YMCA is meant to be heard as a triptych, a product of Licht’s enthusiasm with the then-contemporary work of Oren Ambarchi and Tetuzi Akiyama. The halving of the vinyl-only release into two sides foils its three-part structure a tad, but the record’s evolution is hardly less effective. Ambarchi’s influence lords heavily over YMCA’s first section, a series of tones that fade in and out, like dolphins just visible as they crest the surface of the sea. The intermingling tones become more numerous, crowding each other slightly, though things never quite reach the expected intensity, and the meditative feel with which the piece begins falters, but isn’t squelched. The gentle notes that creep out from underneath these tones do so with a delicate restrain. Licht picks a simple melody that patiently repeats until the remnants of the record’s first section have finally faded away, and by the time side A comes to a close, only minute changes have been made.

Soon after the album’s second side begins, the tones that populated its beginning resurface underneath Licht’s meditative melody. The swooping sounds, more active than in their first incarnation, gently build, encrusted with the detritus of a manipulated delay effect. These “imperfections” slowly become more prevalent, building into a flurry of distorted bluster. Now with jagged edges and prickly tails, the once tranquil tones swirl in a soup of damaged beauty. Looped and laden in all manner of effects, Licht’s guitar speaks in tongues in a multifarious and mangled oratory. The intensity level isn’t consistently high, but when Licht lets rip, the leap in level is enough to startle the unwary listener.

As Licht lets things fade to a more subdued level after YMCA’s brief climax, the wispy trails flying by like ghosts. Light brings thing full circle before the guitar fades away and the audience’s cheers bring side B to a close. The conclusion of the record is what one might expect, and, in general there’s a predictable progression to the whole album. Still, as a document that might’ve been lost in the dissolution of Idea back in 2007, YMCA’s reemergence on Family Vineyard is a welcome one. Though this might not be Licht’s most singular effort, it’s nice to see an addition to the guitarist’s solo catalog, which is, one hopes, a portent of further solo productivity.

Fear Draws Misfortune, despite (or maybe because of) its appearance on Cuneiform, features a more even-tempered Cheer-Accident. The album's not the all out pop of The Why Album, but its twists and turns tend to take forms that shouldn't fluster the seasoned Cuneiform listener too seriously. The proggiest of the disc's selections, "The Carnal, Garish City" moves quickly (and not altogether linearly, of course) through several sections, none of which are particularly easy to digest, ending with vocals that quack as much as sing the song to its denouement. Thymme Jones, the group's ringleader, principal songwriter, and drummer, lends his sonorous voice to much of the album, though additional vocalists are plentiful, often in the form of a unison choir of sorts, something a bit heavenly above what can be a choppy, churning musical terrain below. Anyone who's seen the band live recently knows that that membership in Cheer-Accident these days seems a bit fluid, and, on Fear Draws Misfortune, it shows: the core line-up of Jones, guitarist Jeff Libersher, and bassist Alex Perkolup is frequently augmented by any number of contributors, such as violinist Julie Pomerau, trombonist Mike Hagedorn, and Fred Lonberg-Holm on cello. At times, Jones performs alone, or with minimal accompaniment; on other tracks, the band reaches sizes as large as eight. All this variance is just another sign, perhaps, of how anything goes in the Cheer-Accident world.

For all the group's open-minded penchant for peculiarity, however, this latest effort is performed largely with a straight face. The disc may not reflect the darkness suggested by its title (some goofiness still pops up here and there), but the majority of Fear Draws Misfortune is simply and solidly executed. Whether brimming with capricious energy or unclouded, insistent emotion (or, most likely, more than a bit of both), Cheer-Accident perform with aplomb. "Your Weak Heart," which closes the album, encapsulates this beautifully, moving from a plaintive solo performance by Jones into an increasingly tense crescendo that finally bursts into a vintage prog jam, and back again to Jones, singing along to only his piano. It's a great blend of some of the disc's most earnest pathos with some of its most agile rock, and a great way to close what is hopefully the beginning of a bountiful new pairing of a band and a record label.

