dylan on harmonica, “No Name On The Bullet” is bulky electro-funk that veers into Mark Stewart & The Maffia territory. It’s very much a product of ’80s studio aesthetics, with its clunky drum effects and blaring digital synth smears.

“Bass And Trouble” would segue well into Bambaataa & Soulsonic Force’s “Looking For The Perfect Beat” or, indeed, Hancock’s “Rockit” (that again). Explosive and dynamic as hell, with highlight-reel sax by Dibango and a searing guitar solo by one of the five axemen on the record, “Bass And Trouble” is a definite standout. The album’s most uptempo number, “Get To This, Get To That,” percolates like a quasi-techno jam, with soulful singing by Fowler.

The main attraction, though, is the radical interpretation of Miles Davis’ five-dimensional brain-fryer, “Black Satin,” from his greatest album, On The Corner. Sly & Robbie delete the electric sitar- and tabla-laced intro and the main motif seems to be created here with a strange synth setting that almost sounds like a kazoo—a bold choice. But, unsurprisingly, Dunbar can’t match Jack DeJohnette’s nimble athleticism and mind-boggling complexity on the drums, so instead Sly keeps a neck-snapping 4/4 while Shakespeare repeats Michael Henderson’s probing bass line like an automaton—not a complaint! Laswell crams the stereo field with odd activity, but it’s a more ’80s-style array of disorienting tics and gestures. Whatever the case, it took guts to cover such an innovative track by a genius, and I’m here for it.

Language Barrier definitely has a dated quality, but with Sly & Robbie near their peak and backed by such a high-powered crew, it belongs in your collection. -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.

Shriekback “Care” (Y, 1983)

Shriekback’s creative core of keyboardist/vocalist Barry Andrews (ex-XTC, Fripp’s League Of Gentlemen), bassist Dave Allen (ex-Gang Of Four), and guitarist Carl Marsh (Out On Blue Six) could almost qualify as a post-punk supergroup. Their early releases such as 1982’s Tench EP and the “My Spine (Is The Bassline)” single put very interesting spins on funk and atmospheric rock. So expectations were high for the British group’s 1983 debut LP, Care, and they were resoundingly met. (The US version differs from the UK edition, adding “My Spine” and “Accretions.” Get ’em both!)

Care gets on the good foot right away with “Lined Up,” a paragon of subliminal funk, powered by Allen’s steely bass line and stoic disco beats from a disciplined drum machine. Andrews’ stern, confidential lead vocals and the female gospel choir backing add a serious air of impending doom to proceedings. I’d often hear this joint in Detroit clubs during the ’80s, and it was a goddamn mood. With its with lusciously layered synths, chilling, Eno-esque textures, and rock-ribbed clapper beats, “Clear Trails” proves again that understatement is Shriekback’s forte—even with their drum-machine programming. In a decade lousy with clunky, canned percussion, they managed to avoid the robotic awkwardness that marred so many Reagan-era albums. One of Shriekback’s best songs, “Into Method” is a methodical, militant funk jam on a stealth mission. Similarly, “Sway” stands as a minimalist-funk masterpiece.

But Care proves that Shriekback have a weirder side, too. The skeletal, Cubist dub cut “Hapax Legomena” is as strange as its title and pregnant with tension. Unfortunately, the grave mood’s shattered near the end by a guffaw. The cantankerous “Lines From The Library” comes off like a more lightweight ’80s Swans. “Evaporation” is an aptly vaporous tone poem with barely-there vocals. (Andrews never broke a sweat while singing this record’s songs, guaranteed.) On “Brink Of Collapse,” Jon Hassell’s Fourth World Music goes to English art school. It’s an eerie, ritualistic piece within an abstract funk framework—everything in its place, precise and crisp. And what the hell is “In: Amongst”? A field recording of birds panicking as they flail in a whirlwind? Lassos twirling in a hurricane? Whatever the case, it’s one of the strangest endings to an album ever. That Care came out on Warner Bros. in the States shows that the early ’80s were different times, indeed. (Dave Allen passed away on April 5 at age 69. May he rest in peace.) -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.

Michael Rother “Flammende Herzen” (Sky, 1977)

German guitarist Michael Rother has contributed to three world-class rock/electronic groups, all before he reached 25 years old: Kraftwerk, Neu!, and Harmonia. So, it’s not surprising if his solo albums come off as underwhelming (his career has continued into the 2020s). But the first few records under his own name do have some lovely moments, and they often feature Can drummer Jaki Liebezeit and krautrock studio wizard Conny Plank at the controls and Yamaha synth, so there’s a lot of creative firepower behind these releases.

