Don't be Denied!!! - Neil Young's 2000s

So, I'm a known Neil Young lover, and the upcoming release of his first album of the new decade, Le Noise (Reprise, 2010) is a good chance to look back at the last ten years of Young's career, which have provided us with some of the most peculiar, controversial and superlative music of the Canadian's substantial output.

Read any, even brief, biography of Neil Young, and it will almost certainly mention his "difficult eighties". This refers to the period after he signed for Geffen Records in 1981 and proceeded to delve into baffling genre experiments, from the vocoder-drenched synth-pop of Trans (1982) to Landing on Water (1986) with its souped-up stadium rock, via rockabilly and country. It got so absurd (and commercially non-viable), that David Geffen even sued him. Even after his contract with the label ended and he returned to Reprise (where he's remained ever since), he still went for full-on genre aping, with 1988's r'n'b opus, This Note's For You. For casual Young listeners, these albums are at odds with the warm folk-rock of Harvest, or the raw guitar mania he unleashes with Crazy Horse. Those of us more sympathetic to his life and unpredictable personality and muse can see the diamonds in the rough that are scattered across his 80s output. And whilst first Freedom (1989), then Ragged Glory (1990) and finally the acoustic duo of Harvest Moon (1992) and Unplugged (1993) were hailed as tremendous returns to (commercial?) form, those of us who have followed every inch of the man's career are less impressed overall (despite great music coming out of Young in the 90s), and, above all, realise that his albums over the last 10-15 years are at least as peculiar as the Geffen ones, but perhaps less easily defined.


From 1991's mini-LP of droning feedback collages Arc to the stripped-down garage-metal of Year of the Horse (1997, and a personal fave), via the dark anti-grunge paean to the departed Kurt Cobain, Sleeps with Angels (1994), Young's 90s output was varied, uncompromising and, as duds like his CSNY collaboration, Looking Forward (1999) showed, slightly inconsistent (I've never liked Unplugged). And he has carried that over into the new decades, albeit with an even more curmudgeonly attitude.

And let's get it out of the way: I'm hardly going to mention the three duds of Young's "noughties", Road Rock Friends and Relatives vol.1 (2000, and I hope to Old Black that there won't be a volume 2!), Are You Passionate? (2002, a dull attempt at blue-eyed soul that just sounded flat, uninspired and boring) and Fork in the Road (2009). Other releases have run from the uneven to the masterful, but, those three apart, regardless of ultimate quality, there has at least been a consistency of thought and message (and you could even argue that the latter two at least address two of Young's core concerns, namely his love for family and friends; and his fear for the environment. Just a shame his tunes, rushed and poorly thought-out, failed to match his good intentions). 

In the 2000s, Neil Young turned 60. In 2005, his father died, followed by two of his closest friends and collaborators, Ben Keith and L.A. Johnson, in 2010. Perhaps most affecting was his own near-death experience from a brain aneurysm. These combined events have cast a shadow over nearly everything he recorded thereafter, tainting even his most upbeat or aggressive new songs with a contemplative spirit that even the quieter moments of Harvest Moon and Sleeps With Angels didn't have, and which was certainly absent from the snotty grunge of Ragged Glory and his 1995 collaboration with Pearl Jam, Mirror Ball. 

In fact, it was even evident prior to the aneurysm and the bereavements, as we entered the new decade and new millennium. I have often felt that 2000's Silver and Gold is one of Young's most underrated albums. Like every mostly acoustic album Neil Young has done since 1972, Silver and Gold has been described as the next Harvest and, like all the others (even Harvest Moon), the similarity is purely superficial, and S&G stands up quite well on its own merits. It's possibly his quietest-ever album, but remains a full band opus, with sensitive drums, delicious lap steel licks and earthy acoustic guitar motifs. Above all, it's his first true homage to the people without whom this most solitary of superstars would surely have struggled to reach the heights he has: his fellow musicians and his friends and family. Most remarked-upon is his elegy for his first "proper" band on Buffalo Springfield Again, which is slight, but heartfelt, though the irony of the man who sabotaged them in the first place calling for a reunion was surely not lost on Stephen Stills and Richie Furay. But in this context, much of S&G, at least the bits that don't celebrate his wife Pegi (and these are some of his most touching love songs) or his family (S&G certainly points to 2005's Prairie Wind), can be seen as reflections on the Ben Keiths, Kenny Buttreys, Jack Nietzches, David Briggses, CSNs and Crazy Horses who have all, to various degrees, helped make Young the musician he is. As such, when S&G ends, it's with a note of self-reflection and melancholy that is palpable. 

In retrospect, Silver and Gold feels very much like a complete work, a concept album even, based on relationships of all kinds. In contrast, a couple of Young's "noughties" albums feel much more like hodge-podge efforts, hastily assembled, Freedom-style, notably 2007's Chrome Dreams II. Of course, Freedom, which lurched from heavily-politicised rock to weighty ballads, was a hit, and CDII is also excellent, albeit less consistent, resurrecting some old classics, in the form of "Boxcar" and "Ordinary People", and throwing in some new material, notably the spiky "Spirit Road", and the magnificent "No Hidden Path". But there's no avoiding that this was an album thrown together from various sources and sessions, a cross-section of Neil styles, but not his most coherent, despite familiar references to love and preserving the environment or protecting the less fortunate from corporate greed. I have a lot of affection for this album despite the fact that so much of it is filler, mainly because it was an excuse for a lengthy and amazing tour, during which I got to see him three times. And "No Hidden Path" really amazing, featuring Young's best guitar work of the decade by far.


But we're now seeing something of a stylistic pattern in Young's "noughties" output, and indeed maybe even one that mirrors his entire career: there are the "strong statement albums", albums based around specific events and/or precise thought processes (S&G, Greendale, Prairie Wind, Living With War, now Le Noise as we enter the new decade); one "mash-up" album, blurring styles and basically delivering a tasty but inconsistent view of Neil Young per se (Chrome Dreams II); and albums that, whilst they may stick to strong and important themes in Young's mind, were too hastily written and recorded to be more than mere "throw-aways" (Are You Passionate? and Fork in the Road). Looking at things that way, you can see why I consider these last ten years to be the most exciting as a Young fan since the seventies.

Having written all that, I have to admit that I am unsure about Prairie Wind, despite it being his most-acclaimed album of the decade, more or less. At times, it feels like it should be in the same category as Chrome Dreams II. Almost unexpectedly, given the artwork, and the context (Young reminisces of his Canadian prairie childhood in the weeks/months after his father's death and his own near-fatal aneurysm), a couple of the tracks are electric, and the album lurches between piano ballads of the deep folk variety and countryfied pop, making its vibe rather uneven, between ensemble performances worthy of a Kenny Rogers or an Emmylou Harris (who features) and hushed, personal, almost solo songs. A good friend pointed out that the album gains power when you watch the superb, Jonathan Demme-directed, Heart of Gold movie that accompanied Prairie Wind, but I still feel that, for all its consistent themes of fear of dying and dreams of lives long since revolved, this album feels undefined, almost in the same way as Chrome Dreams II. And ultimately, whilst Prairie Wind is a more coherent effort, the two best songs on CDII easily eclipse 90% of the earlier album. 