The combination of conversational snippets, the sounds of falling rain, acoustic guitar, and a beautifully layered drone could quickly grow tiresome if handled in a way that magnified the oddity of the amalgamation, but rather than try to capitalize on the zaniness of an unpredictable sonic menagerie, Millis takes a more meditative approach. There's a degree of a stream-of-consciousness vibe to 120, but the album feels, for the most part, quite purposeful. Each track on the disc, from the six-minute "(Charcoal Twins)" to the twenty-minute "(All Balled Up)," finds Millis crafting his creations with care, meshing the sounds in such a way that, unexpected or not, transitions feel natural, and rather than some eccentric mash-up, 120 takes on a more poetic feel.

This album is, in a sense, despite its inclusion of some unquestionably non-Western sounds, quintessentially American music, or at least the music of what America dreams herself to be: at times beautifully pastoral, at others hectic, even chaotic, 120 is, at its heart, a music of coming together. The old melting pot metaphor is as questionable here as it is in the case of the U.S.A., for these voices, like those of millions of immigrants, aren't lost within the sound of a greater whole. Instead, they're valuable in their own right, each distinct in its timbre, a vista on an alluring musical voyage that, despite the shifts in scenery, follows a deceptively straight, and impressively constructed, route.

The presence of synthesizers in Emeralds' music has always been a conspicuous one, but "Alive in the Sea of Information" owes far more to 70s synth fetishists like Tangerine Dream than many of the groups with whom Emeralds typically cavort. Other acts in the noise/experimental underground have adopted analog synths as instruments of choice, of course, but few use them in such a way. Emeralds music isn't exactly retro, but its sound is sometimes of a spectral, other-worldy timbre that, while often too roughly hewn to be called new age, certainly makes heavy use of the spacey psychedelia that marked the early forays of the genre. What Happened packs, perhaps, a bit less of a punch that its predecessor in terms of the overall heft of the sound, but its two opening tracks, the aforementioned "Alice in the Sea of Information" and "Damaged Kids" make for some enjoyable and interesting synth-based mind melting. The rest of the disc's five tracks engage in a simpler means of expression, more heavily reliant on drones and repetition, with fewer flourishes bubbling unexpectedly into the mix. The album takes on a more somber tone, save for a formidably menacing latter half of "Living Room," with the trio moving from the colorful palette of the openers to the grays and blues of the rest of the disc. Emeralds invoke an effective pathos, but by the time the slow swirl of "Disappearing Ink" has come to its close, the earlier spirit of the album is only a memory. The tonal dichotomy isn't severe, but a return to the bright environs of the opening pair of tracks might have lightened the mood toward the disc's conclusion, spreading out the album's best material rather than packing it at the beginning of its duration.

What Happened isn't a jaw-dropper from start to finish, but it is a well-rounded musical statement, a cohesive series of improvisations that, whether moving in a more linear fashion or spiraling into unpredictable musical environs, the trio tackle with an impressive focus. A number of releases loom in Emeralds' near-future, and if this disc, especially its openers, are a sign of things to come, it's going to be a good year for these lads from Cleveland.

There's a definite hearkening back to the days of early synthesized electronic music within Adult Life, where the mix remains relatively sparse, and the listener is provided with plenty of time to digest timbre and tone with no fear of whiplash. In these exhibitions of sound, any change in trajectory is signaled well in advance, with new synth voicings fading in and out methodically like an exaggerated Doppler effect, and fans of Giffoni's older work might need Ritalin to stay focused on this disc. Adult Life is far from a snooze though, with its warm analog sound almost tactile in its texture. The cover and disc art seem to imply that Giffoni doesn't want us to stop to smell the flowers, but, instead, inspect them closely. Some are bright and fragrant, others dark and fetid, but there's always something to take in, and sufficient time to do so. To say that Adult Life is a Sunday stroll ignores the somber tone Giffoni often employs, or the challenges that will still await the listener on a track like "This is How You Pull the Trigger," but Adult Life certainly takes a more linear path than most of Giffoni's oeuvre.

