Shambhala 2025 - When The Universe Manifests In Ironic Ways

I've been going to the Shambhala Music Festival for nearly twenty years now, though obviously not consistently every time. In fact, pandemic shut-down aside, this year had been the longest gap between attendance, my last visit back in 2022. Part of that is due to its rescheduling into late July rather than early August, placing it a mere two weeks after Basscoast. I like both festivals for similar reasons, but after attempting to do both in such a short time frame, I realized that just wasn't feasible going forward. I was gonna' have to alternate, and when my 2023 Shambs Year got scuttled for Reasons, had to wait until this year to go back.

So it goes, and by g'ar, I was gonna' go back with a vengence. Upgraded a bunch of camping gear for the first time in a decade, saved plenty of money to make the trip, booked an appropriate amount of time off so as not to conflict with Shambs volunteering... Only one thing remained: figuring out how I was going to treat this trip as a unique experience.

Sure, there's always some added wrinkle to going to Shambhala that makes it worth your while, but as I said, twenty years is a long time to keep going, and many aspects of the festival have grown same ol', same ol' for yours truly. Which is fine, some things I specifically look forward to when I return to my Farmily. Even something as simple as sitting in the river post-shift, book in one hand, beer in the other, chit-chatting with various randoms also part of Crew Camping. Other traditional things include testing my dancing endurance during the Ragga Rinse-Out at The Village, or putting in my representation among the Fraggles in the Fractal Forest, or closing the festival off with one last chai at The Grove/Labyrinth/Portal. Everything else, who knows, all dependent on who I end up hanging out with, what chosen adventure I partake in, and all the things that makes festivals such as these worth going to.

In a nutshell, I always look to manifest something new and unique with each round, experience something I never have before. And boy, did this year ever manifest a doozy...

At first I offered help to those struggling to haul their gear into the deeper forested areas of camping. An act of pure altruism, which had more than a few confused. But hey, I knew the struggle (used to camp in those areas before Crew Camping became a thing), and had nothing better to do that afternoon, so why not? After, I wandered about various camp zones contributing to trading posts (had a few trinkets and stickers to offer). I used to wander many such camp zones just meeting folks, so not terribly unique, but still doing something other than my usual routine. By third night, word was out that the 'Ultra-Deluxe' camp zone, beside the Crew Camping, was having a one-night party in there, which included crew to attend. So hey, why not go? That's something different!

All well and good, but this was still pre-show, the festival properly kicking off Friday evening. I worked my morning shift, had my river beer, then went to the Ragga Rinse-Out, as was my tradition for getting my headspace rockin'.

Where, not even an hour in, took a divit in the uneven ground at a bad angle, promptly spraining my ankle, and shelving me for nearly the rest of the weekend.

Now that... That was something new.

I'd sustained injuries at Shambs before: blisters, wasp stings, strained shoulders, and a serious case of knee tendonitis after one particular year. To wreck my foot just as everything was ramping up to high-gear though, forcing me into Tent Casualty status like some punter who'd partied too hard too early... Well, I honestly felt more humilated than upset that something like this happened with my years of exepience at Shambs. Indeed, I'm the one always mindful of potential foot injuries others might suffer, removing loose rocks and stray sticks from walking paths all the time. To say I had a serious case of the Mopes Saturday night is an understatement.

Still, by Sunday night, my foot felt 'healed' enough that I was able to at least put in a few hours out on the festival grounds: my representation with the Fraggles in Fractal Forest, my chai at The Grove. Plus, being unable to comfortably walk, I was reassigned my shift work to Kitchen rather than Enviro, which in of itself counted as an experience new and unique, and may do again when I return. Something I never would have considered had my injury not forced it upon me.

A complete wash then? No, not really, though I can't help but feel this year's Shambhala taken as a mulligan. Still, I always say go not for the music and stages, but for the experience. Just never imagined this year's experience would end up so painfully different than past years.

Climb Every Mountain (or at least the one in your backyard)

So I went on a small trip that I want to share some pics of but I've discontinued the use of the one platform that I typically did so on. What do? Oh yeah, I have an actual blog, that thing lots of people used to use before social media drew everyone away. I think some folks still use them as such but I get it, the allure of having more eyes approving of your life style. Well, nuts to that. May as well use the platform I've basically made my content little corner of the internet. Don't worry, this will still primarily be a music blog. Going forward though, I'll occasionally break from the routine, should some life events warrant it.

Before I post the actual pics, some context. I flew north back to my hometown, which may not sound all that exciting, until you remember where I live. Yes, the Pacific Northwest, and to get to my hometown from my current town, you can either fly 750km, take a ferry of slightly longer length, or drive 1,500km. Why is it twice as far to drive? Surely you'd just hug the coast, right? No, because there's a huge range of massive, f'-off mountains between, with no hope of ever just cruising through them.