But, for all my reservations about Prairie Wind, there is no denying that it represented the culmination of the work he'd started as early as Harvest, and his preoccupations with his family and friends, as demonstrated (more solidly, in my opinion) on Silver and Gold. At least until Le Noise, I guess, although that album shows a slight return to the esoteric emotional approach of early works like After the Gold Rush and On the Beach. But, for me, Neil Young's two absolutely essential works of the 2000s are like twin barrels of the same gun: Greendale (2003) and Living With War (2006). And there is only one word for either: uncompromising.

It's a word that sits both in the same company as his greatest-ever albums, Tonight's the Night (1975) and On The Beach (1974). Don't worry, Rusties, I'm not saying they are as good! But, whether it's when he's approaching the invasive presence of the media in an ordinary family's life as they deal with crime and environmental awareness, as on Greendale; or lambasting the Bush administration's illegal war in Iraq on Living With War, Young is unflinching in his outspoken diatribes and forthright rage. Not surprisingly, both albums provided his critics with the ammunition for their most stinging vitriol, as his politics and recording techniques were put under the most scabrous of microscopes. 

And yes, both Greendale and Living with War sound rough and raw. If you like the lush strings and elegant harmonies of Prairie Wind, then the ur-thump of Greendale, recorded with two-thirds of Crazy Horse (and not the most elegant 2/3rds at that!) will make you cringe. The opening tracks are in a sort of primitive dumbass blues-rock style, whilst the second half (the two segueing into each other via the stunning ballad "Bandit") is a kind of free-form post-metal stomp, all repetitive rhythm patterns and messy guitar solos, whilst Young plays a number of different members of his fictional Green family characters. This simple-but-effective approach to American media and environmental politics (the whole album is a sort of aging hippy fable of an ordinary family -the Greens- whose lives are turned upside down by a cousin's delinquency, the media's subsequent intrusions and the daughter's environmental activism) was scorned by the Guardian/New York Times intelligentsia for its simplicity, and yes, to British ears it all sounds a bit corny, but, whether delivering his message solo (as on his 2003 European tour), or with a fuck-off revue, Young never flinched, and never backed down, resulting in various editions of the album, a film and even a comic. It's the bravest album by any major artist since the seventies, of that I have little doubt. And fuck it - the man can still write amazing tunes: "Bandit", "Grandpa's Interview" and "Sun Green" are all classic Young - angry, beautiful and moving. Greendale is a real oddity in Young's canon, a proper musical UFO. How many of the Claptons, Dylans and Jaggers can say they've managed that it the last ten years?

But if people thought the music on Greendale was primitive, the rushed, in-your-face fury of Living With War is something else altogether! Recorded in a matter of days, with overdubbed trumpet and choir, it's a forceful, angry album, perhaps the most vitriolic political album of the last 20-30 years, no less. Of course, in deeply polarised America, it was bound to divide audiences, whilst in the UK such overt, simplistic messaging is frowned upon. But to condemn Young for these -relative- foibles is cheap and unfair. The fact is, Young stood up and was counted. He saw the cost of the war in Iraq, read the lies of the Bush administration, and said, resoundingly, "NO!". The lyrics may occasionally be simple ("Don't need no shadow man/running the government/don't need no stinking war!" is a personal fave), but don't think this is some bone-headed sub-Dylan. The two best tracks, "Restless Consumer" and "Roger and Out" stand up perfectly alongside his very best electric tunes, from "Cinammon Girl" to "Slip Away", with stirring lyrics on both, backed by unstoppable melodies and emotionally potent guitar magic. I'd even be so bold as to say both are among his best tracks in years, maybe even since Sleeps With Angels. That's saying something! As for the rest, well, the guy predicted Obama's emergence, shouted down the war (the immense title track) and had the guts, in possibly his most controversial moment ever, to call for the impeachment of George W Bush. This alone deserves our respect. 


The music on both Greendale and Living With War is unsubtle, and the lyrics so direct as to be downright blunt. But that's what we need sometimes. The war in Iraq was a travesty, and the rape of our planet is a scandal. In these days of hawkish Tea Partiers and vicious spending cuts, an angry voice such as Young's is a strong and refreshing tonic, a voice of grumpy hope in the darkness of spin and cynicism. And, lest we think he's just some miserable old hippy goat, listen to "Roger and Out". Has the personal cost of human folly ever seemed so real?

In a way, more than Prairie Wind's fly-on-the-wall post-illness confessionals, it's the emotional nudity of Silver and Gold, coupled with the militancy of Greendale and Living with War, that most define Neil's current output. But, in the deep reflections of "Restless Consumer", "Roger and Out", "Bandit", "Falling off the face of the Earth" or "No Hidden Path", he demonstrates that he is about more than facile nostalgia or basic righteous anger. This is a man who has has been through much in the last ten years, and suffered more than most. But he is still alive, still singing, still playing that guitar and, as Le Noise demonstrates, ready to attack the next ten years with even more wisdom, rage and love. Long may he fucking run! 

PS - And yes, I'm aware that the "noughties" were also the decade of the Archives and the reissues of great live recordings from decades past, but the emphasis today was on a -possibly flawed- contemporaneous look at his most recent output. Though, for what it's worth, At the Fillmore 1970 and Live at Massey Hall 1971 are simply essential. Peace and Love - RUST xx


NEIL YOUNG'S TOP 10 SONGS, 2000-2009:


1/ "Roger and Out", Living With War
2/ "Bandit", Greendale
3/ "Razor Love", Silver and Gold
4/ "Restless Consumer", Living With War
5/ "No Hidden Path", Chrome Dreams II
6/ "Grandpa's Interview, Greendale
7/ "Goin' Home, Are You Passionate?
8/ "No Wonder", Prairie Wind
9/ "Horseshoe Man", Silver and Gold
10/ "Ordinary People", Chrome Dreams II

Great Unsung or Underappreciated Albums 11: Didn't It Rain by Songs: Ohia (2002)

The imminent release of Neil Young's latest album, Le Noise -which is a stunner, by the way- is somewhat topical insofar as this review (yet another one I've been wanting to do for a while) is concerned. Le Noise has been described by Young himself as "folk-metal", and, as a completely solo album (albeit with ample help from Daniel Lanois' remarkable production), it's particularly notable for its edification of the electric guitar as a central element to the expression of solo folk.