Berndt is a voracious seeker of new sounds; this album alone features instruments of Berndt's design, a "Shadow" audio filter that uses spectral filtering to marry a sound source and its repeated self, and Berndt's polyphonic feedback technique. Despite what its title might imply, however, the results of The Private Language Problem don't sound particularly singular to Berndt's work, and the whether his voicings and syntax differ from the norm, the final sonic result often doesn't reflect the unique tools and techniques of which Berndt makes use. The humming clank and clatter of "Grace," the gentle, ragged tones of "Enough Pain," and the unpredictable, flittering swarm of trunacted feedback in "Sounds of Madness" are each interesting in their own right, but not without compare in the realm of experimental music. This is all well and good; were complete novelty in sound a requirement for new music, record stores would be lonely places, but The Private Language Problem is one of those discs that, approached unaware, doesn't always reflect the unusual means of its creation in the final sound. "Older Now," which closes the disc is perhaps its most surprising, not particularly because of the oddity of its sound, but, instead, its familiarity. The Shadow filter is used to warp the output of an acoustic guitar, but the original timbral character of the instrument bleeds through, a rare familiarity amongst more alien sound.

Like the crackling fire largely reduced to sine wave tones in "Dry," Berndt's compositions take sound through transformations, with little audio presented unaltered. The ingenuity with which Berdnt works is impressive, even if it isn't always obvious in the music's final form, and The Private Language Problem shows that even if Berndt is often speaking his own language, he's got no problems communicating well with others.

Recorded at a number of live dates in 2004, Upcoming Events pairs Illusion of Safety founder and longtime noisemaker Dan Burke with San Francisco's Thomas Dimuzio, only slightly less of a veteran, having released cassette in 1988. The disc is compiled from performances over a three-day period, its fifteen tracks covering a great deal of ground, from the icy atmospherics of "In God We Trust" to the sparse glitch of "Transmission." Burke and Dimuzio are inclined, it seems, towards the ambient, and while Upcoming Events has its share of sharp edges and grit, there's a hum, drone, or tone at the heart of nearly every track. Cloudy static often drifts in the background, setting the tone for the incredibly textural manipulations that tend to come to the fore. The contributions of the duo mesh with the ease usually produced by years of collaboration, and while distinct voices are obvious, that they're being improvised simultaneously by twoseparate musicians is far less so.

So while things aren't as "eventful" as those chipper chaps on the cover might suggest, Upcoming Events feeds chaos in ways more subversive than an all-out riot of sound. Identifiable vocal snippets in "Leave Here Right Now" are some of the few points of context in an otherwise alien confluence of sound sources, and its this unfamiliar feel that makes for the disc's most compelling arc. Burke and Dimuzio's digital soundsmithing doesn't often hit the listener like a club to the head, but its disorienting effects tend to sneak up on the listener, and pack a punch all its own.

Performed almost wholly on twelve-string acoustic guitar, Live Journal... is bookended by "Anxious" and "Bones," which were commisioned by Diana Crum in 2007. In each, multi-tracked guitar is layered and blended to create quilts of disorienting sonic intersections. On the former, Forsyth opts for a steadier course, while the latter moves in a patchier fashion, its individual threads widely spaced in opposition to the opener's density. The album's innards are a touch more straightforward, tending to find Forsyth working in folkier territory, with economic performances of solo guitar (and, at times, unobtrusive percussive timekeeping). "Absurdly
Beautiful Kinetics" is a jarring exception, opening with a furious strumming that doesn't let up until nearly halfway through the track. The spartan, rhythmic chords that plod through the rest of the song have the same minimalist underpinnings explored elsewhere on Live Journal..., an album that is based largely on repetition, at times almost relentlessly. Forsyth keeps things moving, though there's little divergence from his well-defined paths.