What massive, f'-off mountains might look like.

Believe me when I say nothing makes you appreciate just how untamed and impenetrable so much of my 'backyard' is when you fly over these rugged, jagged, glaciated alpines than having a crystal clear day to bask in their grandiosity. I think I caught glimpse of them once before in my youth, but so many plane trips along the coast were covered by our usual assortment of thick, rainy clouds obscuring all but the tallest peaks. I feel fortunate that this trip afforded me the opportunity to see them in all their splendour, with skies so free of clouds, I could see the Tweedsmuir lakes in the eastern distance. Couldn't really take pictures of them through a tiny plane window though, hence these stock photos standing in.

Puny humans in the face of inhospitable terrain.

Anyhow, having arrived in Prince Rupert, I felt an itch, an urge. The town is nestled on an island between its harbour and a mountain of its own, a long ridge with a peak of about 700m high. Clearly a mere foothill compared to the average 3000m behemoths that are scattered about the Coast Range, but a twinge of wanderlust pricked at me. That while I'd likely never climb to the top, say, Mt. Waddington, surely I could do Mt. Hays.

What a Mt. Hays might look like.

I'd been to the top of that mountain before, but by vehicle up the old mountain road, or taken a gondola up when there was still a tourist and ski station at the summit. I'd never hiked up it, only the various trails scattered about its base. I felt like this was something I had to do before I left, a last little bit of unfinished business where I spent most of my youth. So I did.

It was something I really should have put more forethought into than just doing on a whim. First, I was going by myself, which most hikers will say is already irresponsible, especially in an area that's rather difficult to access from civilization. The weather was nice though, if cold, so surely some other hikers would be out on this day. Save a lone jogger passing me twice (!), I was utterly alone.

I also quickly realized that this was no casual jaunt through a city park, the incline coming immediate and challenging. The whole path was 4km long, just to get to a 500m 'first' peak – I'd walked maybe twenty minutes when I was already feeling that burn. After about the first kilometre, I was at my highest heartbeat level. I thought of a friend of mine who'd gone into cardiac arrest doing the Grouse Grind, a challenging hike in Vancouver. Paramedics couldn't reach him in time, despite people being with him. And here I was, climbing the backside of a steep-ass ridge, by myself, my own heart-rate maxing out, with no one to watch out for me. Or what if I twisted an ankle, blew out a knee, slipped on some rubble? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

A relief map of the path I took.

Yet, there was something uniquely alluring about the path this day. Rainforest hikes are always special, thick with foliage, seeing nature at some of its most feral – and British Columbia is filled with them. On this day though, it seemed even the mighty Pacific rainforests were tamed by the cold that had settled in. Not a biting, brittle freeze, but enough to put nearly everything in stasis. The various mountain run-off streams that dotted the trail were all frozen solid, yet no snow lay upon the ground. The usual chatter of forest fauna, dead silent. It was a realm locked between its natural state and wintery smothering. I didn't want to go back so soon, and the only way further was up. So up I continued.

Eventually, I came upon something I hadn't counted on, as you couldn't see it from the ground below: a snow line. That delicate barrier where the surrounding air is no longer warm enough to melt whatever lay upon the ground. Where you transition from just a regular ol' hiking trail (challenging though it was) to a realm reserved only for the hardcore. The path carried further, but I wondered if that was enough. I hadn't planned to go this far, much less by myself. I was getting seriously out-of-reach now. Plus, I saw large paw prints in the snow. I knew wolves were known to wander these paths, folks discouraged from bringing pet dogs because of it. How fresh were these tracks? They looked fairly recent, little erosion around their imprint, but given how mild the local weather had been in recent days, that didn't prove anything. I could have turned back then, more than having sated whatever need my wanderlust craved. Still I continued up.

What a snow line might look like.

Some twenty minutes later, the trail finally came to its natural end. A lone bench marked its final destination, with a view that made it all worth it. The Rupert Harbour as I'd long remembered it. The spit of land that's actually part of the mainland. The Metlekatla village clinging to the inside of that peninsula. Beyond it, across high seas, the Dunbas Islands group, the most northern cluster of Canadian islands in the open Pacific Ocean. And, if you look carefully, in the distant mist, the tall peaks of the most southern tip of Alaska's Prince Of Wales Island.

What a view from near the top of a mountain might look like.

Granted, it wasn't quite the 'flying over endless f'-off mountains' kind of a view. Even from that vantage point though, you recognize just how much of nature still claims dominion over large swaths of this planet. That despite our best efforts, there's places that we will likely never conquer, that will remain unspoiled, and are privileged to at least glimpse upon these realms should we be adventurous enough to seek them out.

Okay, then. Cool. Now, about getting back down that damn mountain. Oh dear, this is gonna' do a number on my knees and quads, isn't it...? (yep!)