This is of course, not completely new, though I would argue that Young and Lanois take things to the next level, a topic perhaps for another time. But hearing Le Noise for the first time immediately brought Didn't It Rain (2002, Secretly Canadian) to my mind, and I feel that, whilst Jason Molina employs a band on his album, as opposed to Young creating (with Lanois' help) his sonic maelstrom on his own, there is a similarity in the styles of the two artists. In true "folk-metal" style, Didn't It Rain plays a deceptive game, with the first two tracks being driven by acoustic guitars and little else, before the rumble of electricity creeps over the horizon. 

Jason Molina is first and foremost one of the most talented exponents of what is generally termed "Americana". His music is deeply anchored in the folk, country and rock traditions of his home country, with perhaps only the slightest of nods to the blues. This is earthy, downbeat and humane music, anchored in the tradition of Johnny Cash, Woody Guthrie and Uncle Tupelo. A tradition of saying things as they are. But also a tradition of mystery and dark recesses, a tradition of deep spirituality and murky landscapes. From the opening seconds of the title track, the listener is confronted with Molina's brutal honesty. His lyrics deal with pain, despair, loss, fear, depression and doubt, with "Didn't It Rain" even taking a broadside at capitalism and injustice. At times, this is oblique and impenetrable, as on the mystical "Cross the Road, Molina", with lyrics hinting at primeval mythology and the kind of spirits that people the literature of Stephen King, the Jeepers Creepers movies or Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes. An Americana laden with ancient, pre-white man forces and strange natural phenomena.

But for the most part, Didn't It Rain, in the same manner as Cash's Solitary Man or the debut album by Great Lake Swimmers, remorselessly lays bear the emotions of its creator, whipping into gear the moment the electric guitar kicks in, on "Ring the Bell", perhaps the highest-tempo of all the tracks on the album, which isn't saying much, as it's only a few steps up from "funereal". This is not an album you should go to if you want a bit of a let-up amongst the downers. Like Tonight's the Night or Richmond Fontaine's The Fitzgerald, Didn't It Rain doesn't let up from its bleak and remorseless vibe. "Ring the Bell" is actually the most upbeat track, not just in its pace, but in the stubborn refusal of Molina, via his lyrics, to give up on life and a glimpse of happiness he seems to have had at some point. "Why wouldn't I try?" he moans, as he rails against double-tongues and watches his world crumble and collapse around his ears. It's a stirring moment, brilliantly eradicating the slow-burning mournfulness of the two acoustic tracks that preceded it under a deluge of grim cello drones and jangly guitars that are like The Stone Roses after a half-bottle of Valium. The tone is defiance, but Jason Molina at the same time does not shirk away from bleak realities, be they the mysterious forces of "Cross the Road, Molina", or the more tangible realities of a desperately sad life.

Depression is a major theme here, and as someone who has felt the dark shadow of that illness weigh on his poor mind since age 17, I was struck by the honesty Molina shows here. "I am paralyzed - by emptiness" he wails on "Blue Factory Flame", the album's doom-laden, eight-minute centrepiece. It's a fantastic dirge, an endless parade of minor chords, aching vocals (Molina ably supported by the keening high range of Jennie Beckford), and a plodding, subdued rhythm section, like Crazy Horse after three days without sleep. There are no frills here, we're not allowed them, it's as if we're being told: "life is hard, it's a fucker, I'm not gonna let you pretend it's not". It's a truly chilling song, and I am hard-pressed to think of a sadder one (maybe Neil Young's "Borrowed Tune" or "On the Beach").

And, as I mentioned before, we are not allowed to forget how much hurt this guy has been through. The dismally slow pace of all the songs is surely deliberate, as punishing and unrelenting as the most extreme noise, and Didn't It Rain is a similarly potent assault, coming from the other end of the "fuck you" scale. But it is not all bleakness. If "Ring The Bell" sees Molina fighting with the army of snakes, determined to win, closer "Blue Chicago Moon" is perhaps even more defiant. Like "Blue Factory Flame", it kicks off with a trudging, but fierce, pace, but where that song wallows in pure misery, this one takes that tack ("...the endless, endless, endless, endless, endless depression") and then allows a glorious shaft of light to pierce the cathedral of murk. "You are not helpless / Tryyyyyyyyy to beat it!" Molina and Beckford rail, as if they're trying to burst through the shadows using the force of their glorious voices. I'm not sure if Molina is talking to his audience, or to himself, but the effect is enthralling.

Throughout the song, and the album, the central focus, apart from the bleak-yet-hopeful lyrics, is Molina's electric guitar. Like Neil Young, he is no virtuoso. He does not pour out torrents of notes at Steve Vai speed. Nor would that be appropriate for this music. But you get the distinct feeling that, even on the full band songs, Didn't It Rain could, like Le Noise, work as just a man and his guitar. The notes are clear, but grungy; harsh but elegant. They are almost as drenched in meaning and sensitivity as the lyrics, and just as capable of piercing a line straight to your heart. So, whilst Young may be taking folk-metal to a new level on his latest opus (and I'm still not sure I like it as much - yet), I would say the road had already been rather gloriously, and heart-breakingly, paved way back in 2002 on Didn't It Rain. Can I get an "amen"? 

Summer on my iPod!!!

I say Summer, but of course, this being Britain, the term needs to be taken with a casserole dish-full of salt. We had a nice July, but August has essentially involved wind (of the meteorological variety) and rain. Still, all the more occasions to lock myself in my room watching off-the-wall movies and listening to demented music.

I've also been trying to diversify my artistic discoveries, so a big shout out to The Tate Modern Gallery for its excellent "Exposed: Voyeurism, Surveillance and the Camera" exhibition. Troubling and enthralling in turns, with great pictures by the likes of Nan Goldin, Henri Cartier-Bresson and Man Ray, among many, many others; and some excellent insights into modern paparazzi and surveillance cultures, and how they relate to art; it's well-worth a visit and still on until the 3rd of October. It may just be the best "mainstream" exhibition I've seen since the "Sex" one at the Barbican a few years ago.

Much more underground, The Hackney Wicked festival, which ran from July the 30th until August the 1st in London's downmarket, but potentially up-and-coming, Hackney Wick area, was a treasure-trove of street art, free gallery spaces and outdoor music. Surrounded by the area's dilapidated factories, run-down warehouses (nowadays occupied by artists for the most part) and the Olympic construction site, we bobbed our heads to funky Afrobeat, dub-drenched reggae or confrontational post-punk as people meandered in and out of the warehouse galleries where maverick artists were exposing their latest creations. I probably should have explored the galleries a bit better, but the sun was out and it was just as uplifting to guzzle beer to the sounds of hippy chatter and exciting music. An outstanding free event, and one I hope will keep going for years to come.