The solo debut, Flammende Herzen, is probably the most logical starting point for anyone who digs Neu! and Harmonia. (If you don’t like those bands, I have some serious questions for you.) Rother begins Flammende Herzen with the title track, and it reveals his innate gentleness and ability to wring maximal emotional weight from minimal gestures. The tender melody flirts with sentimentality and exudes a lullaby quality, but when Liebezeit’s restrained motorik beats come in, it’s like hearing the laughter of an old friend. Thus prodded, Rother intensifies the main melody into a grand plaint that sounds as if his heart indeed is enflamed, as the title (Flaming Heart in English) suggests.

The intro to “Zyklodrom” boasts a grandiose, almost liturgical beauty in the Popol Vuh vein, plus it’s much proggier than Neu! or Harmonia ever got. Two-and-a-half minutes in, though, the beats kick into gear and we’re off to the bicycle races (“Zyklodrom” means “velodrome” in German). Jaki really slams his kit and Rother’s guitar swells to an orchestral grandeur that would make Daniel Fichelscher drop his plectrum. This track almost matches Neu!’s “Lila Engel” for sheer chugging power. “Karussell” is another exercise in cyclical ascendance, conjuring a gradual escalator-to-heaven sensation. Liebezeit gets quasi funky while Rother generates some of his most icily majestic tones and gorgeously cascading guitar and synth motifs. No wonder American folk-psych guitarist William Tyler covered it.

On “Feuerland,” Rother incorporates some of the album’s strangest and most alluring sounds (chattering birds, motorboat purr) while Liebezeit metronomically and precisely chops time. I recall reading that this was Jim O’Rourke’s favorite song on the album, and that checks out. For LP-closer “Zeni,” the guitar tone is almost candied and tailored to tug your heartstrings till they snap. But then Jaki gets to vigorously thumping his tubs and things take a turn for the Can-ny, circa the quickly percolating percussion on “Chain Reaction” from Soon Over Babaluma. It’s a fitting way to end an album awash in sweet, sweet feelings, as it burns clean, motoring to a vanishing point that’s always out of reach. -Buckley Mayfield

(Heads up: Rother performs March 25 at Seattle’s Neptune Theater.)

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.

Keith LeBlanc “Major Malfunction” (World, 1986)

The music world suffered a serious loss when Keith LeBlanc, the powerful and influential drummer for Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five, Mark Stewart And The Maffia, and many others, passed away on April 4 at age 69. The eulogies for his work behind the kit were effusive and widespread. Understandable, as LeBlanc had lent his rhythmic prowess to two major movements in the 1980s, recording several sessions for artists on the pioneering hip-hop label Sugar Hill and for the innovative UK dub imprint On-U Sound.

Beyond those important contributions, LeBlanc sat in on studio dates for popular artists such as R.E.M., Tina Turner, and Nine Inch Nails. He also maintained an interesting, uncompromising solo career, marked by the galvanizing 1986 debut LP, Major Malfunction. This followed the 1983 underground-club sensation “No Sell Out,” in which LeBlanc spliced snippets of fiery Malcolm X speeches into a rock-ribbed electro/hip-hop jam.

With On-U boss Adrian Sherwood at the controls for Major Malfunction, LeBlanc led a group featuring fellow Sugar Hill/Tackhead badasses Doug Wimbish (bass, guitar) and Skip McDonald (guitar, keyboards, engineer). (The title refers to the description of the Space Shuttle Challenger exploding shortly after liftoff in early 1986.) Finally free to do their own thing, LeBlanc and crew let loose with a sampladelic banger built more for the concrete bunker than for the dance floor.

“Get This” launches the record with sick keyboard warpage that’s like a virulent bug moving through an intestinal tract. Soon, LeBlanc’s huge beats pound through a disorienting miasma of disturbingly slurred vocals and fried guitar riffs. On the brutal industrial funk of “Major Malfunction,” LeBlanc threads samples of broadcasters, then-President Reagan talking about the tragedy mentioned in the previous paragraph, with bonus commentary from the Beat author William S. Burroughs, e.g., “Your planet has been invaded.” More jagged, pugilistic electro funk caroms forth on “Heaven On Earth.” “There ain’t no heaven on Earth nowhere,” growls an angry Black man amid sampled yells of the damned. Clearly, LeBlanc’s m.o. was to overwhelm the listener with spoken-word samples and equilibrium-subverting production techniques applied to militant, club-wrecking tracks.