Rest Well, Papa (an eulogy)

So my grandfather died.

This wasn't unexpected, being 97 years old and all. Indeed, the writing was on the wall at least half a decade ago, when he was diagnosed with degenerative kidney failure. Basically told one day, they would simply stop working, and that would be that. More than enough time to 'prepare' for the inevitable, and even had a couple extra years when he was given over to hospice care. I'm not terribly saddened by this outcome, having said all I felt needed to be said to him well before. I honestly felt more of a 'gut-punch' when news came down that Tony Schnur (Thick44) of the Neebs Gaming crew was taken by brain cancer than when I finally got 'The Call' about the state of my Papa's final breath. One doesn't feel as much loss when you know the person who's passed lived about as full and rich a life as anyone could hope for.

Could I have gone visit him more often than I did before the end? Probably, though you can't really blame me for not. The one time I did, he was having something of a delusion, thinking he was Babe Ruth needing to get to Wrigley Field in Chicago. I humoured him some, even got the nurses on hand to let me wheel him around the block for a bit before he got so angry at me for not getting him to the “fucking airport”, he essentially shut down in a huff. So I caught him on a 'bad day', just unfortunate luck of the draw. Still, I cannot deny it left me shook, realizing I couldn't bare to see him like that again. I'd see him in a more placid state at some family gatherings, but one-on-one? That was it. (side note: the day I did see him having his episode was October 1, 2022, exactly 90 years after Babe Ruth did his famous Called Shot at Wrigley Field – talk about coincidences!)

Some time passed, then I had a... hunch? Intuition? Pent-up guilt? Whatever it was, I felt I should go see him, even if he was doing nothing but resting in the hospice. Sure enough, he was in a deep sleep, perhaps stirring a little as I talked with his wife (my step-grandma) and daughter (married in). We tried to wake him, but he was out like a light. I sensed he was in some lucid dream state, able to hear us but other images playing out in his remaining memories. Before we left, I gave him a single, gentle touch to his head, telling him to rest well. Two days later he was gone.

So why bring all this up on a blog dedicated to covering (mostly) electronic music? Well, this is a blog, right, as in, a platform to share personal thoughts? That was the intent of these platforms, before folks started monetizing it. More than that though, I feel I owe it to Papa, to use this platform to share some thoughts about him, for truth of the matter is, without him, I may not even be where I am today.

Many, many moons ago, I was at bottom's end, having tried to make a new life work and miserably failing in the process. I saw only four options ahead of me: stick things out in the dire straights I was, go back to my hometown with my tail between my legs (another dead-end as far as I was concerned), give my grandpa a call and see if I could try my luck in the Lower Mainland, or join the army. I went with option number three. The timing was perfect for him, as he needed someone to house-sit while they went on a two month vacation. He said I could stay rent-free for those two months, after which I needed to be working and able to earn my keep while I rebuilt my life. I had a job within two days, and here I am today, all the better for it. Maybe I eventually would have gotten my shit together some other way, but at the time, he gave me the lifeline I needed when I had no other.

So, with nothing more than some personals in a back-pack and a garbage bag full of clothes, I took the Greyhound bus to Vancouver. Funnily, hilariously, kinda' stupidly, I missed my transfer in Chilliwack (one of the Fraser Valley stops), and was stranded. I had to call Papa to come 'rescue me' at the bus depot. I have no idea how he knew where to find the Greyhound station, but after nearly an hour of waiting, he picked me up. Talk about your auspicious starts to a 'new beginning'. And it wasn't the last time he'd be there to help me 'start anew' when I had no one else to turn to.

When I look back though, he was always there to help give me little 'boosts' in growing up. He taught me to play Cribbage at a young age, giving me quite the advantage over my classmates in the multiple ways to add up to fifteen and thirty-one. He got me to appreciate classical music, learning how to let one's imagination do the storytelling as I played back some of his 8-track tapes. Heck, my habit of using the CBC Radio as my morning alarm was likely instilled from memories of him waking up early morning, listening to CBC Radio while prepping his coffee and toast. I just assumed that's what you did as you matured.

In the end though, there was one particular life lesson I received from him early on, perhaps the greatest that's stuck with me since I was a wee chile'. It's perfectly fine to be content with your surroundings and your life, no shame in that. Yet sometimes calamity can befall you at any given time, irrevocably changing things you could never have anticipated or prepared for. This doesn't have to be a tragedy though, indeed maybe a change that results in something better, to grow from, with new possibilities before you. He told me this life lesson in the form of a nursery rhyme:


A peanut sat on a railroad track
Waiting for its supper
Along came a choo-choo train...
*choo-choo*
Peanut butter

Dance With The Dead - Send The Signal

self-release: 2014

Spare some time for an anecdote?