I also found time over the Summer to volunteer for London Pride, which is always a fabulous event. It was remarkably enjoyable trying to stop people pushing past the barriers along Oxford Street, and the true highlight was walking the length of the route behind the parade waving at the smiling crowds. Apart from some hateful heckling courtesy of the retards of Christian Voice, the usual party atmosphere and good will was omnipresent. Plus, at a club that evening I bumped into Rufus Wainwright!!! Even better (sorry Rufus), a week ago, I met Stephen Fry, got his autograph and even got a message from him on Twitter! Meeting one of one's idols is a brain-defeating experience (I think I managed to gibber some attempt at a compliment at the great man whilst holding out my pen with shaking hands), but he is a true gent (as is Rufus) and a truly wonderful human being. I love you, Mr. Fry!

Finally, it was my friend James French's (a future Turner Prize winner, I am sure) debut show at alternative nocturnal art exhibition Act Art on July the 7th. It takes place in Angel, in the venue that usually houses Goth/Industrial club night Slimelight. Over several floors a wide range of performance artists, painters, musicians, video artists and photographers were given free reign to explore the theme of "Censorship", resulting in quite a few naked people, weird and sometimes troubling installations and some amazing pieces (including James') over three or four floors. Between an overweight man and woman getting messages sewn onto their skin, a naked man being spat on, dead rats lain out in a fridge and a superb rock band performing in cages, my senses got a pretty intense assault during an event that went on until the wee hours before transferring the venue back over to the DJs to round things off at about 6am. Again, I'm looking forward to next year!

I also had the pleasure of seeing Patrick Wolf live for the second time. He may now be NME-fodder, and his music less and less inventive with each passing album, but he remains a top performer, a true beauty and an excellent craftsman of intelligent, sensual pop. Nothing special, but still a great night out. Plus, he played just about every song I wanted, including "Wind in the Wires". Lucky me!

And, of course, amidst all that there's been music, more music, movies and then some more music! Not just music I've been listening to, but also performing! My project with wonder guitarist Chris Gehlen is still going strong, and we should soon be recording a proper in-studio demo. Watch this space...

June was a month of noise for me, so inevitably that has continued. Although, there was a hiatus of blues listening, as I picked up a quartet of cheap compilations by Muddy Waters, Elmore James, Robert Johnson and Lightnin' Hopkins. Compilations are often patchy affairs, but all four produced some of the most electrifying and emotional blues ever recorded, from Waters' stomping electric Chicago sound to the stripped-down old-school acoustic playing of Johnson, via Hopkins' super-fast picking and James' demented slide. The latter two in particular, being less well-known, are real joys to discover, the sheer force of their respective guitar techniques, coupled with heartfelt, raw vocals, easily making up for the sometimes rough sound. Essential listening, all four of them, and I will be going into their music in a bit more detail soon.

In noise, I kept up my unreserved love for Californian duo Yellow Swans. Having started at the end of their career, with January's Going Places being their last-ever opus, I then moved back in time to check out their two previous major releases. But where that masterpiece balanced its raw noise with passages of dream-like ambient and hazy drone, 2006's Psychic Secession (Load Records), is an altogether more ferocious beast! Its very name suggests rupture, a ripping away of the psyche through sheer noise. Sonically, it owes more to the fierce electronic sounds of Kevin Drumm or, at its most extreme, Merzbow, as pure digital screes subsume all else in walls of brittle sound, as on lengthy opener "True Union". It's a 20-minute dark marathon, opening to high-pitched squalling and doom-laden chords, betraying The Swans' debt to dark metal and doom (see their excellent collaboration with Grey Daturas), before suddenly segueing into even more abrasive territory as chattering digital beats propel the track into industrial post-Gristle territory, complete with menacing, Prurient-esque vocals. At the end, the whole piece collapses into a wall of squealing drone. It's strident and driving where Going Places' tracks contained a groundswell of rumbling ambient atmosphere, and surely one of the greatest noise "songs" of all time. The title track (the shortest, at seven minutes) features a ghostly voice at the outset, which is itself then swallowed whole by more feedback and squealing drone, the beats getting faster and harsher, showing that the duo have even picked up some tips from listening to techno or house. Of course, this is electronic music beyond anything even Venetian Snares or Fuck Buttons could contemplate, noise dance for cyborgs at the end of the world. On the final two tracks, both over ten minutes in length, Yellow Swans continue to display their ability to subtly shift between harsh noise and moments of metal-tinged drone; raw vocal aggression followed by drifting atmospherics, even bringing to mind Ben Frost's impeccable 2009 opus By The Throat on closer "Velocity of the Yolk". This flexibility, the ability to constantly surprise as beats drop in and out and vocals pierce the murk before being subsumed again, is what makes Yellow Swans music so arresting.

Psychic Secession may be Yellow Swans' high-water mark, but that's a tough (and I'll admit, tentative) call to make, such is the consistently excellent level of their output (plus, there's just so much of it!), and their second Load album, At All Ends (2007) is no exception. Musically, it points towards Going Places, but where that album suffused all space and consciousness with an instant wave of droning feedback, the noise of At All Ends is more gradual. The opening sounds of the title track even evoke the spacey drone of seminal Japanese drone group Taj Mahal Travellers, as gong-like guitar riffs bounce off some more elaborate soloing, with heaps of reverb making the whole thing sound like it's being recorded in a cathedral. Gradually, stuttering digital noise creeps into the mix, the whole piece building up in layers, until the listener is subsumed by a tornado of raucous squeals and squalls. Late on, "Our Oases" is a slight but dense drone piece that sounds like a Going Places outtake, whilst "Mass Mirage" kicks off with almost Morricone-esque Western guitar before dissolving into planet-sized metal noise of the kind perfected by Skullflower or even Jesu. This again shows Yellow Swans' debt to the metal underground, from Fushitsusha to more traditional acts like Earth and SUNN O))). As such, At All Ends carries a mystical vibe less present in the nasty industrial roar of Psychic Secession. All three Yellow Swans albums I have carry different characters and tones. Delving into each universe, from the ferocity of Psychic Secession, via the cosmic metal of At All Ends, and ending with the blissful walls of sound of Going Places, the ultimate, and melancholic, truth is that we have lost one of the best noise/drone bands of all time.

