John Fahey, Requia (side A)

1968's Requia has an oddly divided personality.  Side A closely resembles Fahey's other 1968 albums: The Voice of the Turtle and The Yellow Princess.  On it, he stretches his refined and developed folk playing into more extended structures.  While his guitar playing is careful and precise in defining tempo and structure, it also shifts drastically within a track, from section to section.  Tempos drastically change, and overt melodies will alternate with more droning and vaguely raga-like sections, all within one piece.  Side B, in contrast, departs radically from any of his other work in that era.  Most of the side is filled with a four-part piece, "Requiem for Molly", which is constructed primarily with found recordings.  Tape music does not fall neatly in line with Fahey's reputation or expertise, so the results resemble neither Fahey's other work nor much else in the tape music tradition.  He does play a bit of acoustic guitar to accompany this work, but its role is more accent than foreground.  The music is unusual and original, and it captures parts of Fahey's creative personality rarely heard on record.  The cover image is a portrait, but not a close-up, and Fahey holds a guitar in it — it matches side A nicely, but feels incongruous when coupled with "Requiem for Molly".

Peter Brötzmann, Wolke in Hosen (side A)

1976's Wolke in Hosen appears to be Brötzmann's first solo album — the cover merely states that it is solo, while the title appears on the center sticker of the vinyl.  Most tracks feature a lone reed instrument, but "Piece for Two Clarinets" and "Piece for Two Clarinets II" feature overdubs, as is evident from the titles.  While Brötzmann moves between reed instruments from track to track, the pauses between tracks are so short that the album sides give the feel of a continuous take.  Each track does have an internal logic — some evolve in a linear fashion, while others alternate back-and-forth between ideas.  While most of the concepts are abstract, there are occasionally folk-like melodies, which might be ironic in intent, and even a martial rhythm.  The album ends with a piano bit too, which seems purposely humorous, after so much serious and intense performance.  When clearly audible in a solo setting, Brötzmann's ability to coerce complex harmonic overtones from his saxophone is especially impressive, though sometimes it seems almost overwhelming when placed in such a stark context.  It's easy to forget the physical nature of tape recording in this era, but the empty spaces on this album leave print-through unavoidably audible.  The primitive construction of the cover design emphasizes these elements of Brötzmann's playing over the subtle beauty which is also obviously present.

Califone, Stitches (side A)

While still created under the name Califone, 2013's Stitches feels more like a Tim Rutilli solo album.  The cast of performers varies wildly from song to song, with appearances by familiar names like Ben Massarella, Wil Hendricks, and even Tim Hurley, surrounded by many new collaborators.  Rutilli's songwriting and singing remain strong, and his distinctive personality shines through.  The collaboratively layered rhythms, which often led to chaos on 2003's Quicksand / Cradlesnakes, and which percolated subtly but constantly on 2009's All My Friends are Funeral Singers, now show up infrequently.  Even the most propulsive moments, like the long outro of "Frosted Tips" feel much more controlled and methodical.  Stitches isn't void of weirdness — the song structures still intertwine conventional forms with Rutilli's personal, poetic vision, and synthesizer squiggles bring an element of grit amidst the beauty.  Despite having been recorded across multiple studios in different states, the airy sonic quality barely departs from Funeral Singers, as Rutilli has definitely developed a sonic vision for his songs.  The packaging is impressive, with beautifully blurry, washed-out photographs on both the reverse-stock cover and the printed inner sleeve, but its mysterious quality exceeds that of the more disciplined music.