The setting, a little post-clubbing afterparty, which is always nice being at when you're not quite ready for a night to be over. I didn't know these folks in the slightest, but sometimes the conversations you're having are just too good to let die. Still, it became clear to me that our musical tastes weren't so compatible. Lots of Drake, Bieber and the like being played, plus they could tell I was one of those guys, who knew too damn much about music (guilty as charged). But that's fine, I was having a fun enough time chit-chatting about other things (and watching the World Cup Final), so whatever music was playing wasn't a concern for me. Until it was.

At some point, I suggested music a bit more 'peppy', to which I was put on the spot to recommend something. Friends, that has to be the worst thing for me to be asked! Of all the music I know of, I now have to pare it down to just a singular song that my new one-night clubbing pals might enjoy. For some reason, my mind went to Dance With The Dead. It went over like an iridium weight in the atmosphere of Saturn.

I bring this up because, for a time after, I had a crisis of faith, a flailing sense of doubt over my own taste in music. Yeah, I know not everyone will dig what I dig, just as I won't dig what everyone else will dig, but surely Dance With The Dead was bullet-proof? How can some folks not get hype to those pounding darksynth rhythms, the soaring John Carpenter synth leads, and Tony Kim's righteous shredding?

I realize I may have over-committed to this band in buying their entire catalogue off Bandcamp, but man, perhaps I was wrong about enjoying the duo all along. Might they have always been cheesy, corny, and just not cool? Am I so out of touch? I mean, sure, I was one of the 'geezers' when I went to go see them in concert last year, throwing up devil's horns among a crowd of millennials, but might synthwave already be past its prime, with me clinging to a nostalgia of... *checks calendar* a decade old?

Then I listen to Poison off this Send The Signal mini-album, and all is right in the world again. Oh, Dance With The Dead, I can never stay doubtful of you.

Anyhow, Send The Signal is another of the band's earlier EPs, released after the Near Dark album. As such, we're in their era where the synth leads and rhythms dominate over a given track, Tony's guitar action still mostly relegated to a bit of soloing at a track's peak, if featured much at all. Of the six songs (plus an intro), they touch on all the synthwave bases, so a nice little appetizer of the Dance With The Dead stylee. Just, y'know, don't play it for J Cole fans.

The Field - The Follower

Kompakt: 2016

There's things worth talking about in The Field's fifth album The Follower. Things like “Axel Willner moves on from shoegaze, does proper techno” and “haha, I'm still dodging his Very Important Album, aren't I?”. I did something this past weekend, however, that's made talking about anything else extremely difficult. It wasn't even my fault! I had no idea it would or could happen. Nor is The Field at fault either – just unfortunate timing in this particular item cropping up in my queue when it did. I suspect if I don't write something about this event, however, it will fester even longer, somehow blocking my ability to connect fingers to keyboard. So I must do what I must do to move forward. I urge you all to skip the next paragraph, and rejoin me in the following one for my real review of The Field's The Follower.

So I went to a tech-house night on the weekend, as the dude who promoted the party said good things about the Berlin DJ he was bringing in. He always says good things about the Berlin DJs he brings in, but I was bored so went anyway. There I stood at my usual hunch just to the side of the front of the crowd, people watching while bobbing my head as I drank my pale ale in a can. Some decent deep-tech kept the vibe going, though nothing out of the ordinary, much less nabbing my attention in one of those “WHAT IS THIS!?” moments. Then, I heard it. A tinny, spacey rhythm, slightly off time, like out of the Golden Era of space disco. No, wait, it is from the Golden Era of space disco! Is it..? Yes, there it is, the cosmic 'aahhs', the triumphant organ refrain, and the hilariously warbly, ripped from pulp sci-fi pitched-down vocoder announcing the arrival of The Ultimate Warlord! Oh my God, I never thought I'd hear this tune out live, much less at a tech-house night. Do any of these people in the crowd know this track? They sure do now! Dammit though, that perfect context burned the song into my brain as it never had before. How can poor Axel Willner compete with such perfect Canadian disco cheese?

*whew* Okay, got that out of my system. The Follower, then.

The titular opener features some cool acid work from The Field before easing us into his usual brand of ultra-loopy tranced-out flow, where most of the album follows suite. Soft Streams and Raise The Dead get deeper in the dub techno zone, with the former a more abrasive than the latter. We all gotta' mellow out at the end though, which The Field does for the fourteen-minute closer Reflecting Lights. Another solid outing from Mr. Willner, then, and a definite have for those who prefer The Field's more techno outings. Unfortunately though, there's not much else to say about it, especially when one has The Ultimate Warlord imposing his Sword Of Light upon ye'.