Where Yellow Swans mainly use synths and electric guitar, particularly on At All Ends and Going Places and hence the comparisons with Skullflower, to generate walls of noise, Illinois native Kevin Drumm plunged headlong into the difficult (some would say terrifying) realm of digital noise on Sheer Hellish Miasma (2002, Editions Mego). Pure digital noise is surely one of the most difficult sub-genres of modern music out there, although sometimes you wouldn't know it, given the close-to-underground-superstar status of Merzbow, who has long been a proponent of hissing, glitching electronic sounds generated on a laptop. Digital noise (at least of the harsh variety, and anything else is liable to be closer to ambient or trance music than actual noise) reverts the genre away from the often melodic or song-structured approaches of a Mouthus or a Wolf Eyes (although harsh digital noise is a component of the latter's sound) and back to what Paul Hegarty described, in his excellent Noise/Music: A History book, as "noise as brutal reduction". Noise is a disturbance, defined by what it is not: melodic, tuneful, tonal, etc. Brutal albums such as Prurient's Black Vase or Merzbow's Venereology fall squarely in this category. And, for long passages, so does Sheer Hellish Miasma. From the brutal crunch of the brief opening track and on into the two lengthy pieces that form the record's core, this album overflows with pure saturation, at ridiculous volumes, an all-out sonic assault. But anyone who knows of Drumm's gentle, haunting drone opus Imperial Distortion (2008, Hospital Productions), will know to expect more than simple sensory assault from Drumm. As the epic "Hitting the Pavement" (20 minutes) and "The Inferno" (nearly 25!) unfold, you quickly detect mesmerising shifts and subtle hints of harmonic grace sliding into the mix, a melodic sense that evolves out of the morass, keeping the listener hooked and even seduced, rather than simply berating him or her with volume, and showcasing Drumm's affiliation not just with power noise, but also with experimental music and the wistful drone of Phill Niblock, whom he covered for Jim O'Rourke's version of Guitar too, for four. Don't let that fool you into expecting something "gentle" (this is a truly harsh album), but closer "Cloudy" lives up to its title, being a quiet ambient wash, like the calm after a beautiful but terrifying storm. Sheer Hellish Miasma is essential for anyone with an interest in noise at its most challenging, but most rewarding.

Sticking to noise, but jumping back a few decades to what technically amounts to the genre's genesis, I've also been indulging in a bit of delirious ear abuse thanks to Les Rallizes Denudes. Properly covering this remarkable and fascinating band would probably take up an entire blog or book, so I heartily recommend you pick up a copy of Julian Cope's Japrocksampler, in which he gives a detailed and suitably admiring history. To keep things short, Les Rallizes Denudes are the brainchild of enigmatic guitar god Takashi Mizutani, who, doubly freaked out by hearing The Velvet Underground's supreme 17-minute freak-out "Sister Ray" in 1968 and the underwhelming result of his one and only studio recording, withdrew from the normal trappings of the music industry, resolving to only release semi-official bootlegs of live recordings of him and whoever happened to be part of Les Rallizes' ever-shifting line-up as they pummeled bone-headed bass lines and moronic drums into the ground by way of wave upon wave of distorted, fucked-up guitar noise. And they've (well, Mizutani has) been doing this for the best part of 45 years! Basically, Les Rallizes Denudes could be the world's greatest-ever rock band.

There is a wealth of great "albums" by Les Rallizes Denudes out there, with the double CD '77 Live being probably the most exhaustive, especially as it includes the band's most definitive moment, "Night of the Assassin", a 12-minute epic (most Rallizes tracks hang around the 10-20 minute mark) that steals the 60s pop bass line of Little Peggy March's "I Will Follow Him", cranks up the volume and then proceeds to smother it in some deliciously nasty guitar saturation whilst Mizutani yelps autistically, seemingly whenever he can be bothered. There are several different versions of "Night of the Assassin" out there, but the '77 Live one is probably the definitive one. Oh yes, the entire canon of Rallizes tracks can probably be listed on one A4 sheet, with nearly every one being reprised and reworked with more guitar mess seemingly ad infinitum.

But one release that rivals '77 Live, perhaps because it is actually relatively different, is the three-track monsterpiece Blind Baby Has Its Mothers Eyes, recently unofficially re-released on Phoenix records. Each track, around 20 minutes long, is slow and doom-laden, ragged metal plodders that stretch that genre's approach back beyond the blues-tinted noodlings it was associated with in Britain and the US, and into dark, primeval territories. Drum patterns are basic, the kind or ur-thump that characterised a lot of traditional Asian music (and demonstrating Mizutani's background in folk music, both international and traditionally Japanese), whilst the bass generally acts as some sub-sonic heartbeat. This moronic foundation serves as a platform for Mizutani to take off, blinding all with his vicious guitar pyrotechnics. Where "Night of the Assassin" is marked by a certain cheeky grooviness that is hard to reconcile with the po-faced Rallizes (all black hair and trousers, and mirror-sized sunglasses), the three tracks of Blind Baby Has Its Mothers Eyes crawl along morosely, sheer noise lacerating the listener's ears via uber-phased solos that Mizutani perversely sustains on the title track, obliterating all other sounds in a maelstrom of terror. It's their most perverse and out-there non-album, and essential for anyone who somehow thinks extreme noise and metal are "recent" phenomena.

As my own projects in music-making continue, I will be spending quite a lot of time listening to such ear-bashing bliss, so be warned, I'll probably soon be reviewing Mouthus' No Canal, Prurient's Black Vase, John Wiese's Soft Punk and Flesh Puppets' Medusa, all essential additions to the noise fan's discography. Fun times!

Hauntology and hypnagogic pop are garnering some debate in terms of a) legitimacy as a genre, and b) the homogeneity of the scenes themselves. At its inset, hauntology was defined by the three prongs of the Ghost Box Records stable, The Caretaker (aka James Kirby or Leyland Kirby) and Mordant Music. The stark differences between the three leave a gulf of interpretations of the styles on display, be it Mordant Music's wonky electronica, the typically English melding of styles by Ghost Box's The Focus Group and Belbury Poly, or Kirby's drone and Philip Jeck-ian vinyl manipulation. 
Hypnagogic pop is even more scattered, geographically and stylistically, with the dark dub-inflected drone/folk of Pocahaunted, Grouper or Inca Ore being pretty different from Ariel Pink's twisted pop or Oneohtrix Point Never's New Age-y post-electronica. And where do the kosmische drones of Emeralds, or Indignant Senility's reworking, Caretaker-style, of aging Wagner records, fit in the spectrum of what has been externally (as opposed to the self-definition of rock'n'roll, blues, punk or industrial music) described as a genre? Additionally, the new emergence of a more pop-centric "memory music" in the form of Toro Y Moi, Memory Tapes or Washed Out, and crudely dubbed "chillwave" or "glo-fi", elicits even more objections (after all, these guys are filtering 80s MOR, cheap electro and power ballads on occasion).
In such intriguing and fluctuating musical straits, sometimes you just need to suspend categorisation and just delve into the music. Luckily, in the case of hauntology/hypnagogia (and with Indignant Senility and Inca Ore seemingly closing in on more "British" Caretaker/Burial/Demdike Stare styles, whilst Mordant moves somewhat in the other direction with r'n'b and croonerish textures on his last album, the distinction gets feebler in my opinion), the music remains of a consistently high standard, as two new releases on Olde English Spelling Bee demonstrate in radically different ways.