Anyone who has ever driven through Ohio can attest to the fact that picturesque scenery can lose its luster after a while, and a few of Live Journal...'s tracks might suffer from this same phenomenon. Still, the disc isn't a bore, and on the twelve-minute "Contrarian's Lament," the album's longest (though most satisfying) track, Forsyth stretches things out beautifully, with a stark simplicity that's more babbling brook than storming river, but no less enjoyable for it. It's an alluring composition that belies the tender touch of Forsyth; the cover, reminiscient of his homeland's flag echoes the strain of Americana on the track, and the album as a whole. One can't be certain when Forsyth's next solo effort will drop, and given his tendencies its entirely possible that this album might be an anomaly within his discography, but its an unexpected departure to be enjoyed nonetheless.

Soft Walks doesn't move in a hurry; the songs drift by with a languid drawl, moving in straight lines, but not without a good bit of rambling along the way. The band loosen the nuts and bolts of their rootsy rock to create a ramshackle approximation of a good ole sound. A warm rusticism spans the disc, from the beauty of Turner's slow burn balladry to the group-sing choruses that might sound cheesy if they weren't so damn endearing. One of three untitled instrumental tracks is one of the album's rare ventures into the abyss of abstraction, though it is decidedly in the minority here, an out-of-place departure that serves as an interruption of the disc's momentum more than anything else. The hazy cacophony that interrupts "The Truth" and the kraut-ish beat that pulls it back into line aren't exactly in harmony with the rest of Soft Walks, either, but the shift seems more organic, a natural, if unexpected appendage of the track's plodding first movement. Tracks like "Wild Spring" are the album's highlights, however: Turner's songwriting here is best experienced unfettered, and while the world-weary tone of the disc's darkest passages isn't without effect, it's the bright and rollicking moments, uptempo and optimistic, that are Soft Walks' most satisfying.

It's not likely that Turner will keep this up for long, and Warmer Milks will likely be knee deep in some manner of wrecked backwoods improv, but this batch of Milks is one to check out, before the ever nomadic aesthetic of the band is on the move again.

That Solar Bridge is impressive should be no grand surprise to those with their ears on the tracks, as it were, over the past few years. However, the dense, layered sound that Emeralds have typically endeavored to create is in its finest form here, spread over two tracks and twenty-six minutes. A clean, clear recording exhibits individual sounds with a clarity that enrichens the mix; singular voices are isolated within the drone as the guitar, synthesizers, and effects coagulate into a beautiful din. One is struck almost immediately by the heft of the sound, as "Magic" roars to cruising altitude, its celestial glimmer dark and rough at the edges. The Moog-ish synth tones that twist and squiggle at the track's center diminishes slightly its stoic gravity, but there's little that has the potential to bring the music back to earth. "The Quaking Mess" is even more active, the synthesizers and guitar creating a writhing mass of sound over another deep drone before a quick crescendo pulls the track into a viscous glacier of sound. Save for the obligatory fade, Solar Bridge closes at its most intense, with little room for the ominous denouement that finishes things off.

Many of Emeralds' peers are noisemakers of a tumultuous pedigree who love nothing more than to loose havoc on the ears of their audiences, but these lads do things differently, with a control of the sound that is the understated strength of Solar Bridge. No matter how far out the music gets, Mark McGuire, John Elliott and Steve Hauschildt have things well in hand, molding the music with purpose and patience. Though they've not previously released a full-length cd, it's a stretch to call Solar Bridge Emeralds' debut, given the length of their discography. Still, it's an formidable first for this as-yet relatively young trio. One can only hope this isn't some sort of high water mark, but one noteworthy step in an ascending arc.

The single track that comprises Walchturm Solo begins with Weber create a creaking cacophony, like a chorus of doors in an old boat's undersea cabin being opened and closed in a collection of groans and squeals. Weber's concentration on the diverse textures of his instrument remains a near constant throughout the album. An interlude of pizzicato plucks and percussive slaps gives way to bowing that hints at a repetitive melody that is never birthed, with the almost tactile sound of the bow rubbing the string more important than any specific note that might resonate. It may be the character of the room in which Weber performed, or perhaps the means of Kahn's recording, but the bass sounds wonderfully deep, its lowest emanations sounding forth with a titanic rumble. Work higher on the neck elicits a rich, reedy texture, though Weber seems dispositioned to the nether regions of his instrument's range. One can practically hear the physical form of the instrument explored in detail by hands and bow. The disc isn't especially brief, but there's little in the way of long-windedness within; Weber takes the time to explore the different facets of a sound or technique, but doesn't linger too long.