Loop Guru - Amrita (...All These And The Japanese Soup Warriors) (2019 Update)

North South: 1995

(click here to read my original TranceCritic review)

It's been over half a decade since I last talked up Loop Guru, and I still haven't gathered any more of their albums. Not that they're super-hard to find or anything, most going for a tidy pop on the Amazon market now, but something keeps me from finally diving into their domain proper-like. Trepidation, that's it. A worry that they just won't live up to whatever expectation I have on them, even with the limited amount of exposure I've thus far provided myself. Wait, how is that even an excuse now? Most of their albums are also on Spotify (though not this one, oddly), so if I want to hear them to confirm my unfounded fears, I can at any time. No, there must be something else, something buried deep in my subconscious that's holding me back. I wonder what it is?

Actually, I think I know: no matter what, I will never recapture the feeling I had when I first heard Amrita. It's not a terribly significant event, but it's a vivid moment, furiously flashing across my memory membranes every time I hear Diwana or Often Again. It was a few months after I'd moved out on my own into Vancouver, and I'd just gotten this CD on one of my trips to an A&B Sound (RIP), intended for a TranceCritic review because why not.

Sometime in the wee minutes past midnight and feeling the buzz of a smoked bowl, I got the munchies and decided to walk the five blocks to a 7/11 for some snackables. As I'm strolling in the clear spring evening, the swinging tribal sounds of Loop Guru playing from my discman, I come to a startling revelation: I'm honestly and truly free, the boundless opportunities of bachelorhood open before me. I'm living in my own apartment, doing recreational drugs when I want without worry of neighbours or roommates, going for strolls in the middle of the night with nary a care or concern of where I wander, in a city I hadn't even dreamed to live in but a few years past. And this all dawned upon me while listening to this album. Now, I'm not saying it wouldn't have occurred to me if I hadn't been playing Amrita at the time, but I cannot deny something about the music here made everything click right in that moment.

And without a doubt, there is a freeing jubilation in Amrita, the sort of tribal exuberance that makes you want to kick off your shoes and dance up a dust storm in the sandy floors of an outdoor party. Yeah, Papasus and Fumi show their dubbier, chill side too, but damn, those drums in Gianyar! That chant in Yayli! That flute in Diwana! That rhythm in Sun! Can you blame me for being hesitant in exploring Loop Guru's discography further? How could anything else they do top such ebullience?

(sorry, that seems like the sort of cheeky word they'd use in liner notes)

Porya Hatami & Darren McClure - In-Between Spaces

...txt: 2015

You'd think after a dozen years of doing this, I'd know how to avoid the aftermath. Indeed, I've done everything in the How To Avoid Post-Festival Flu handbook, and yet I still get hit with some bout of sickness after coming home from Shambhala. To be fair, the dusty farm environment makes it a challenge even under the best conditions. Not only do you have some twenty thousand souls kicking up dirt, but also all the cow-patty particulates that populate the pasture year-round. Wearing a handkerchief or bandana for cover helps, and I even take things a step further with medical masks when I know I'll be working in a super-heavy dust area for a while (those parking lots get it bad). Throw in the killer combo of extreme temperature changes (oh God, the heat this year!), and all around tom-foolery and chicanery that comes with any music festival, no matter how 'responsible' one remains, and yeah, it's no surprise folks come away from them feelin' the flu, even veterans who should know better. Or maybe I just get an allergic reaction to the being back in the rat-race so soon after a week out. Yeah, let's go with that instead!

So coming back, feeling down with the sickness, but still having to drag my sagging ass to work, you can forgive my lack brain power for a brief while following Shamb's. Getting the ol' writing juices flowing again sometimes takes a little effort, a little inspiration, a little kick in the cerebellum-butt. On the other hand, it's nice to ease back into things with a little sonic fluff, musical cotton-candy that doesn't require much in the way of actual analysis and critique, an album where I can spend the bulk of a review waxing on about anecdotal bull before getting into the meat 'n grits of the CD. Yes, this here In-Between Spaces from Porya Hatami and Darren McClure will do nicely.

I've gone over Mr. Hatami's work a fair deal now, and you might remember Mr. McClure from such collaborative projects like Memex. I honestly forgot he was a part of that though, and I wrote the review of that album with Lee Norris only a year ago! For a brief refresher, Darren's something of an abstract ambient journeyman, and possibly came into association with Porya either via their time spent in Japan, or their works released through Inner Ocean Records (because I gotta' give Canadian labels all attention they can get).

In-Between Spaces is a modest little collection of ambient pieces, only five tracks long, ranging from seven to twelve minutes in length. It's all very minimalist with soft, glitchy effects and static fuzz warping distant pianos, pads and field recordings. At points, I'm surprised just how natural some of these effects sound. Like, is that actual rain fall in Summer Rain, or treated static? Sends me into sweet, soothing calm of mental contentment, either way, as does the rest of In-Between Spaces. Mmm, recovery sleep...