First up is Forest Swords, the alter-ego of Wirral-based creator Matthew Barnes. Similarly to Californian duo Pocahaunted, the music on Barnes' debut album, Dagger Paths is steeped in the all-encompassing echo of dub. But if the ethnic and multicultural diversity of the UK has brought Jamaican and American (at times tracks are splattered with Far West guitar and mariachi horns) textures to Forest Daggers' aesthetic, it nonetheless remains steeped in the culture of the English North. The vast emptiness brings to mind images of wind-swept Wirral coastline, sleepy former industrial hub cities and the barren moorland landscapes that also traverses Demdike Stare's gloomy electro. Equally, the jagged guitars flit between modern country grit and decayed post-industrial shimmer, whilst thumping bass lines immediately hark back Joy Division's Peter Hook or PiL's Jah Wobble. With the whole lot nicely filtered through a production that has obviously absorbed the rhythmic awareness and driving forward momentum of UK techno and electronica (albeit slowed down to funereal pace), Dagger Paths is a triumphant new installment in the ever-evolving canon of hauntological music.

San Francisco's Joe Knight, who operates as Rangers, proposes on his album Suburban Tours a different take on such genre-bending, with shorter tracks, garish synths deployed up-front and in your face and more hooks and catchy melodies than you could shake a drum machine at. Daring to go even beyond Oneohtrix Point Never's adventures in shimmery electronic bliss, Rangers' music references bombastic 80s MOR and balladry, grinning pop-funk (think Hot Chocolate or Pointer Sisters, even) and "classic" rock in the Eagles/Fleetwood Mac mould. The song titles and LP artwork set a clear scenery to the music, one of bland suburbia, of rambling drives through streets of identical houses, splashes of exciting greenery, teenage kicks and neon lights by the roadside. It could almost be a tribute to Brat Pack-era America, when teenage suburban existence was at the centre of the cultural spotlight, and, unlike some of his peers, Knight thankfully avoids the winking irony of cheap pop references such as the Ghostbusters movies or junk TV. In good hypnagogic style, Knight has approached his past via the post-noise, post-punk present, and the guitars on Suburban Tours crunch and grind, whilst the few vocals across the album are harsh, distorted and murky, like a stoned Dominic Furnow. Tracks warble and wobble aimlessly, deliberately making those crass pop elements seem off-kilter and far-off, and an undercurrent of industrial tension seems to contrast with the sunny nostalgia.

Despite also looking back and sideways to grab at strains of disparate genres of music, Sun Araw's music does not have the same nostalgic taint as Rangers, Ariel Pink or Oneohtrix Point Never. Deeply psychedelic, his latest opus, On Patrol (Not Not Fun Records, 2010) looks resolutely forwards, and heavenwards, a cosmic adventure set to slothful funk, stripped-bare rock and trippy dub. Whilst the gloopy synth haze Sun Araw (aka Cameron Stallones - it appears to be a prerequisite for hypnagogic pop singers/musicians to never go by their own names) will immediately draw comparisons with his contemporaries like James Ferraro, Pocahaunted and Ariel Pink, Stallones seems determined to pilot his distorted, noisy funk into the future via sheer cosmic jamming, and his songs are longer, more abstract and spacier than on his previous, more grounded albums. It's telling that while 2009's Heavy Deeds featured a photo of Stevie Wonder on its cover -thus cementing Stallones' love of abstract funk-, On Patrol's meanwhile displays a holographic police car over a futuristic cityscape. Where hypnagogic pop has so often looked to the past for ways to distort modern music, Sun Araw's music creates an ambiance similar to that of Ridley Scott's seminal dystopian sci-fi classic Blade Runner, all watery electronics and pensive futurism. It has me imagining a weird 29th-century bar, where a teleported Hawkwind have been transported from 1972 in order to jam with the robots from Kraftwerk's Man Machine whilst a mysterious funkster freaks out on bass and a lo-fi, grunge-inspired singer blethers blearily like an urbane Sergius Golowin. Weird, I know, but then On Patrol is weird. 


In the world of celluloid, I've been discovering a mini-wealth of low-key, little-known British films that show that, away from the gloss of the Slumdog Millionaires, Harry Potters and other multi-million-pound mega-projects.

And, to get it out of the way, we might as well start with the worst. While Thomas Clay's The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael (2005) is not a bad film, per se, it is frankly objectionable. Having written that, the very fact that Clay managed to make the film, at age 27, and with little financial support, is laudable, and, most essentially, it features some truly stunning photography by Theos Angelopoulos' cinematographer Yorgos Arvanitis. In its subject matter, the film could be defined as part of the British "realist drama" strand that also gave us Ken Loach. But where a lot of "realist" films favour hand-held cameras, natural lighting and energetic editing, the shots in The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael are long and the action slow-paced, with gliding tracking shots that follow the characters as they drift through the grey and glum streets and across the bleak beaches of Newhaven in Sussex. In its grim portrayal of the aimless life of middle England's underbelly, it is stark and troubling. Sadly, the script lets all this down. The character of Robert Carmichael is given central position through the rather pretentious film title, but in truth, until the end, he is but one cog in a sprawling whole, and possibly one of the least interesting characters in the whole film. As such, it's hard to get much of a feel for where the film is going, and with so many secondary characters and hinted-at sub-plots, it loses focus. Sadly, this padding would appear to be a symptom of the fact that The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael is plainly built around two very brutal rape scenes. And whilst one, occurring off-screen with chilling sound recording work, is suitably powerful and disturbing, without cheapening the matter, in the manner of Haneke or Bergman; the other, which closes the film, is gratuitous, over-the-top and unwatchable. The heavy-handed symbolism around the Iraq war ultimately does nothing to save the scene from being distasteful and indeed completely unneccessary. In the end, The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael feels vaguely like a very accomplished but pretentious and gauche student film.

But if Cray's debut was disappointing fare, his second film, 2008's Soi Cowboy, is close to being a triumph. Faced with difficulties getting finances in the UK, Clay headed to Thailand to film this low-key, contemplative comment on the contrasting lives of Thai people and Westerners living in Thailand. An overweight Scandinavian film producer lives in Bangkok with his pregnant Thai girlfriend. They struggle to communicate together in English, as he speaks it better than her. She feels he wants sex too much, but he makes good money, is kind and buys her lots of gifts. He struggles to adapt to life in Bangkok, his corpulence suffering from the heat, and he is consigned to being an outsider in his fiancee's country, maybe even to her. This inability to communicate is captured in long, slow-paced shots of startling beauty, filmed in stunning black and white. Following on from the taut angst of The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael, Soi Cowboy's balance of grace and tension is a relief, showing a debt to such Asian masters of the fine balance of zen and conflict as Hou Hsiao-Hsien, Kim Ki-duk, Pen-Ek Ratanaruang and Wong Kar-Wai. The second portion of the film concentrates on the pregnant woman's brother, who works for a sinister mafia boss and is instructed to carry out a terrible job. This portion is shot in colour, bringing the ferocity of this particular shade of modern Thai reality into sharp focus. 