Natsuhita Hetekata, Ki (side A)

According to the notes on the insert of 1996's Ki, Natsuhita Hetekata are a quintet with names that appear Japanese.  Rumors indicate that the band, who followed this album with the Rei! 10" in 1997, is a concealed side-project of the more-straightforward Finnish rock band Radiopuhelimut.  Ki consists of two side-long tracks which are identified as parts 1 and 2 of the same piece.  The instrumental music typically sits in a steady, repeating groove for a few minutes, and then moves through a brief open section to the next repeating groove.  While there are five names credited, it sounds like a quartet of two guitars, bass, and drums.  One guitar plays through a lot of effects, and seems largely disconnected from the rest of the group.  The core of the music has the other three band members moving in somewhat tight synchronization.  Natsuhita Hetekata are never precise like Circle or Gore, but it's also not as loose or chaotic as Mainliner or the Crawlspace albums of that era.  The recording is lo-fi and murky, which makes it hard to discern the parts played by the psychedelic noise guitar.  The glued-on front cover design is a lot more dizzying and chaotic than the music contained here, but the photocopied quality matches the lo-fi documentation of the performance.

The Cakekitchen, Kangaroos in My Top Paddock (side A)

Graeme Jefferies worked with his brother Peter in the mid-80s to create four remarkable records in the mid-'80s.  They wobble clumsily into and out of traditional song form, with deadpan vocals and primitive recordings emphasizing the group's rough-hewn tendencies.  After Jefferies titled his 1987 solo album Messages from the Cakekitchen, he adopted the shortened Cakekitchen moniker.  These albums gradually emphasized more his melodic tendencies, with an increasingly driving rhythm section.  At some point, though, the Cakekitchen lost much of this drive and volume, and 2009's Kangaroos in My Top Paddock in some ways reverts to the personal qualities of Messages from the Cakekitchen.  Some songs are particularly austere, with focus on Jefferies's blunt vocals — even here, though, his songwriting has matured, and it's noticeable.  Other songs seem to almost call for a more ambitious production, even as it's missing, and these songs often have an odd bossa nova-like beat that reminds me a bit of Mañanas-era Kevin Ayers.  Even with this variety, I find Jefferies's songwriting much more at home in these intimate arrangements and recordings than when he tried to surround it with a full rock band, and this chapter in his work feels to me like a return to form.  The quirky cover photograph and album title feel a bit like a warped take on a rock album, which seems appropriate here.

Günter Christmann, ..off... (side A)

I had been aware of Günter Christmann as an improviser with strong albums on FMP and Po Torch.  Even his first solo album, 1976's Solomusiken für Posaune und Kontrabass finds him playing a series of idiomatic solos — its most unusual quality is his alternation between trombone and bass.  I was thus surprised and amazed to hear 1978's ..off...  While it includes improvisations on both instruments, which are recorded conventionally, these tracks alternate with a series of far odder experiments.  The second track, "armade", is described in the liner notes as "composition for breathquartet and bottle with compressed air", and the breathing is all recorded very closely with added compression.  "po-sau-ne", with its layered renditions of the German word for trombone, reminds me of the sound-text pieces of Nono and Gaburo, more than anything from an improvised tradition — the liner notes here do specify that it's an improvisation.  Crackle box, transistor radio, close-mic'ed and layered mandolin scrapings, typewriter, and tape modulation all show up too.  The result is a crazy and chaotic record that bridges many traditions and does not neatly align with anything else I've heard from Christmann.  The remarkable cover photo, with a shattered image of Christmann alongisde his instruments, gives some hint of the contents, but it's far subtler than the wildly varying contents of ..off...

Basement 5, In Dub (12" EP)

The Basement 5's sole album, 1965-1980, is a fairly idiomatic and very strong post-punk record.  Its most recognizable trait might be vocalist Dennis Morris, who was better known as a photographer and graphic designer — his racial identity is perceptible in his vocal style, in a genre when most singers were white.  1980's In Dub drops Morris's vocals completely, for a set of remixes of songs from 1965-1980, in a style loosely influenced by Jamaican dub.  The remixes here employ heavy use of effects like delay to create a dense, standalone instrumental.  Where traditional dub plates had overwhelming low-end, the bass here is more controlled, with a more conventional rock frequency balance.  The remixes are interesting and engaging, if a lot more polished than might be expected from the dub reference.  The bassline does hold the melodic center of each track, with a lot less processing than on the surrounding instruments.  The bright colored and iconic packaging leaps out nicely, but it does not closely match the smeary and messy remixes inside.