Reputedly, “M.O.V.E.” was a Ministry song that LeBlanc repurposed for his own record; Keith had worked on that band’s 1986 LP, Twitch. It’s a rugged, polyrhythmic shuffle on which African Head Charge member Bonjo’s bongos really slap the track into overdrive. The funkiest and most psychedelic cut here, “Technology Works Dub” is laced with eerie chants and distorted whooshes, with a robotic voice intoning, “Technology works. Technology delivers. Technology is a modern quasi religion.” LeBlanc obviously was skewering the blind faith corporations put in tech while simultaneously using sonic gear designed with it to prove its value in other fields. The chaotic piece “You Drummers Listen Good” closes the album strangely, as a gravel-voiced preacher rants about young women falling for drummers, before it eases back into a slab of exotic funk rock.

The stilted quality of Major Malfunction‘s rhythms was endemic to a lot of vanguard electronic music and hip-hop in the ’80s. While working within those technological limitations, though, LeBlanc found a way to make his beats funky and timbrally exciting—they hit with the exaggerated THWACK of fists hitting faces in Hollywood blockbusters. There were good reasons why so many musicians—both experimental and mainstream—wanted him to supply beats. RIP, Keith LeBlanc. -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.

Lou Reed “Hudson River Wind Meditations” (Sounds True, 2007)

Lou Reed’s final album—originally released only on CD, but receiving a vinyl reissue by Light In The Attic on January 12—was as much an outlier in the revolutionary rocker’s catalog as Metal Machine Music. Hudson River Wind Meditations‘ title telegraphs its sonic tranquility; the four-track album’s essentially a 180º counterpoint to the beautifully abrasive 1975 noise opus mentioned above. It’s Reed in “IDGAF about anything but my own peace of mind mode,” and, after all of the groundbreaking work he did with the Velvet Underground and the occasional shafts of brilliance of his solo career, Lou certainly earned the right to go as insular as he did here.

Reed generated these ambient compositions to soundtrack his recited meditations that his acupuncturist had recorded for him. Gradually, they morphed into music to score his Tai Chi and yoga sessions. Wind Meditations‘ value lies primarily in its two longest pieces, totaling an hour of beatless peacemongering. “Move Your Heart” consists of nearly 29 minutes of wombient swells that wax and wane with solemn dignity. The track is, in fact, meditative as well as a soothing soundbath to ease you into slumber. There’s a desolation at the core of “Move Your Heart” that makes me think it could have come out on Pete Namlook’s ambient label, FAX, if Reed had released it in the mid ’90s. The piece changes very minutely throughout its epic duration, so those with short attention spans or who thought that “Sister Ray” was a grueling endurance test will bow out well before its end.

“Find Your Note” offers yet another marathon listen (31:35—make yourself comfortable). Its interiorized drones, refrigerator-on-the-fritz hum, and microbial feedback sculpting recall Coil’s Time Machines project, all of whose tracks were named after hallucinogenic drugs. It also reminds me of Folke Rabe’s What??, which I’ve used for many an acid-trip comedown. “Find Your Note” is a supreme zone-out performance, to be sure.

The final two much shorter works somewhat come off as afterthoughts. “Hudson River Wind (Blend The Ambience)” combines recordings of sea breezes with wisps of piercing synth or guitar tones while “Wind Coda” is a striated and muted chiaroscuro of high and low frequencies that’s as austere as an Éliane Radigue piece, with waves of aquatic ambience gradually overtaking the composition.

Let’s not kid ourselves: Hudson River Wind Meditations will only appeal to a small fraction of Reed’s rock-loving fan base. The main audience for this record? Those who appreciate Metal Machine Music‘s conceptual perversity, hardcore ambient heads, and Lou completists. It’s a fascinating curio in the career of an artist whose creative restlessness yielded many more interesting experiments than uninspired flubs. -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.

Telex “This Is Telex” (Mute, 2021)

I’m not in the habit of reviewing greatest-hits and best-of releases for this blog, but sometimes the curation is so strong and the discography of the artist diffuse enough in quality that it makes sense to do so. Such is the case with This Is Telex, a 14-song overview of the influential Brussels trio Telex.

Belgium’s answer to Yellow Magic Orchestra and Yello, Telex consisted of of Marc Moulin, Dan Lacksman, and Michel Moers. Before he formed Telex, Moulin was a prog-jazz genius in the group Placebo, whom crate-diggers/hip-hop producers worship with a reverence usually reserved for the likes of Melvin Bliss and Incredible Bongo Band. Few musicians from Moulin’s realm made the transition to synthwave-pop/cult status, which in itself is innately fascinating. (Rainbow keyboardist Tony Carey comes to mind, but even that’s a stretch; Kraftwerk obviously were influential on synthwave, but were never of it.)

