#eli winter

The disc begins in the 17-minute epic, “Arabian Spring” a loose re-interpretation of a piece of the opening track to Don Cherry and Ed Blackwell’s “El Corazon.” The Cherry/Blackwell version, which is the final fragment of a four-song medley, is spare and full of negative space, Cherry’s piano dodging Blackwell’s percussive shrapnel, his trumpet making a brief, incendiary arc amid rhythmic bedlam. You could be forgiven for thinking it mostly a drum solo.

Winter’s take, by contrast, fills the space with droning, blues-y vamps, the drums (that’s Chicago improv mainstay Tyler Damon) a presence, not especially foregrounded. Instead, Chicago’s Gerritt Hatcher steps to the front with a torrid saxophone solo, then Winter himself shoulders in, in a slouching, driving guitar line, kept in line by Andrew Scott Young’s percussive bass line. The piece, as envisioned here, fluctuates like a holograph between jazz and blues-rock, slippery and hard to pin down, but on fire all the way through.

Winter has never seemed wholly comfortable in the confines of the Takoma-style world, but there is some very nice picking on the languid “For a Fallen Rocket,” his finger work eddying and flowing around Wagster’s pedal steel reveries. The combination of Winter’s rapid pointillism and Wagster’s elongated sustained tones makes for an intricately lyrical sound, filled out by drums, bass, piano and, again, Hatcher’s sax. “Cracking the Jaw” is earthier and lower pitched, the guitar growling and moaning like Ava Mendoza’s rock- and blues-scented improvisations. The title track builds blistered tones on rolling waves of percussion, bringing to mind the Dirty Three in its oceanic surge and heave.

The other jazz cover, Carla Bley’s “Ida Lupino” lands a bit closer to the source, the melody recognizable though voiced through the pitch-shifting intonations of pedal steel. It’s not jazz, not rock and certainly not Fahey-style picking, but vivid and exciting all the same.  

Colin Miller — Haw Creek (Ruination)

Colin Miller’s songs come from far away, from a physical, temporal, emotional remove, like bits of colored memory or the line from a book that meant something once, but you now can’t quote exactly. The North Carolina-based multi-instrumentalist and home taper is connected to the Wednesday orbit, having played on and produced MJ Lenderman albums and produced Wednesday’s I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone. His own music is softer and more indefinite, but very fine. It is less like listening and more like being enveloped by a cloud. “I Don’t Love You Anymore,” for instance, has all the elements of an indie rocker: strummy guitars, punched out drums, and a catchy, tuneful melodic line. And yet it drifts in through the window like a warm breeze, gently stirring your attention as it moves the air around you. “Paper Roof,” too, buzzes with feedback and blistered bass tones, but very softly. What you notice, first, is the high yearning singing, shaded by the fuzz of lo-fi production. You wonder what these songs would sound like with clearer, more commercially viable sonics, whether they’d land with more impact or less. But here they are, gently pushed forward for you to appreciate best after repeat plays, and they are really quite good.

Jennifer Kelly

Niecy Blues — Exit Simulation (Kranky)

The reason the ol’ “this band is like x meets y” trope is both kind of reviled and yet impossible to wipe out is that as a formulation it’s both weak (unless you’re the person the comparison occurred to, chances are good you won’t hear it) and strong (how else to try and describe something as elusive as music than with something so slippery and paradoxical?). It might be better to imagine a kind of topographical map. Then you could try and chart the impossible hinterlands out where the territories of (say) Grouper, trip hop, and Kelela might converge, and somewhere around there you might find Niecy Blues’ first record. Like all such comparisons though, the intent is not to suggest Exit Simulation is mere pastiche or reducible to parts found elsewhere, but to indicate the heady and diverse contemporaries it shares an atmosphere with. Whether it’s the extended reverie of “U Care,” the hazy float of “Violently Rooted,” or the droning shuffle of “The Architect” the result is a debut of striking assurance and depth. Comparisons fail at some point; you really just have to give it a listen yourself and figure out your own map, like Blues has.

Ian Mathers

Bänz Öster and the Rainmakers — Gratitude (self-released)

This quartet consisting of Europeans Bänz Öster on double bass and Javier Vercher on sax and South Africans Afrika Mkhize on piano and Ayanda Sikade on drums delivers spiritual jazz rooted in the gentler music of Coltrane and Ra. The six long (eight to 12 minute) originals, well-recorded before an appreciative but fairly restrained audience, are uplifting and replete with sophisticated soloing, especially by Mkhize. These guys don’t break any new ground, but the grooves are infectious, and what is described in the liner notes as the “high-voltage connection between North and South” contributes to the good vibes.