Bluescreen - Undercurrents

Shadow Records: 2001

That the label that gave America an early taste of Ninja Tune and all things trip-hoppy, abstract-funky would throw its hat into the trance game was remarkable, daft even, among the most unexpected things I’ve ever come across in my music buying time. Still, with that scene popular enough with young punters, what harm was there in giving it a shot with a couple, nicely-priced compilations in Trance Sessions? Besides, it helped promote one of their signed acts, one Anthony Voitik, or Bluescreen as he goes by here.

This debut album came out a short while before Trance Sessions did, in of itself remarkable. Forget that whole ‘jumping on the trance bandwagon’ angle the compilations kinda-sorta reeked of, Shadow went and signed a totally unknown dude for a trance album. Not just any trance either, but deliberately old-school leaning stuff, tunes that wouldn’t sound out of place coming from MFS’ heyday, a style almost extinct by the year 2001 courtesy of the drudge-Dutch invasion. How’d they even make contact with him? Mr. Voitik hailed from the literal opposite end of the continent from Shadow headquarters, mostly residing in the hinterlands of British Columbia. For a time, only a few streets away from me.

Okay, full disclosure: I know ol’ Anthony. Like, went to the same high school as him. Drank at the same house parties as him. Rode four hours in his car to the same bush raves in Smithers with him. This probably doesn’t sound like a big deal to those living in major hubs of electronic music (London, Detroit, Berlin, New York City, San Francisco, Montreal… Vancouver?), where talent of all sort mingled with regular joes as they grew up. When I say our hometown is out on the fringes of Western society though, I ain’t kidding. It’s amazing that anyone from there ended up getting a record deal for a trance album, much less on a well-known trip-hop print like Shadow Records.

Thus me saying I like Undercurrents obviously comes with degree of bias, since I quite like the brand of trance Mr. Voitik enjoyed as well. If you fancied yourself some of that Paul van Dyk vibe but hated his turn towards the pop side of things, you’ll probably like this too. There isn’t much in the way of surprises, Bluescreen mostly sticking to an easy-going, traditional template to his tunes. Of notables diversions, he goes a little prog-house with Vanishing, Daybreak has some fun with the acid, and Surfacing works as a nice summation to the melodic points touched upon throughout. Aliendisco is about the only tune that leaps way out of Mr. Voitik’s established comfort zone - it’s speed garage, but with a sci-fi twist. I’ve never heard another speed garage track do this, much less produced by a trance guy. Corsten hasn’t gone there. Lieb sure never went there. Armin hasn’t gone there, and he’s gone to some wack places over the years. Tiësto probably would have though, if there was money to be made.

Flowjob - Support Normality (2015 Update)

Iboga Records: 2006

(Click here to read my original TranceCritic review.)

At the tail end of that very, very, very long original review of Support Normality, I quipped about how pricey these old, ace albums in the psy scene can get on the collector’s market. Hell, even lesser CDs have fetched remarkable prices at Discogs. From my pile alone, U-Recken’s Aquatic Serenade once sold for $143! The compilation Goa Spirit 3, $102! ICE MC’s Ice N’ Green, $81 (wait, what?). Several Ultimae albums have moved in the $75-$100 range, with plenty more psy leaning discs going in the tidy $30-$50 bracket. Flowjob’s sophomore album, Zentertainment, which I found weaker than their debut, brought home $40 for a former owner. Surely Support Normality then, a great collection of ultra-groovy progressive trance, would command a gracious price of… seven… teen… dollars? Are you kidding me? That’s an injustice! This should be going for well over $50! Did Iboga flood the market with too many copies or something? Am I blinded by some unaccounted bias? I’ll admit I was going through some interesting transitional times when I first came across this album, but still.

No, wait, let’s examine this. Did my situational living impact upon my reaction to Support Normality in a significant way? It’s no secret we often associate music with events in our lives, such that hearing a song can send a flood of memories from the time you first heard it. When I play this album back now, three immediate things come to mind: a rave where I had a bad 2CB trip, shitty Vancouver weather (even more so than usual), and being home wretchedly sick watching Season 1 of Battlestar Galactica. I can’t say these are at all pleasant memories on the surface, but they were significant, where after a year of big city bachelorhood, I was learning just what it took to survive in the Lower Mainland. Don’t be so irresponsible at parties, get some proper rainwear, and don’t binge watch such a depressing, brilliant sci-fi series. Oh God, the flood of feels, I tells ya’!

I suppose Support Normality provided a brief bright spot in that dour February of 2006. The chipper vibes, dubby synths, and oh-so infectious rhythms gave me a glimmer of optimism, rejuvenated my interest in electronic music in such a way that hadn’t happened since electroclash emerged onto the scene. Flowjob wasn’t doing anything I hadn’t heard before, but they did it with such finesse and skill, I was instantly hooked. They found a sweet spot that catered to my deep, dubby prog needs, the sort of music none of the genre’s standard bearers were crafting anymore, all content pursuing their own roads instead (tech, minimal, Mc.). It obviously didn’t happen like that for others, some probably bored by what Flowjob was selling. But no one can deny they have albums of similar connection to them as this one has with me.