Telex come across as arch keyboard/drum-machine virtuosos slumming it in the nascent synth-pop scene (they even entered that bastion of fromage overload, the Eurovision contest) and then realized that, “Hey, we’re enjoying this more than we thought and the hipsters are slurping it up.” It seems like this comp should’ve come out 10-12 years ago, the better to capitalize on the renewed interest in minimal/synthwave, but better late than never—Mute probably had to cut through thickets of record-company red tape to seal the deal.

This Is Telex begins grandly with a a radical reinvention of Sonny Bono’s ubiquitous 1967 hit “The Beat Goes On,” turning the groovy pop nugget into a chunky, bleepy slab of electro-funk, its rhythm uncannily foreshadowing Soul II Soul’s 1989 hit, “Back To Life.” (This album’s the only place you can find “The Beat Goes On/Off.”) The interpretation establishes Telex as masters of transformative covers. Another excellent example of this is “Dance To The Music,” in which the trio transform Sly &The Family Stone’s 1968 hit into silver-lamé’d robo-disco with diseased talkbox vocals. Telex excised the soul and funk from the original, but their makeover is still a riot that’ll have crowds laughing as much as they’re dancing. They’ve reproduced the absurdist, poker-faced effect that Flying Lizards had with “Money” and Devo had with “Satisfaction.”

More alchemy occurs on “La Bamba,” as Telex convert this traditional Mexican folk song into laggard trip-hop—no easy feat. On “The Number One Song In Heaven,” they bring a dash of poignancy to Sparks’ ebullient, Giorgio Moroder-produced original while slowing the tempo to an elegant shuffle. Speaking of Sparks, this comp features two collabs with the Mael brothers: “Drama Drama” and “ Exercise Is Good For You.” This joint venture—the Maels wrote the lyrics, Moers composed the music—makes sense as both groups revel in camp and humor, flamboyant melodies, and sly dance beats. Trivia: ZZ Top, of all people, used to cover “Exercise” live, often using it to close out their shows. One diversion from Telex’s usual tongue-in-cheekiness is “Dear Prudence” (which is exclusive to this compilation). Telex appear to be playing it straight, exhibiting authentic love for one of the Beatles’ most sublime psychedelic ballads. Their version’s synthetic to the core yet still hits deeply in the heart.

As for Telex’s original tunes, “L’amour Toujours” sounds at once like a parody and a genuine specimen of suave continental disco; Yello pulled the same trick. It exemplifies Telex’s penchant for creating music of artful ambiguity, as does “Eurovision,” a sincere-seeming stab at trying to win the titular songwriting contest in 1980. The result is more like a saccharine homage to Kraftwerk’s “Neon Lights,” though, and it nearly came in last place—which was the group’s goal. The wonky electro-funk of “Radio-Radio” slaps hard, proving itself to be a Belgian counterpart to Zapp’s “More Bounce To The Ounce.” Telex’s best-known song is “Moskow Diskow” from 1979’s Looking For Saint Tropez. An influence on techno, it zips through the club like a speedier “Trans-Europe Express,” replete with a synth mimicking a train whistle and percussion emulating said vehicle’s rhythmic chug. No wonder Detroit techno great Carl Craig jumped at the chance to remix it on the 1998 remix album of Telex cuts, I Don’t Like Music.

A cursory listen to Telex may lead some to regard them as a quasi-novelty band, but the impact that their deceptively advanced and detailed music had on electronic music from the ’80s onward is no joke. -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.

Doug McKechnie “San Francisco Moog 1968-72: Vol. 2” (VG+ Records, 2023)

Better late than never, the 2020 archival release San Francisco Moog 1968-72: Vol. 1 introduced a lot of people to Bay Area synthesist/composer Doug McKechnie. Now 80, McKechnie somehow had gone barely noticed as a Moog pioneer, despite opening for the Rolling Stones at the Altamont Speedway Free Festival in 1969 and appearing in the Maysles brothers’ documentary of said tragic event, Gimme Shelter. Although McKechnie performed often during the years outlined by the title of this second collection of his largely improvised electronic works, he only released a couple of cassettes back then. The Moog craze of those days somehow did not sweep up Mr. McKechnie.