He may not be a big name amongst players of his big instrument, but Christian Weber's made one of the more interesting solo bass albums to hit these ears in recent years. He explores the many voices of his instrument without giving in to the indulgences that can strike the soloimproviser, and what might be Walchturm Solo's best quality (aside, perhaps, from the character of its fidelity) is the way that Weber takes his time. He's not exhaustive, but Weber knows just how long to tarry in one spot or the next, making for a journey that moves along at just the right pace.

At the heart of The Progeny of Flies is an ominous darkness. On "Eggs" and "Metamorphosis," which open and close the proceedings, things are more direct in the form of dense, sometimes heavy tonal clusters, but the intervening tracks, "1st to 3rd Instar" and "Pupa," Liles and Menche opt for a sparse pairing of acoustic instruments (piano, strings, and drums) over far more subtly rumbling tones and drones. The latter approach may be the less immediately forceful, but its foreboding effect lingers longer in the mind. Liles and Menche are a touch dramatic at times, though an emotional component is a welcome addition amongst what might could have been sterile sonic experiments. The somber mood of "1st the 3rd Instar," provided by the piano, is an odd choice to represent a stage of great metamorphosis in the life of a fly, though one gets the feeling that either Liles and Menche view this assumption of a new form as a decidedly forlorn time, or, more likely, that there's little to be gained in attempting any sort of literal reading of the sounds on the album in concert with the stages they represent.

"Metamorphosis" is the disc's most striking track, taking its name to heart in a slowly shifting progression that builds from sparseness into a claustrophobic cacophony of interwoven drones before coming to a close with the sound of the album's namesakes, the fly finally reaching its mature adult form. The buzz of the fly takes on an threatening tone, and that Liles and Menche are able to imbue the appearance of an animal little more than a pest with such foreboding is a testament to the atmosphere they spend the whole album constructing. The Progeny of Flies isn't the flashiest of releases, but its impact is one that relies on more understated entreaties. Like a persistent fly flying about the plate of a diner, The Progeny of Flies doesn't behave with any undue bravado, but once enters the consciousness, the listener will have a hard time ignoring its persistent effect.

At the heart of The Progeny of Flies is an ominous darkness. On "Eggs" and "Metamorphosis," which open and close the proceedings, things are more direct in the form of dense, sometimes heavy tonal clusters, but the intervening tracks, "1st to 3rd Instar" and "Pupa," Liles and Menche opt for a sparse pairing of acoustic instruments (piano, strings, and drums) over far more subtly rumbling tones and drones. The latter approach may be the less immediately forceful, but its foreboding effect lingers longer in the mind. Liles and Menche are a touch dramatic at times, though an emotional component is a welcome addition amongst what might could have been sterile sonic experiments. The somber mood of "1st the 3rd Instar," provided by the piano, is an odd choice to represent a stage of great metamorphosis in the life of a fly, though one gets the feeling that either Liles and Menche view this assumption of a new form as a decidedly forlorn time, or, more likely, that there's little to be gained in attempting any sort of literal reading of the sounds on the album in concert with the stages they represent.

"Metamorphosis" is the disc's most striking track, taking its name to heart in a slowly shifting progression that builds from sparseness into a claustrophobic cacophony of interwoven drones before coming to a close with the sound of the album's namesakes, the fly finally reaching its mature adult form. The buzz of the fly takes on an threatening tone, and that Liles and Menche are able to imbue the appearance of an animal little more than a pest with such foreboding is a testament to the atmosphere they spend the whole album constructing. The Progeny of Flies isn't the flashiest of releases, but its impact is one that relies on more understated entreaties. Like a persistent fly flying about the plate of a diner, The Progeny of Flies doesn't behave with any undue bravado, but once enters the consciousness, the listener will have a hard time ignoring its persistent effect.