PS: no, I’m not looking to sell anything from my collection, but if I was, hoo boy, would I clean up!

The Beach Boys - Sounds Of Summer: The Very Best Of

Capitol Records: 2003

First, it was The Police and Boney M. Then, it was Raffi and Disney singalongs. After that... not a whole lot. Music, which had been such a vital part of my early childhood, ceased having much influence. It was those darn Transformers, you see, taking my attention away for a few years, soon replaced by all sorts of marketable cartoons and media. Who has time for bands and songs when there's more The Real Ghostbuster toys to get, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bubblegum cards to buy, or Star Wars movies to obsess over? I still played the odd CD from my folks' collection, but seldom gave it much more thought than a passive distraction. One day though, after listening to a cheery compilation called Sun Jammin', the final track caught my attention like few songs had for a very, very long time. I had to hear more from this group, those sweet vocal harmonies, those starry-eyed lyrics of fun in the Caribbean sun and holiday bliss. The song was Kokomo.

Look, it was the '80s, and The Beach Boys’ most recent hit, so it was about the only way I'd have 'stumbled' upon them back then. Man though, after hearing that song, I scoured for more, the first time in my life I started digging for a specific group. It probably didn't hurt I was heavy into Archie Comics at the time (shad'up, we've all been there!), and saw kinship between the two representatives of clean-cut, all-American youth culture as envisioned by the late '50s and early '60s. I even compiled my findings onto my very first mixtape. True, all I had to work with was whatever was in my father's CDs, but as an initiation into the glorious world of music hunting obsession, The Beach Boys wasn't such a bad place to start.

Of course, had Tween Sykonee been around when Sounds Of Summer came about, I wouldn’t have needed to bother. There were numerous ‘Best Of’ and ‘Greatest Hits’ and ‘Essential Sounds’ on the market up through the ‘80s, but it didn’t seem The Beach Boys were quite done scoring the occasional charter even long after most figured their music way dated. Then the ‘90s hit and, well, yeah. With no new hits for a decade, the new millennium seemed as good a time as any for an authentic, definitive gathering of all their memorable, classic, vintage, glorious tunes. And Getcha Back, for some stupid reason (ugh... those ‘80s drums, so bad).

Sounds Of Summer is about as perfect a collection of Beach Boys music you could want without splurging on a zillion LPs for three or four great tunes surrounded by filler. It’s got all the surf rock hits, the hot-rodding car odes, the rowdy party tunes (Barbara Ann, so drunk), their introspective aging songs, and an assortment of odds and sods in the ensuing years. The only thing missing is selections from their wonderful Christmas album, but that’d defeat the ‘summer’ theme, wouldn’t it.

DJ Moe Sticky - RnB State Of Mind 32

promo: 2015

Well, if this doesn't look all kinds of sketchy, ghetto, amateur, and scrub. Folks, you don't know the half of it. That's the only piece of art I got with this, and it's on nothing more than a piece of scissor-cut paper, printed with an ink jet. The accompanying burned CD itself is completely blank, not even a single scribble of a felt marker telling you what's on the disc. And a proper jewel case or cardboard digi-sleeve to hold it in? Oh, that's cute. All you get is a small plastic slip, though mine does have my name scribbled on it by a felt marker. Personalization, yo'! Gads, even the mix CDs I made back in the day had more effort put into them than this.

Of course, this is the sort of thing one expects from demos handed out at parties by desperate DJs looking to make their mark. Sometimes you get a burned disc with more care and attention given to it, but since these are freebies anyway, you typically overlook whatever faults the packaging may have. Except this wasn't free. I paid ten dollars for this. And for a second one. Twenty bones on cheap-as-fuck demos. How could I have been so stupid and careless with my money, you ask? Oh, don't worry, there's a tale I must tell. The actual music critiquing of these RnB State Of Mind discs can wait for the next review.

I don't doubt for a second I looked like an easy mark wandering the Vegas Strip, but frugal spending and marketing cynicism kept my wallet deep in my pocket. Besides, what do I care for passes to casinos I'll never attend, or burlesque clubs I couldn’t properly tip at, or- wait, these two black dudes are selling some music? Tell me more!

Were they ever hustlin', telling me how the DJ – one Brooklyn native Moe Sticky – was set to blow up huge in the world of rap and RnB. Since they were also shilling for a strip club, they insisted these two discs would get any woman within hearing distance naked, horny, droppin’ drawers, etc. They talked a good game, and while there was zero chance of me playing this back at the Hard Rock Hotel while entertaining eager ho's (“sorry, Dad, you'll have to hang at the casino tonight”), I enjoyed the game they were playing enough to drop a Jackson into their palms. Look, I've paid far more dollars on old Namlook CDs, so it's not that big an investment where I'm standing from.

