Bassekou Kouyate and Tartit, The Barbican, 29/09/08

In recent years I’ve probably listened to more music from Mali and Bali than anywhere else outside the English-speaking world. So much so that I convinced myself that the richness of their musical heritage must somehow be linked to the similarity of the sound of their names. There had to be something in that, just had to be. Anyway, I can’t tell you how disappointed I was on a recent trip to Calais. My musicological yearnings were not to be satisfied by a 24 pack of Kronenbourg 1664. Looking through my diary now, the sounds of Mali appear to be pushing themselves to the fore of my gig-going preferences, with this the first of several Barbican events I’m going to over the coming months showcasing the music of that nation.

Approximately Infinite Universe, The ICA, 27/09/08

How camp is that statue? I took that photo last year in Tampere, on my pilgrimage to the home of the wonderful Fonal label. If you haven’t been, I can recommend the trip – Tampere is a lively place, with a bustling arts scene, fascinating museums (the Moomin and Lenin ones are only a couple of blocks apart; they should do some sort of joint ticket), and a terrific local brewery housed in a converted old textile mill. And gay statues too, don’t forget the gay statues. So no-signal’s efforts to raise the profile of this most individual of labels certainly impacted upon me. This is the third time they have parked up in London, but this time they are taking their Finnish caravan nationwide, and hitching an American trailer to it.

Various Artists, N/A An Introduction To Not Applicable (Not Applicable)

I have two simple instructions for you here: first of all, head immediately to the Not Applicable website to download this terrific FREE compilation of the label’s work. Secondly…hang on, are you still here? CAN’T YOU FOLLOW SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS? Go get it now, I’ll kill time till you get back, it isn’t like I don’t have plenty to do here anyway. While I’m sitting here I might tart up my CV, adding “surviving the whims and vagaries of the economic cycle” to the list of unlikely activities (what the fuck is “Ultimate frisbee” anyway?) designed to showcase my well-roundedness that is the “Hobbies and Interests” section.

The Romance Of Young Tigers, I Have Supped Full On Horrors; Ventoux/Years, A Shift In Moods/The Inferno Of The Living; Aughra, Proof Of Dark Matter/Light The Lights (all Magic Bullet)

I’ve never really gotten skateboarding. Whenever I watch the kids under the South Bank Centre (and I do enjoy doing so, despite my mystification) there seems to be less skating and more, well, falling. Trundle, jump, clatter. Trundle, jump, clatter. Repeat to flayed knee. Maybe I’m just watching the wrong dude. Dude. I can’t believe I just used that word. Why am I on about skateboarding anyway? Well, it appears that Magic Bullet have been managing to pull off the trick of being both a drone rock record label and a skateboard shop. Which sounded ridiculous, until I realised that these slow-paced records, filled with a sense of imminent catastrophe, would probably suit my own particular skateboarding (non)style to a tee.

Erstlaub, I Am The Line Drawn In The Sand Between The Living And The Dead (Highpoint Lowlife)

I had just begun to write about this, and how it was reminding me of being buffeted by the bitter North Sea wind on a desperate part of the Scottish coast, when Monkeyman glanced over my shoulder and told me I was wrong. “It doesn’t sound like that at all”, I was informed. “It sounds like spaceships”. Not for the first time, I began to consider the possibility that the wrong member of this household does the writing. I’m starting to think that even the cat has some more useful thoughts on some of the stuff I play, given the expressive way she flounced out of the room when I put this on.

Pivot, O Soundtrack My Heart (Warp)

It seems like a long time ago now, but Sheffield’s Warp Records began as a spin-off from the city’s then-burgeoning steel industry. The manufacturing process was creating all these chaotic, metallic noises as a byproduct, and some entrepreneurial employee came up with the idea of committing this to vinyl, and selling it to an initially confused public. They didn’t stay confused long, throwing money at Warp in return for such classics as Chrome To Daddy, and I Care Because Ununpentium.

John Butcher, Alan Tomlinson, Roger Turner and Steve Beresford at Charlie Wright’s, 14/09/08

For those of you have never been to Charlie Wright’s it is a pub run by an ex-boxer, the kind of guy you don’t argue with when he charges you so much for a pint (£4.50!) that it causes you to spill some on the bar. In fact, you mop it up for him, apologising profusely as you do so. If I’m in the area, I do occasionally pop in for some Thai food though. That was exactly what happened the other night, and it was only upon entering that I noticed various familiar-looking musicians loitering around the bar, and realised that there was due to be a gig. And that I didn’t have my notebook to hand (he says, apologising profusely for the perfunctory nature of the review).

High Places, High Places (Thrill Jockey)

I’m terrified from my teeth down to my talons by the news that somewhere under Swaziland, they are building a machine that will recreate the conditions that existed moments after the credit crunch. They are going to fire subprime vehicles round a credit cycle into each other at a speed approaching the speed of light. Apparently they are looking for previously unheard of particles, including the fanimac and the Bear-Sterns boson.

Kingdom Shore, …And All The Dogs To Shark (Black Bough)

The contents of this elaborate blood red package has sat within or on top of my CD player for the last month or so.  I don’t think Kingdom Shore would mind me saying this: it isn’t the most instantly accessible of records. However, that fact has kept going back to it like a dog to a particularly chewy bone.  Or a shark to a boat containing a particularly chewy Roy Schneider. 

Goldmund, The Malady of Elegance (Type)

Like that rocketbeast made of reconstituted gazelle bits Usain Bolt strolling to umpteen gold medals, or like our lumpier-shaped government announcing flotillas of rafts of measures designed to benefit “decent hard-working families” (so I’m either not part of a family, or I’m not decent. Actually, come to think of it, I really should put some clothes on), releasing the dreamiest of records is what Type have done for kicks this Summer. Following the Peter Broderick and Grouper albums comes this new release from Keith Kenniff, aka Helios, aka Goldmund.