Blogarhythms

My hands are still a little dirty from handling White Denim’s skuzzy, grunge-encrusted, avant-leaning, garage-born Party-Pop yesterday. And since I already plan on futzing around with more “old junk” in the musical “garage” tomorrow I figured I’d keep things grime-coated and messy today as well.

Today’s featurees might be more suited for household areas other than the garage though. Like the musty basement with the old couch and the corner some relative tried to turn into a “hip” bar. Or the dusty, possibly haunted, attic hideaway with the secret trap-door and the window leading out to the roof from whence you could spy on neighbors and star at the stars.

If we head down into the basement I think we might find Away With Meloncholy, the new LP from enigmatic UK-based duo The Natural Yogurt Band, on the platter of the ancient hi-fi housed there. I don’t use the term “enigmatic” lightly either. There’s no information about these dudes anywhere! Even their label, Jazzman Records, claims their demo was sent in without a bio, a photo (which they still seem to be lacking), or any sort of hypemaking information. In that respect they’re not unlike the mysterious Clutchy Hopkins — and even make similar music; a fusion of Funk, Jazz, Soul, breaks, Psych, Dub and primitive Electronica — but without a colorful backstory of any kind.

Raw, retro-leaning, lo-fi analog instrumental breakbeat Jazz-Funk is what Away With Meloncholy is all about. If you like gritty drums and gut-rumbling bass look no further than opener “Chapter One,” “Lament for Piano,” “Chit Chat,” “Better Days to Come” and “Thoughts,” where the bacteria-cultured twosome’s grinding low-end groove and snappy barrage of sticks on skins are topped with severely panned organ grunts and bleats, reverb-drenched vibes, sultry flute trills and ethereally chiming electric piano chords. These are moody, cinematic jams that recall Cannonball Adderly at his Soul stirringest, his Capitol compatriot David Axelrod, Ramsey Lewis, Bob James, Galt MacDermot, The Meters, S.O.U.L., the Harlem Underground Band and their ilk and can go head-to-head with the likes of the aforementioned Clutchy Hopkins and Madlib in his YNQ guise.

They don’t stop there though, freaking soulful Afro-Latin Jazz vibes on “Latin Illusion,” dubby Psyche-Funk on “Soft Cheese” and “Broken Rose” and synthy library record breaks on “Space Echo.” The result is a record that’s part space-age Lounge music, part bump-n-grind dance party, part meditational “mind-music” and all stoned Funk.

The Natural Yogurt Band “Lament for Piano”

Chicago based collective Icy Demons‘ music could easily be qualified as “stoned” in its own unique way as well. The music on their new LP Miami Ice is undeniably Jazzy, but it’s got more in common with the progressive sounds of Krautrock than it does vintage Funk. It’s still funky though, twisting angular riffs, jagged chords and icy synth shards around warm keyboards, atmospheric drones, softly lilting melodies, ebullient rhythms and an angelic chorus. Most of all it feels excitingly hazy, like a warm, dark attic space used for storage; welcoming and familiar for its tepid climate and the lingering aroma of decaying memories, but creepy and uncomfortable because it’s a place of abandonment and the unknown, and the air is thick with dust which at any time can  instigate explosive coughing fits.  “What’s that noise?”  “Who’s touching me?”  Then a box gets moved and a shaft of light rips through the darkness filtered through the floating speck clouding the air…

The humid air billows up those dust clouds in a most inoffensive way on “Summer Samba,” a bouncing Latin-Jazz ode to Summer days that glows orange, red and pink like the clouds of the horizon as the pitiless Summer sun sets in the distance. The too-short intro “Buffalo Bill,” with it’s cheesy synthesizers, crashing cymbals, uplifting piano figure and hand-claps sounds like Electronica pioneer Gershon Kingsly jamming with a trio of Free-Jazz flower children in an effort to create an epic Gospel-Soul backing track for Nina Simone to blow over. “Centurion” flips the script on some pseudo-Kraftwerk shit with a pulsating drum-machine beat, vocoded vocals, thrumming synth-bass and layered synths. And closer “Crittin’ Down to Babas” turns everything on it’s head with a thumping Post-Disco throb, catchy chorus and slightly askew spoken/rapped vocals about a frantic trip to a favorite eatery.

Icy Demons “Summer Samba”

Stoners get the munchies, right? Yeah, I think I have these dudes pegged. They’re still suitable for any retro-futuristic bachelor-pad scene, they’re danceable in a spastic way, and they have their trance-inducing mental moments. But unlike The Natural Yogurt Band’s nasty basement Funk I think Icy Demons’ awkward art-jams are geared more towards the college dropouts hanging out in the attic discussing philosophy, independent films and rare imported vinyl between puffs under the attic’s angled ceilings.

What do I know about all this multi-room, multi-floor house stuff though? I live in an apartment for chrissake!