Jim Marks

Pile — Hot Air Balloon EP (Exploding in Sound)

In case February’s All Fiction didn’t make it clear, the handful of songs from the same sessions that comprise the Hot Air Balloon EP should drive the point home that Pile is a band at the height of its powers. Recent live shows incorporating a few of these songs into setlists only go to further serve that the distinction between what made the cut for their latest full-length and what got left behind is virtually indistinguishable; some of Hot Air Balloon’s fun is in finding where these songs would’ve best worked their way into All Fiction’s track list. The knotty time signature changes and unexpected rock moments still weave and burst forth, and Rick Maguire’s addictive, meandering pathos carries moments you’ll be left thinking about long after it’s over; me personally, I can’t unlodge the descending chorus of “Exits Blocked” or the very specific line on “The Birds Attacked My Hot Air Balloon” where he sings, “I could see your house from here if I’d bothered to look.” It’s these stories in miniature, like Fitzgerald in The Crack-Up or Felix Feneon, that leave their mark most potently — if, of course, you’re inclined to that sort of thing.

Patrick Masterson

Taiko Saito /Michael Griener /Jan Order — WALD (Trouble In The East)

Free improvisation may be a creative space where an instrument’s baggage can be dropped, but this is easier for some than others. Given its limited and highly distinct sound, the vibraphone’s particularly hard to untether from expectation, but Taiko Saito gives it her best shot on WALD. The Sapporo-born, Berlin-based mallet-wielder, who has worked at length with Silke Eberhard and Satoko Fujii, does not totally play against expectation, but she does keep her instrument’s stylistic mandates at bay by shifting between time and no time, swing and no swing, and steering a middle course between the big wall of sound you might expect from, say, Jason Adasiewicz, and the bebop-derived suppression of resonance pursued by an earlier resonance. This CD documents her first encounter with bassist Jan Roder and drummer Michael Griener, who constitute Die Enttäuschung’s rhythm section, and that association will tell you more about their commitment to the moment than what they actually play. Each of the album’s four spontaneously realized tracks is a world unto itself in which chaos is courted, swing cultivated, or slipstreams ridden. These are woods to get lost in.

Bill Meyer

Skyphone — Oscilla (Lost Tribe Sound)

Lost Tribe Sound has been on something of a jag this year with their Maps to Where the Poison Grows series. This new installment by Danish trio Skyphone is an absorbing and succinct 32 minutes in which attention to detail, texture and instrumental interplay account for a lot. Ideas are introduced then carried through to their natural culmination, with each of the three players sounding present and laser-focused in their creative process. Live drum kit, bass, synths, piano, acoustic guitar, and a whole host of other instruments blown and struck are used to bring vivid color. Think early Mum, Opsvik & Jennings, and Kiln. Six of the seven songs here feel just right (centrepiece “Arbonaught” is especially good). It’s only on final track “Will to Change” that the introduction of heavily effected vocals knock things out of balance and breaks the spell. Elsewhere this is masterful and hypnotic stuff.

Tim Clarke

Stella Siebert/Nat Baldwin — 1.30.22 (Notice Recordings)

This live improvisation set from Stella Siebert — mixer, turntable, objects — and Nat Baldwin playing double bass celebrates special techniques and advanced sampling with chaotic jubilation. Sections are taken out of order (we never get to hear the opener), sculpting the set from free play to intentionality. The recording opens with abrupt samples alongside repeated string pressure. “4” has a bit too much piercing sine tone for my taste, but especially diverting is “9” which features crackling vinyl and ostinatos right at the edge between pitch and noise. The concluding track, “2,” is a 23-minute-long session in which Baldwin plays extended techniques against ostinato samples and handmade percussion. The previous material coalesces into an edgy opus that remains varied and imaginative throughout.

