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**Please do not reveal artist in comments!**
Hear
**Please do not reveal artist in comments!**
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An Oasis in a Sea of Noise was am immediate must-buy when I eyed it in the racks at the Record Collector in Bordentown, NJ a few years ago. Greasy Pop record's reputation for quality control is almost in a class by itself, but the concept of this local-specific disk is to shine a light on the somewhat neglected scene bubbling up in the South Australian town of Adelaide. With the inclusion of the Mad Turks (From Istanbul) and Exploding White Mice Oasis... was a no brainer. And while these were the names that brought me to the table, I gladly stayed for plenty of others. The Verge's "Here With No Fear" deserves it's rightful spot on a hypothetical '80s Nuggets collection, with Dust Collection follow in similar fashion, but Primitive Painters proved to be the most enlightening winner in the obscuro sweepstakes. Their "Undertow" jangles and pulses with the fresh urgency of some of their due-southeast Kiwi contemporaries on Flying Nun, seemingly informed by the likes of Mitch Easter/Let's Active as well. The slightly more established Garden Path also tap into the Rickenbacker aesthetic, and the aforementioned Mad Turks dazzle with an exclusive cut, "Yet You Wonder Why," while the Exploding White Mice cap this affair off with a raucous rendering of the Stooges "Down on the Street."
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The concept of Laughtour was fairly simple - an eight song record featuring non-LP goodies and rarities from three Sire Records bands who found themselves bundled up on a 20+ date package tour of the States in 1990. I'm not sure who signed off on the song-quotients-per band, but The Mighty Lemon Drops were accorded an entire side of wax unto themselves. Any why would anyone complain when they lead this affair off with an inspired reading of the Standells' cult-classic "Sometimes Good Guys Don't Wear White?" We're also gifted with a decent b-side, "Forever Home at Heart," and a pair of captivating live cuts, including the Lemon Drop's early single, "Like an Angel." The then-up-and-coming The Ocean Blue are also present with a more than solid outtake from their 1989 debut in the guise of "Renaissance Man," plus an alternate mix of the relentlessly jangly "The Circus Animals."
But it's the final artist in this trifecta, one relatively ignored by yours truly, John Wesley Harding, whom dazzles with a double shot of magic, out-impressing just about anything I've encountered on his proper albums. His acoustic go-round of "Devil in Me" leaps off the grooves with the wit and tuneful acumen of Billy Bragg, almost as if JWH was born to be his doppelganger. As for the synchronous angle I alluded to early, when I went to digitize this last week I wasn't conscious of the fact that Harding's second cut here, coincided with the fortieth anniversary (to the day, in fact) of the song's topic "July 13, 1985!" For those of you who need me to spell it out, the paean concerns Live Aid, which a gaggle of us Gen-X'ers are commemorating this very weekend. The song is part flashback, part confessional and wholly spot-on... and I shan't give much more away. Enjoy.
What minimal press this combo garnered during their brief lifespan pegs them as Anglophiles, a la Echo and the Bunnymen and The Jesus and Mary Chain. That's somewhat accurate in terms of depth and approach, yet they couched it in a Yankee pastiche recalling everyone from Galaxie 500 to Guadalcanal Diary. They're wont to dip in and out of a few different styles, yet there's no particular tangent on ...Mood Balcony that you'd deem untenable. The highlights are downright divine - the Paisley-inflected "Windows and Icing" would have done the Rain Parade more than proud, "Breathing Walls, Breaking Glass" scintillates with spindly guitarwork that sounds like it was ripped from Dean Wareham's hands, and "Nowhere Girl" is a wave/post-punk should've-been-anthem that 120 Minutes neglected to shoehorn into their playlist. Am not crazy about the noir experiment, "The Dark Corner," and some of the shorter filler numbers, but don't let that dissuade you from a fine one-and-done LP of (mostly) keepers.