Perhaps Doug’s music didn’t draw much attention in those days because it lacked a gimmicky concept, which was typical of vintage Moog-centric records. Plus, he didn’t have the academic imprimatur that some of his peers enjoyed. Rather, McKechnie was a lone-wolf hippie, relying on his instincts to create extraordinary sounds on the Moog Modular Series III synth, to which he fortuitously gained access because his audiophile/electronics wiz roommate, Bruce Hatch, owned one. McKechnie became so adept with the new instrument, he gave lectures about it and demonstrations of it in colleges and other schools.

San Francisco Moog 1968-72: Vol. 2 further delves into McKechnie’s vaults from that heady era. The first volume’s rippling drones, grand melodies, ominous throbs, and eerie drifts predated and resembled some of the things happening with the work of German artists such as Klaus Schulze, Tangerine Dream, and Ashra. The second one skews a bit weirder and more introspective. “Search For An Honest Man” recalls Moog superstar Mort Garson’s peak-era winsome melodiousness and bleak chirpiness. “Live At The Family Dog” offers a premonition of minimal techno, with its pinprick percussion and spaciousness, before it shifts into a wickedly warped k-hole of Doppler-effected “wow”s and “whoa”s.

If you’re a fan of Keith Emerson’s flamboyant flourishes in ELP, you’ll dig the bold, spasmodic piece “Moving.” “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” is a wildly oscillating excursion, like Tonto’s Expanding Head Band experiencing an anxiety attack while “Rumble Ramp Explosion,” as the title helpfully discloses, is an extreme display of tone dispersion and simulated rocket ascension and explosion. True mindfuckery. The best track here is also the longest: over its 11-plus minutes, the meticulously designed “Glide” features a main Moog motif that icily radiates over insistent pulsations, and thus enters the massive pantheon of intense sci-fi-film suspense-builders.

The VG+ label has compiled both San Francisco Moog LPs onto one CD, if you prefer that format. One way or another, you should get this music into your ears for easy transport out of this mundane reality. -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

Cluster “Cluster II” (Brain, 1972)

Cluster 71—German geniuses Dieter Moebius, Hans-Joachim Roedelius’ first album without Conrad Schnitzler, with whom they formed Kluster in 1969—stands as an important landmark in the formation of industrial ambient music, forging forbidding expanses of desolation and agitation. Similar to Tangerine Dream’s Electronic Meditation, 71 did not rock at all, although it often got categorized as “krautrock.” Rather, it sprawled and glowered in dank space like a malignant satellite. This was head music par excellence, but only for the headstrong who can deal with no beats or hooks whatsoever.

Moebius and Roedelius’ follow-up, Cluster II (produced by Conny Plank with his usual magically maniacal touch), found the ever-questing duo bringing in guitar to their synth-heavy miasmas, but still not rocking in any conventional way. In some regards, it’s a bit less alien and alienating than 71, but still kilometers beyond the concise, melodious synth songs on their next full-length, 1974’s Zuckerzeit.

“Plas” begins 71 with a series of grainy synth throbs and billows that accumulate mass and ominousness, before strange pulsations and shrill, panicky fanfares enter the frame, like a deflated trumpet blurt arcing across the night sky. It’s a precarious, hallucinogenic trip and a helluva bold way to open an album. On “Im Süden,” Moebius’ crispy-fried guitar riff pierces through Roedelius’ bassy synth borborygmus for nearly 13 minutes, and the effect is both hypnotic and fraught as hell. Everything intensifies and gets denser as the track progresses, until you feel as if you’re churning in the guts of a massive cement mixer, with Moebius’ chiming guitar motif tolling like a farewell message… imminent-catastrophe vibes for days. You can definitely hear this track’s influence on Austrian guitarist/laptop composer Fennesz’s early releases.

After this incredible 1-2 punch, the quality dips slightly, but the material is still deeply dissonant. “Für Die Katz” is subtly turbulent space musik for imperiled astronauts while “Live In Der Fabrik” is the sound of infinity in a circuit board or maybe the world’s most sinister video game going on the fritz… or simply mad scientists going rogue in the lab. “Georgel” consists of an enveloping drone that’s pregnant with menace and “Nabitte” ushers us to the exits with chaotic keyboard clusters, distressing groans, and slamming of unknown metal objects.

These Übermenschen didn’t let up for one second on II. Their motto seemed to be “if you’re not overcome by paranoia, we’re doing something wrong.” Truly, an unsettling bleakness pervades the entire album, one entirely at odds with the brilliant constellation cover art. You have to respect such relentless journeying to the heart of darkness.

Bureau B reissued Cluster II in 2022 and Superior Viaduct did so in 2023, so the album should be easy to find and to afford. -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.