Christian Carey

Tar Of — Confidence Freaks Me Out (sound as language)

Tar Of makes music in brief, bubbly spritzes. Heavy on the keyboards, with giddy abstracted vocal parts, these cuts dance across your field of vision and disappear from view. “Ey Vaay,” the single, adds a bobbling saxophone line to the mix, caroming in from the margins as a dizzy pulse of “ba-ba-ba-ba-bas” push the track forward. “Cardinal” clicks and rattles and swells with wordless counterparts. You’ll need to take a breath when it clatters to a halt. The title track is somewhat more song-shaped, with its stabbing snare beat and woozy woodwinds; it seems to be taking on conventional verse-chorus structure when it breaks apart into vibrating, shimmering atoms. The band is a duo from Brooklyn, made up of two oddball artists—Ariyan Basu and Ramin Rahni—but the tracks have the ecstatic density of large ensemble baroque pop. More is always going on than you can really absorb, and you don’t get a lot of time to get acclimated. Blink and these tracks are over. So, don’t.

Jennifer Kelly

Håvard Wiik / Tim Daisy — Slight Return (Relay)

When pandemic protections canceled all the gigs, Tim Daisy proved particularly resourceful. He turned to musicians like Ikue Mori and Vasco Trilla to respond remotely to his drumming, recorded either before or during lockdown, and realized some intriguing music that demonstrated how improvisation is not just an aesthetic stance, but a way to address life problems. But when the shots came out and the numbers went down, he returned to stages and studios, and his relish at being able to tune into an old friend is evident throughout Slight Return. The album’s name acknowledges that Daisy and Berlin-based pianist Håvard Wiik have been together before; ten years ago, to be precise. There’s a charge to this reconnection that affirms the drummer’s excitement at being able to make new music with old acquaintances once more. It sparks a restless vibe, as the two musicians shift fluidly from restrained exploration to unbridled, jointly generated fracas.

Bill Meyer

Eli Winter — A Day Behind the Deadline (Three Lobed)

Guitarist Eli Winter's latest release continues a changing path in his musical career. His early work (meaning “from four years ago”) worked through a blend of Pauline Oliveros theory and Jack Rose solo playing. He's been steadily expanding his sound since then, working with other like-minded artists to produce music that applies the same sensibility to a bigger palette. A Day Behind the Deadline gives listeners a run-down on this movement, collecting five live tracks from fall 2019 through this spring. Winter's typical intricacy in composition now brings in drummer Tyler Damon and pedal steel guitarist Sam Wagster. The collection mostly moves away from Winter's roots aside from the closing solo acoustic “The Time to Come.” The trio tend to stretch out into odd takes on rock or even Americana (though that has more to do with the pedal steel sound that with the actual song structures). A Day Behind doesn't settle as a proper album (and isn't intended to), even if it does cohere. Instead, it plays like a photo album: here's Winter in transition from his acoustic roots to something else. He comes across as restless, looking for something new, and this release fills the gap while he finds that next thing he's looking for.

Justin Cober-Lake

99Letters — Zigoku (Phantom Limb)

Osaka producer Takahiro Kinoshita AKA 99Letters returns with a new collection of industrial techno built from unrecognizable samples of traditional Japanese music. The word Zigoku evokes “Jigoku” the Japanese Buddhist hell and whilst this album is not as dark sounding as its predecessor Makafushigi, Kinoshita says its main theme is death and the afterlife. At times you recognize the tropes of the early 1980s when elements of industrial music crossed over into early electronic dance music often with global world influences, think 23 Skidoo and Clock DVA. Occasionally the cadences of Japanese music appear, a ghostly presence of traditional, folkloric myths. But in the main, Zigoku exists in its own hermeneutic world interrogating both its sources and its environment. The contrast between modernity and tradition gives Kinoshita’s music a particular tension that is constantly building as he probes cultural and philosophic cracks, seeking to capture those small wavering shafts of hope.

“For a Chisos Bluebonnet” brings pedal steel to the fore with Winter’s guitar, the resulting duo entirely in keeping with leftfield country. “Davening in Threes” employs a trio of guitars in an effusive jam. A brief drum solo sends it into a slow, abstract section with aphoristic punctuation. It then returns to the opening’s freewheeling demeanor. In its opener, “No Fear” has creepy, howling vocals and whammy bar guitar playing angular melodies. This is followed by low guitar arpeggiations, guitar glissandos, and propulsive drums. It is like an alt-folk horror movie score. The coda knits a signature Winter riff between the gradually diminishing clangor. 

