|
Ways to pay:
1. click on the "Add to Cart" buttons beneath each release and pay via paypal (super easy) 2. mail cash (hidden) or check (made out to NNF Records) to 5109 Loleta Ave, and include a note saying what you want. |
||
|
|
||
Concussion Summer NNF130—LP ($13) The greater midwest 'hood is responsible for so much of the U.S.'s most living musics it seems like lately. Out here on the west we tend to get a bit blissed and burnt and, conversely, eastern seaboarders can fall into a condensed-consciousness that sometimes doesn't translate well to those outside their bubble. But in the middle country there's often a rawness that's honest and real and really clears the ears/mind, and for our tastes Ashland, Kentucky's Social Junk are champs at this direct, red-blooded approach. Somewhere between the Bible Belt brutality of Sword Heaven and Tusco Terror and the sticky southern electronics of Pax Titania or even recent Wet Hair, SJ navigate an interesting interzone, boiling together ominous loops, mangled sax, heavy riffs, various vocal moods (pissed, lost, aggro, angelic), militant tribal drumming, and a mess of electric atmospheres into something genuinely gripping and wholly their own. And right on the eve of both a behemoth bi-coastal tour (six weeks long!) and a brave re-location to CA's Bay Area, we are amped-as-shit to announce their vinyl debut after a million killer limited tapes and splits. Concussion Summer rumbles through noisy drum circles, hypnotic thrash, and even a couple creepy ballads, with Noah Anthony and Heather Young's co-dependent chemistry channeled into eight concise hybrid pieces of perfect/classic JUNK. High-time, and fully worth the wait. See them soon. Black vinyl LPs in jackets with artwork by Hair Police's Robert Beatty. Edition of 435. |
||
NNF129—CS ($6) Two bleak teams pass the death pipe across this black lake of a tape, and the mood – at best – runs from dread to dead (or undead, same vibe). Robedoor's "Terminal Abomination" finds them grappling their recent song-form style with bass, drums, and slime, a heavy metal swamp-thing crawl that drips and riffs from the depths to deeper depths. A strident stalk across new weird wetlands. The B side is a suite of songs from southern lord Husere Grav, who operates from more of a bedroom black metal/death drone perspective, utilizing buzzing guitar, tomb tones, and the occasional drum machine plod to convey his message of relentless misery with strange elegance. Past self-released CDRs like The Great Empty and Stay Asleep have mapped similarly cursed terrains, but his five queasy pieces here are easily among his most cold and cutting ever laid to tape. On pro-dubbed cassettes. Edition of 150. |
||
I Turn Into You NNF125—2xLP ($20) Most musical matters seem to cycle through rise/crash wave patterns of popularity and lately it seems that the duo formation is for some reason at the crest of its particular prevalence/relevance. Perhaps it's something to do with the faster psychic communion that births between a pair (vs a 5+ gang-style band). Or maybe it's just to save on gas $$. Either way: very few fringe duos of the 2000s have succeeded in so fully utilizing the witchy, wordless, and wondrous bond of the twosome formation as Scorces' twin figureheads Christina Carter (also of Charalambides, Bastard Wing, etc) and Heather Leigh Murray (Taurpis Tula, CEO of Volcanic Tongue, more). Their early incarnation as East Texas fried-folk loners instantly struck a chord in clued-in heads for both its bold formless experimental moods as well its instantly gripping emotional power. Their 2003 masterpiece on Eclipse, Vivre Avec La Bete, captured their magic craft perfectly, and in retrospect has definitely cast a heavy influence over a whole host of today's underground's voice-based lonesome drifters. So it is with amplified honor that we offer up this latest tome of spells unearthed from the Scorces' vaults: I Turn Into You. Nearly 70 minutes of pedal-steel guitar tendrils, basement dust, whispered melodies, enchanted strings thrummed against the quiet, and possibly the planet's single intensest dual free-crooning chemistry (as anyone who caught one of their Fall '07 opening sets on the solo Thurston Moore tour can attest) sprawled across four spectral sides of black vinyl. All tracks were recorded several years ago back at Charalambides HQ in Houston, TX by psych-guitar journeyman Tom Carter, and they've aged like oil paintings (cracking, majestic, immense). Housed in embossed, metallic ink jackets designed by Marcia Bassett (with a racy poem by the Scorces' ladies on the back), plus an 11x11 insert with info and a live shot. Edition of 500. |
||