Peter Strickland is another young British film director who has had to look abroad to get his film made, a worrying trend that is set to get worse as the coalition's arts cuts bite, but which was already happening before, as British finance bodies threw their weight behind trying to make the next Four Weddings and a Funeral and took their attention away from more challenging independent works. The result for Strickland was that he was able to make the starkly beautiful Katalin Varga (2009, DVD: Artificial Eye) on a tiny budget in Romania, and still managed to deliver a marvelously troubling and visually arresting film. The superb Hilda Peter plays the title character, a woman from a small Transylvanian village who is thrown out of her house by her husband when he learns their son was actually conceived with another man. Fateful decisions she then takes send her and her son into the depths of the Carpathian mountains on a bloody-minded revenge mission and ultimate darkness. Strickland deftly balances the drama of the pair's journey with enrapturing shots of the rolling hills and dank forests they traverse. As the film progresses, it gets darker and darker, until a truly unsettling climax. A small film, but a triumphant one.

The term "cult movie" is now so ubiquitous that it's hard to really know when a film can truly be called "cult". Do blockbusters like Borat and Star Wars count? Or is the term restricted to little-seen indies? Only rarely does a Donnie Darko-type film, one so unlike anything out there, come along that is so obviously "cult" it cannot be described any other way. 
Like Donnie Darko, Frailty (2001), the first directorial outing of famed 80s actor Bill Paxton, has "cult" status written all over it, but will have to wait for the same kind of recognition, possibly because it's a little bit too dark and ambiguous even for fans of offbeat horror/comedies starring Jake Gyllenhaal. In Frailty, Paxton plays an ordinary widower raising his two sons who becomes convinced that he has been given a mission by God to identify, kidnap and kill demons that are taking human form. Whilst the eldest son (and narrator) objects, the youngest becomes convinced of the veracity of the father's claims and of the morality of his actions. From then on, we witness the horror unfold over these boys' lives as the one man who matters most to them and on whom they depend, leads them into a world of murder and paranoia, with several twists and turns before it all pans out. It's thrilling stuff, part moral conundrum, part horror flick, with a masterful (and remarkably understated) performance from Paxton.

It was a delight to finally get my hands on a copy of the legendary Killer of Sheep (1977, DVD: BFI) by Charles Burnett (who shares the same name as my brother, for those of you in need of an uninteresting but odd fact). Long unavailable (pretty much from its initial release until 2007) due to music rights issues, this seminal film has finally got the treatment it deserves, with a loving restoration and, in 2007, a fair amount of fanfare, with critics worldwide lining up to hail its influence and sing its praise. And it's deserved acclaim, as Killer of Sheep is one of the most important American films of all time, and certainly one of the strongest contenders for the imaginary crown of most influential African-American film ever. Rejecting the garish posturing and gangster imagery of the seventies' "Blaxploitation" fluff, Burnett took the realistic route, using a minimal budget and stripped-down script to give an accurate and gritty portrayal (in black and white) of life for poor black families in Watts, a rundown neighbourhood in Los Angeles. Burnett deftly contrasts the varying destinies of the areas inhabitants, but centres his story around abattoir worker Stan, a man so damaged by the poverty and criminality he has witnessed and endured that he has become something of a living husk, unable to feel joy or love, a man who cuts himself off from his wife and children, even as he steadfastly works to keep them from starving whilst resisting the overtures of the local gangsters. Sounds like the stuff of high melodrama, but in Burnett's talented grasp the film becomes so much more, avoiding over-the-top pathos to deliver a subdued, realistic and poetic portrayal of Stan's often wordless struggles (a shout out must go to Henry Gayle Sanders, who plays Stan will dull-eyed resignation and an overwhelming sense of melancholy). Burnett's most intelligent decision was to contrast Stan's life with that of the numerous kids that hang around the neighbourhood, playing games, jumping between rooftops, causing mischief and throwing rocks. Their games are innocent, but they don't go to school. They smile and laugh, in direct contrast to Stan's downcast expressions, but they are surrounded by dust, decay and the hovering presence of gangsters and pimps. It's a stark message, but the film is not defeatist. A strain of anger, of defiance runs through Burnett's work, most prevalent in the blues and soul songs that make up the soundtrack.

Finally, and on a more esoteric note, I found myself gazing in wonder at the beauty of Werner Herzog's Herz Aus Glas (Heart of Glass, 1976), a film that surely underlines the man's status as one of the greatest directors of the period, and even of all time. If Aguirre, the Wrath of God is both bizarre and dramatic, then Herz Aus Glas is like a confusing dream, a dark allegory that had me as baffled as I was enraptured. As always with Herzog, the images, here of fog-capped Bavarian mountains and shadowy 19th century houses lit by candles and fires, are painterly in their composition and lighting, here echoing Caravaggio or Vermeer. The story, oblique and metaphorical, tells of a village where the production of beautiful ruby glass is the sole major export. When the inventor of the glass dies and takes his secret formula with him, the village descends into madness, led by the obsessive and paranoid factory owner. Meanwhile, the local seer's visions become ever more fitful and bizarre, but how do they link to the travails of the factory and the villages inhabitants? Allegedly, all but a handful of the actors were hypnotised before shooting their scenes, and the performances of the villagers are indeed zombie-like in the extreme, every character having a distracted, distant, haunted look as they recite oblique dialogue and wind their way down into folly of the most bizarre kind. Herz Aus Glas is the most impenetrable of all the Herzog films I've seen, but it's Gothic beauty and oddball approach to the art of cinema are uniquely wonderful.

Praise in passing as well to The Piano Teacher (2001) by eternal genius Michael Haneke, a violent and disturbing journey into sado-masochistic impulses, sexual dominance and degrading love; and to Sam Peckinpah's Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974), a wild and grim western/crime crossover that almost certainly had caught the eyes of the Coen Brothers and Jim Jarmusch at some point. It's surely Peckinpah's greatest achievement, and a cult classic. Both are classics, essential viewing, but I'm not sure I could really do their complexity and accomplishments justice. Herz Aus Glas was hard enough!

One last word on an essential book for all fans of noise, or for people who want to know more about the place, historically, aesthetically and philosophically, of noise and noises in music, is Noise/Music: A History by Paul Hegarty (mentioned above). Do look it up, it's a heavy read, but enlightening and exhaustive.