At the heart of The Progeny of Flies is an ominous darkness. On "Eggs" and "Metamorphosis," which open and close the proceedings, things are more direct in the form of dense, sometimes heavy tonal clusters, but the intervening tracks, "1st to 3rd Instar" and "Pupa," Liles and Menche opt for a sparse pairing of acoustic instruments (piano, strings, and drums) over far more subtly rumbling tones and drones. The latter approach may be the less immediately forceful, but its foreboding effect lingers longer in the mind. Liles and Menche are a touch melodramatic at times, though an emotional component is a welcome addition amongst what might could have been sterile sonic experiments. The somber mood of "1st the 3rd Instar," provided by the piano, is an odd choice to represent a stage of great metamorphosis in the life of a fly, though one gets the feeling that either Liles and Menche view this assumption of a new form as a decidedly forlorn time, or, more likely, that there's little to be gained in attempting any sort of literal reading of the sounds on the album in concert with the stages they represent.

"Metamorphosis" is the disc's most striking track, taking its name to heart in a slowly shifting progression that builds from sparseness into a claustrophobic cacophony of interwoven drones before coming to a close with the sound of the album's namesakes, the fly finally reaching its mature adult form. The buzz of the fly takes on an threatening tone, and that Liles and Menche are able to imbue the appearance of an animal little more than a pest with such foreboding is a testament to the atmosphere they spend the whole album constructing. The Progeny of Flies isn't the flashiest of releases, but its impact is one that relies on more understated entreaties. Like a persistent fly flying about the plate of a diner, The Progeny of Flies doesn't behave with any undue bravado, but once enters the consciousness, the listener will have a hard time ignoring its persistent effect.

Led by guitarist Barry Greika, Orange played a mix of standards and Greika's originals, laced with extended free improvisations that lasted, Flaherty recalls, up to forty minutes. In the Midst of Chaos, recorded (for the most part) after the quartet's demise, largely abandons composed material in favor of improvisation, but, despite the album's title, it's not always the freeform freakout that one might expect. Greika and Flaherty, along with bassist Bob Laramie and drummer Glenn "Hobbit" Peterson may not be the most revolutionary force jazz had to offer in the late seventies, but In the Midst of Chaos was jarring enough to listeners to elicit some choice reactions (Flaherty tells of one fellow musician who felt a need to defenestrate the disc, and says friends returned their copies in disgust). It might be hard to fathom, given the gusto with which he's know to play, but Flaherty often isn't at the forefront of Orange's music, which tends to focus more on Greika and Laramie. Mixed to the front, the duo make the album's most forthright statements, often in bright, clean tones, with Greika perhaps the more loquacious, though Laramie doesn't often fall back on the conventional keeping of rhythm, the bass happy to meander freely almost as often as its six-stringed counterpart, just as likely to contribute melodically as it is rhythmically. Flaherty and Peterson aren't as diverse as their compatriots in terms of style and timbre, but they're certainly no slouches.

What is perhaps most surprising about In the Midst of Chaos is its exhibition of the many faces of Orange. A track like "And Then She Appeared in the Midst of Chaos" give the listener what they expect: frenzied flurries from the bass and guitar, with Flaherty wailing in the background, and the Hobbit scurrying somewhere beneath, but it shifts gears halfway through and grows a tad more contemplative. This is hardly the only (or best example) of Orange's many colors; "The Liquid Nature Of" is three minutes of a dreamy haze, and "Release From" is all crescendo, heedlessly building into cacophony before dissolving into a Martian landscape of echo and swirl. "Broccoli" is the album's most straightforward track, devoid, by all appearances, of Flaherty's bluster, but it's followed in short time by "Sunset Beyond the Safety," which hints at fusion and new age tendencies, then delves into a sparse clatter that's further out than nearly anything else on the disc.

Flaherty fans will flock to this disc to hear the artist as a young(er) man, but In the Midst of Chaos is far more than a historical curiosity. Listeners thirty years ago might not have known what to make of it, but Orange's sound has aged well, and it's more than simple chronology that makes this disc a new found highlight in Flaherty's discography.