Mythical Beast NNF122—12" ($12) This fair pairing has been in the wings for a few years now by our count, but tripped things come to those who wait, so better late-as-shit than never. Cloudland Canyon have been spanning geographies (Brooklyn, Germany, Memphis) and genres (krautrock, drone, psych-pop) since at least 2002, but only recently has their technological studio-sorcery began to gather steam and affect the more far-flung populations (powered in no small part by their partnership with Kranky Records). Anyone who's gotten lost in CC's latest, Lie In Light, knows this duo is currently at the pinnacle of their potency, and their offering here ("Harvest Hunt") is a fantastic mechanical motorik ascent into symphonic hypnosis. Comparisons to classic Teutonic psych outfits of yesteryear are warranted but inadequate: this is music of today, for tomorrow. On the flip, beloved Not Not Fun in-laws Mythical Beast return to the vinyl spotlight with two luminous soul meditations conjured during the past winter's grey maze of days. Both ballads burn with Corinne's voice-for-the-voiceless defiance, wind-draped and incensed by Jeremiah and Aaron's subtle electric string energies. Naked music for open spaces, empty skies, endless nights. High-audio 45 RPM LPs (NNF's first!) in matte-jackets with cloud-skull artwork by Blackblack beauty Diva Dompe. Edition of 415. |
||
Loco Hills NNF114—LP ($12) A lot of beloved-by-us artists and artisans icepick out shapely creations from the marble slab of life on a steady schedule, but even within this rarefied realm it’s a real cause for jubilee when an individual/band fucks precedent and totally redefines themselves through a real masterwork. And, in our book (check it out, it’s a good read), Loco Hills is one such touchstone. Distilling down every fried fuzz-groove, tape-loop ghost cloud, and mass-mind motorik psychosis Shepherds have ever let loose into four perfectly sculpted jam-journeys, the language of Loco is a rolling, roiling ride through twisted wordless tongues and hieroglyphic electricity, at once more focused and far-out than anything else in their canon. Mentioning that members moonlight in projects like Meneguar, Non-Horse, and Vanishing Voice is meaningless, this is the Rear House posse’s shining achievement to date and it stands alone. Black vinyl LPs in matte jackets with the same ‘gnashing viper’ artwork of the Release the Bats CD edition. First 115-ish direct mailorder copies come with a bonus CDR of unreleased live recordings. Edition of 500. |
||
Yellow Swans NNF113—LP ($13) Two storied USA duo institutions share war stories across twelve miles of raw wax, and the rest of us are lucky enough to eavesdrop. Missoula, Montana’s Ex-Cocaine continue roping that weird rambling wind that seems to stir the soul and keep America mellow, and the pair of anthems they jam out here encapsulates the whole breadth of their sea-to-shining-sea cosmosis. Plainsong guitar lassoes around loose-limbed percussion flame-fanning, building and burning till a boss bonfire glows on the horizon, then they close out the side with a ragged and earnest Meat Puppets cover that’s become a live staple of late. Real and roamin’. On the B, Yellow Swans channel a supreme slice of psychedelic eulogy that cuts twice as deep with the knowledge that after many a summer (they birthed in 2002-ish) dies the Swan. Pete and Gabe’s DYS saga has spanned the decade and their impending non-existence will be lamented all over the world, so the more 11th hour record books they want to stencil with their electric synergies, the better for all of us. R.I.P.eace out. In a stunning “sexy legs” kaleidoscopic masterpiece art jacket by Religious Knife Maya Miller. Half on bleached olive vinyl, half on black. Edition of 600. |
||
Mystic Induction NNF110—LP ($12) In today’s NEW new age one of the roughest audio landscapes to rehydrate and re-vivify seems to be ye olde ‘rock/roll.’ Too much schooled skill turns it to wanky puke, too much braindead string-mangling ends shit up in a puddle of noise drool. That hallowed middle ground is tough to hammer a stake into. But Portland posse Eternal Tapestry chase worms in that kinda moist soil all day and foggy night, and the two sides of glowing garden shroom-harvest they present on Mystic Induction makes a strong case for their status as psych-rock resurrectionists of the first degree. The LP opener, “Emerald Forest of Peace,” weaves a languid path through ET’s bright life as a short-lived five-piece (they’re down to a trio again now), with mossy bass and blissed drums kissing the slow-motion wah fireworks exploding above in the rain-drenched air. It’s a slow glide that continually threatens to ignite before eventually slipping into electric silence. And on the B jam (“Transcendence”), they make good on the threat of the A, riding a vertical riff into a howling storm of light and Jed Bindeman drum frenzy that leaves the rest of their recorded discography in the dust. Also marks the best use of wordless vocals ever captured on an ET track during the band’s brief window with diva Janina Angel Bath on the mic. Planet rock is no longer a cold dead place. Black vinyl LPs in fabric-collage jackets with artwork by guitarist Dewey Mahood. Edition of 450. |
||