“Brain on Ice” is quite different. An enjoyable, ambling tune with recognizable changes and an old-fashioned turn around. Once again, pedal steel matches guitar riff for riff and chugging bass and drums fill out a pleasant, yet skillfully deployed, ambience. “Dayenu” features branch, and every note serves as a heartfelt valediction from this extraordinary musician. Midway through, there is once again a pause and interlude followed by a sweet-toned descending progression featuring chord melody by Winter and a fiery solo by branch. The final track, “Unbecoming” begins with solo harmonium, a delicate sound that foreshadows the lyric, autumnal quality of Winter’s playing. A compound tune with a Celtic quality, “Unbecoming” gradually builds into a rousing close with fleet fiddle joining the other instruments. 

The genre hybrids that Winter addresses in S/T mix well, and the arrangements are, to a song, well-crafted and conceived. It appears that Winter thrives with a bit of company. One hopes he will make collaborative albums in the future as well. 

The record’s 22-minute opening track “Either I Would Become Ash” makes full use of Winter’s range. It moves from tentative opening chords into cascading walls of more intense fingerpicked figures. The mood of the piece is bleak optimism, the resilience of gazing on a stark landscape and finding something beautiful still growing there. The performance is well executed and with a range of dynamics, with a feeling of purpose behind each note. At the same time, there’s a looseness that holds it all together and makes the lengthy nature of the piece feel natural. 

A less overtly serious piece, “Maroon,” uses a different guitar tone, a clean six-string electric plus a small band (drums, pedal steel) to create a buoyant feeling. The tune’s cheery melody choogles along with a brushed snare drum keeping time and nylon string guitar lines being added into its upbeat mix. The cut evokes travel and movement, this time in a more plainly positive and joyful mood. The song doesn’t rush towards resolution, giving the musicians plenty of space to stretch out. 

The record closes with a live recording, “Dark Light,” which uses improvisatory riffs in roundabout arrival at its main themes. Here Winter plays solo, exploring the tones and inflections of his instrument. He embellishes his melodies with jazzy harmonies and distorted hums, creating an expansive sonic spaces where the instrument’s sound rings through in full dimensionality. Winter weaves his compositions together with lighthearted ease, pushing traditional guitar sounds into fresh territories.

I suspect it's not just that I've listened more. It's also not that I've written more, which lends itself to more detailed appreciation of more music. The year itself has offered its own new listening context. There's a practical element. As life slowed down, there was less half-listening while trying not to be late for soccer practice. It was easier to be immersed.

Perfectly Imperfect At The Ryman by Margo Price

But it's not just the practical side. This year it was more necessary to be immersed. As the world fell apart (with the US offering its own special version of disaster), music could be both a refuge and a commentary. By the end of the year I was tired of reading or even writing about the way that a given album either responded to the times or helped us out by ostensibly ignoring them. Some of the best music had nothing to do with the pandemic or the protests or the election; some of it did. Some of it began with beautiful meditations on nature or landscape; some of it used volume and unruliness to get where it needed to go.

Sand Like Stardust by Jordan Reyes

So with both more time and more reason to listen, I found an abundance of great music in 2020. For that matter, I simply found abundance. Favorite acts put out multiple albums. Deerhoof, the Mountain Goats, and the Drive-By Truckers all outdid themselves. Margo Price released one of the best album's of the year, but it might not have been as good as her surprise live release on Bandcamp. Daniel Romano’s Outfit (a newly discovered joy) put out so much music that I lost track.

To Be Surrounded By Beautiful, Curious, Breathing, Laughing Flesh Is Enough by Deerhoof

Other artists – both relatively new and relatively not – stuck to a more sensible one-album-per-year limit, but made the most of it. Bob Dylan came out of his neverending whatever to make one of the most stunning albums of his career. Lucinda Williams found a way to harness anger for one of her best. Old 97’s turned album number twelve into one of their finest, with Rhett Miller blending his rock and pop sensibilities as well as he ever has. Plenty of artists at the other end of their discography made great contributions, too, including Jordan Reyes, Eli Winter, and the War and Treaty. Field Works even brought in bats for Ultrasonic, the year's best release.

Okay Wow by Daniel Romano

It would be too easy (and not much of a read) to just start rambling about all the great music that came out of 2020. I haven't even touched on jazz or experimental or even harder edged music. If I think about my list of my top 30 albums, it seems to be missing albums I want to talk about, (and I've already said those things anyway for most of those albums). We're wrapping up a year that – at least collectively – was the worst that most of us have lived through. That some of us managed to find a deluge of incredible music offers little solace these days. Even so, spending time with so much offers more than a balm and a much needed relief in a largely bleak year. It's been its own distinct joy. If there's more than enough to go around, then so much the better.