Bye for now!!

Great Underappreciated or Obscure Albums 10: Plastic Ono Band by Yoko Ono (1970)

John Lennon has been hot property this year, given it's 30 years since he was murdered by some mentally-defective cunt and that he would have been about to turn 70 in October had the above not happened on that fateful evening.

Between the documentaries lauding his genius and retracing the creation of some of his most famous works, what I found most refreshing was a dramatisation of his 67-70 years, featuring Christopher Ecclestone as Lennon. Apart from its touching insights into the psychology and backgroud of this most complex of superstars, I was pleasantly surprised by the positive light it shone on Beatle John's wife and muse, Yoko Ono. That this was then pursued in an excellent documentary on the recording of John's debut solo album (also called Plastic Ono Band and released in 1970 with a mirror cover of Yoko's) was a truly refreshing change from the contempt, condescension and downright viciousness that has tended to colour most portrayals of the enigmatic Japanese artist. In fact, both shows were excellent at exposing the racism and misogyny she had to contend with, and which still lingers today, to the point that I saw some daft twat, in a review of their collaborative Live Peace Toronto 1969 (released as the Plastic Ono Band, just to confuse us all more), actually asterisk out her name when describing her contributions!

And I will say it straight off the bat - Yoko Ono was and is an artistic genius, and one of the truly exciting experimental artists of her generation. Let's debunk a serious myth: Yoko Ono didn't break up the Beatles (Ringo's comments on this in the above-mentioned documentary are telling), nor did she use John Lennon to further her own reputation. Yoko Ono, creatively at least, did not need John Lennon. Emotionally, for sure, as did he need her. But where her light had been shining brightly in the field of avant-garde art for some time, it was only through meeting Yoko that Beatle John was able to push back his own boundaries and create some truly adventurous stuff, from the brittle "Yer Blues" and the weird "Revolution No 9" when with his band, to the experimental musical collages of the Unfinished Music albums, to the primal screaming on "Mother" on his debut solo album. Emotionally and artistically, they complimented and fed off each other, and whilst his talents were considerable, any appraisal of them cannot be done to the detriment of Yoko Ono. Simply put, she made John Lennon better, and I would be so bold as to say that the material on his version of Plastic Ono Band is superior to 95% of anything The Beatles ever did.

Which puts Yoko Ono's Plastic Ono Band (Apple, 1970) in another dimension altogether. Before putting it on the first time many moons ago, I had literally no idea what to expect, other than that it would be experimental, and that a lot of narrow-minded prigs who love "Let It Be" and "Love Me Do" think it's shit. But no matter how much that definition tantalised me, nothing prepared me for the dementia I ended up experiencing. 

Plastic Ono Band is one of those albums that are singularly difficult to pigeon-hole (always a good thing in my book). When you hear the words "experimental rock", you think the more out-there moments of Sonic Youth, Van der Graaf Generator, King Crimson or The Velvet Underground. To be honest, I'm not even sure Plastic Ono Band counts as "rock" music per se. It has the instruments (guitar, bass, drums) and the drive, but it is somehow "other". I mean check out the guitar that surges out of the speakers on demented opener "Why?". Remember, this is 1970. The only sound comparable in modern rock music at the time was the guitar on "Sister Ray" by The VU, another "not quite rock" band. Sonic Youth, Glenn Branca, Metal Machine Music and Arto Lindsay were years away yet. It's lacerating, off-key, like an electric violin on full volume being dragged over a cutting saw. And who's playing it? Fuck me, it's John fucking Lennon! A Beatle playing like Ron Asheton, only a Ron Asheton who seems to have forgotton how to use distortion, chorus or delay properly. And who's on drums? Ringo fucking Starr! That most-maligned of drummers is thundering out the most unhinged, primeval and untidy garage backbeat in the world, something anchored in the blues, basic and brutal, but with the discrete suppleness of a jazzman.

And you're still trying to get your mind around this astounding realisation, reading and re-reading the album credits, when John's guitar segues effortlessly (and apparently unintentionally) into a series of vocalisations so demented, so unrelenting and so primordial that I do have to admit (grudgingly) to understanding why some people will recoil in horror, and did. Yoko Ono doesn't sing, she screams. Over and over, this high-pitched, rattling wail repeats the word "Why" like a fucked-up mantra, sometimes drawing the word out, at others blurting it out like an insult. It may be a tough sell, but in this one track, released as the Vietnam War continued unabated and America's National Guard was shooting its own citizens, Yoko Ono manages to perfectly capture the pain and confusion of a society going mad. It wasn't enough to ask why the horror and violence wouldn't go away, you had to scream it. Get it out. In our current climate of corrupt politicians, greedy businessmen and ongoing armed conflict, it is still achingly relevant.

By the next track, "Why Not?", she sounds defeated, her voice now a drained croak over a shuffling blues motif. Perhaps this song can be seen as the moment the couple realised the bed-ins and "Give Peace a Chance"-esque odes to peace and good vibes were no longer enough. Idealism hitting the wall in the face of sheer brutality, in their case perhaps some of the scorn and bile they encountered from the press for their starry-eyed optimism. 

Later, Ono brings her experimental credentials to the fore. She's joined by The Ornette Coleman band on "AOS", the most difficult and surprisingly unsuccessful piece on the album, whilst "Greenfield Morning I Pushed an Empty Baby Carriage All Over the City", an ode to her lost daughter Kyoko (who was more or less kidnapped by her father, Yoko's previous husband), or perhaps to the children she at that time appeared unable to have with John, shows her knowledge of traditional Asian music. It's a quieter, haunting piece featuring chanted double-tracked vocals that are downright eerie, while John, Ringo and bassist Klaus Voorman lurch through a funky, infectious and driving tune, like early Neu! slowed down to accomodate a Tibetan monk on vocals. It, and sumptuous closer "Paper Shoes", predate the raga-folk trend of recent times by nearly three decades, again showcasing Ono's adventurous spirit and sense of innovation.

Plastic Ono Band manages to encapsulate not only the best of the rock/avant-garde mixture, but it also stands as one of the very great extreme proto-punk albums of its day, to be ranked alongside Fun House, Kick Out The Jams, White Light / White Heat, Neu! and Modern Lovers. It paves the way for Public Image Ltd, Lydia Lunch, the Riot Grrrls, Sonic Youth, and a whole sleuth of more recent experimental rock and noise bands who use vocals more as an extra instrument than as a way to express redundant lyrics, and who aren't afraid to challenge, surprise and defy audiences' sensibilities. For that reason alone, the damning and downright hateful speech aimed at Yoko Ono and her work should stop, and she should be allowed to take har place among rock and art's great innovators and creators. It's certainly the place she occupies in my and many others' hearts.