Pocahaunted NNF099—LP ($11) FINAL REPRESS OF 300 COPIES (50 ON PEACH VINYL, 250 ON BLACK - COLORED VINYL IS GONE) Been beautifully blissed on this pairing for months now and we’re amped it’s finally public unveiling time. Christina Carter has trekked around this country (and planet) countless times in the past decade plus, both by herself and with Tom Carter in Charalambides, and the constant gypsy-drifting has weathered her song-stories down into spare, spiral reflections on life, death, and afterlife. Here she lays down four perfect vignettes of acoustic guitar pattern, softly sung desperation, and dangerous intimacy. A beatific bring-down. Sisters-with-voices Pocahaunted handle the B side wax, and their two tracks span the psych-ward spectrum from doomy warpath exile (“Sweat Lodge”) to octave-climbing estrogen ecstasy cloud-tripping (“Silk Fog Traveler”). Both were recorded by Bobb Bruno at Eagle Rock HQ across summer ’07 and cling like cotton to the memory banks. Marbled-peach vinyl LPs in matte jackets with hooded/devoted artwork by Carrie Dietz. Edition of 500. |
||
Occasion NNF098—CD ($11) Hollywood, Florida family/band Max and Leslie Soren have been unleashing their private bouts of punishing ceremonial sludge-gaze for the past half a decade now, and there’s been some total titanic highlights (Between the Dead, Grandeur of Hair, etc). But the grunge swamp graveyard they seem to unearth their moss metal from must be profoundly fertile ground, because each new song-cycle they lay to tape is somehow even more miraculously brutal and shimmering and visionary than the one before it. This phenom holds true for Occasion, The Goslings’ newest and maybe deepest doom/beauty inquest. Eight thundering masterpieces of molten slime riff majesty, nightstalker drums, and soaring-into-the-sun female vox that crush the earth, bleed, and breathe in humid darkness. Ranging from the Slowdive-meets-Skullflower transcendent descent of “Motorcade” through to the quaking basement funeral of “Little Horn,” Occasion is a glorious passage into The Goslings’ hidden holy land. Mastered for optimal audio gravity by James Plotkin, and housed in a swank six-panel wallet-style metallic-ink digipak with artwork by the band. |
||
Dear Robert Hanoy NNF069—CD ($8) All aboard, gang. After 23 months of back-and-forth and waiting/wondering, Zoe and Silvie have finally docked the debut Belly Boat album in NNF harbor, and we are BEYOND happy about it. Dear Robert Hanoy is a scratchy, expansive masterpiece, 14 sung songs of outsider ragtime, rambling European café waltz, and charismatic lyrical chemistry. Influenced equally by Cocorosie, Celine Dion, and Chamillionaire (circa “Ridin’ Dirty”), BB weave piano, accordion, and dueling voices into a freaky, frayed woolen mitten of strange emotions. Put it on, feel weird, throw a snowball. This is a storybook soundtrack for barefoot exploration and natural wonder, culled from years of face-painting, taking pictures of horses, and making best friends laugh. CDs come with full-color 8-panel booklets of artwork by Belly Boat, in sleeves sewn with grunge flannel, strung with grey yarn/clear beads, and flecked with gold dust. Limited to 500. |
||
Blood Venus NNF047—CD ($8) Few dudes understand the Eastern zen of heavy riffing more than Bobb Bruno. The man lives in a literal lair of black amps, black hair, and black metal, and only emerges to eat fried chicken or get wasted at Mika Miko shows. Blood Venus rages this yin/yang vibe to the speaker-shredding breaking point, alternating feedbacker obliteration with passages of complete tunnel vision drone stasis. The rampant guitar slaughter is epicly complemented by Jeremy Villalobos' iron hammer drum moves, which kick from stoner lopes to total crash attack, sometimes dropping out to peripheral cymbal shimmer, all in a sick split second. And you can truly hear it all, too, as the songs were tracked in the studio on serious two inch tape. Nine deafening epiphanies of black leather headbang war, somewhere between Sabbath, Sleep, and...qualuudes. Oh, and no vocals, cause they're too metal for that shit. In jewel cases, with weird blood-tentacle squid-witch cover art. |
||
Pixelated Math Costumes NNF012A/OFR003—CD ($8) Well, the long, lame wait is OVER. Sun Valley/Tujunga teamsters Hello Astronaut, Goodby Television finally re-drop their sold-out old opus, PMC. Howevs, last year’s pizza-punk production has been replaced by a California winter’s worth of shut-in bedroom-studio tinkering/obsession (not to mention a fancy-pants mastering job by J Golden), and now the jams shine like kitchen knives. 11 subtly hostile pop anthems of Evol guitar gestures, Philip K. Dick-style heartbreak, and orchestral post-teen existentialism, rounded out by a rare handful of secret solo recordings. You could call these songs “pretty,” but you’d probably get decked during the Minor Threat cover’s brutal mosh pit. Don’t forget: beauty lies in the middle finger of the beholder. Epicly, intensely, and totally OFF THE CHAIN. Co-released with Olfactory Records. |
||