Naturally, with my wallet currently out, their wingman swooped in looking to hawk a DVD accompaniment to these promo CDs. Seeing as how it'd cost me an additional twenty, forget that noise. He was persistent though, selling how the whole combo was essential to get ladies wet or some-such. Then he reached towards my wallet to extract a twenty, at which point I Noped!, and strolled off, counting my bills just in case.

Opus III - Guru Mother

PWL International: 1994

Opus III are known for two things: being responsible for early UK house hit It's A Fine Day, and Orbital sampling said hit for Halcyon (and on and on-om-nom). They could have been known for so much more though, had they carried on longer than two albums worth. The talent was definitely there, productions capably toeing the line between respectable club anthems and easy home listening. They had a marketable look with Kirsty Hawkshaw as the face of the group, a distinct voice and presence in a scene filled with pretty but unremarkable singers.

Kirsty though, she sensed the group getting a little commercial for her taste, and Opus III disbanded. Ms. Hawkshaw then went on to provide vocals for, um, BT, Tiesto, Lange, and Delerium. Hey, there's some respectable collaborations during that period too (Orbital-proper, Swayzak, Hybrid), but man, did trance producers ever line-up for ol' Kirsty's pipes. Not sure what happened to the other three members of Opus III though. Even Lord Discogs provides little.

Fortunately, they went out in fine fashion, their sophomore album Guru Mother a remarkable record for the year 1994. This is progressive house as its finding its footing, figuring out what it could be, and maybe getting a little ‘epic’ in the process. This is BT music before BT had made a name for himself with Ima, Grace music before Oakenfold got tired of the goa thing, and Renaissance music just as that seminal clubnight was making Sasha & Diggers deities behind the decks. There’s sing-along house anthems (Dreaming Of You, When You Made The Mountain, Hand In Hand), darker, chugging prog numbers (Outside, Guru Mother, Sushumna), ethereal trance groovers (Release The Joy, Elemental), and chill, bliss-out ambient pieces (Cozyland?, When She Rises). Listening to this album two decades on, I’m astounded Guru Mother isn’t talked up more as one of those Very Important progressive house records. Were Opus III really seen as that much of a one-hit wonder that all their other efforts were so dismissed?

Perhaps so. I certainly never gave Opus III much care in all these years. Heck, the only reason I’m reviewing Guru Mother now is because I noticed it during a recent used-CD shop splurge. Of course I knew of It’s A Fine Day, but that song wasn’t on here. And that cover, man does it ever look cheesy, more suitable for a medieval folk group than anything with a dance beat. Then I recalled a similar sentiment shared with a Rupert pal long ago. He’d bought Guru Mother solely for recognizing Opus III as the It’s A Fine Day group, and was surprised how much better the album turned out compared to that single. While I didn’t doubt his judgment of Guru Mother, I simply couldn’t get past that cover, much less the photo of Kirsty Hawkshaw looking like some woodland pixie on the back. Just no way Guru Mother could be class, no way at all.

God, was I an arrogant idiot sometimes.

Various - Rave-Trance 2001

Electronic Dance Essentials: 2001

On the surface, Rave-Trance 2001 is the chintziest pieces of bargain-bin detritus you'll ever come across. I certainly thought so, and prepared for a good guffaw upon flipping it over to see what names made up the track list. I wasn't disappointed, such hilarious credits including DJ Ibiza, DJ Airbourne, DJ Pebbles, DJ Glamer, and Bypass Unit. Wait, Bypass Unit? Those guys were awesome, a dope blend of German trance and early goa. What are they doing on this? For that matter, might the other tracks be just as good?

Not really, most of the tunes sounding quite dated by post-millennial standards. The mixing's barely adequate, occasional vocals corny as all Hell, and CD1 features an awful, flat mono mastering, utterly shameful for the modern era. Still, it's mid-'90s German trance, with plenty of spacey acid, driving rhythms, and delicious minor-key melodies throughout, thus giving me the wayback feels no matter how dodgy the packaging. It was something of a revelation even finding such a CD in 2001, figuring all the sounds that drew me into trance had been kicked to the curb in favour grotesque Dutch excess. But music aside, Rave-Trance 2001 is rather fascinating in its own right.

For instance, Electronic Dance Essentials is a sub-label of Big Eye Records, whom in turn is a sub-label of Cleopatra. Suddenly the cheap presentation made a lot more sense, but this story gets even better. While submitting Rave-Trance 2001 to the mighty Lord Discogs (because of course I'd be the only contributor with a copy), I discovered an identical tracklist on an obscure 1999 ZYX Music double-disc set called The World Of Dream & Trance. So not only did a sub-sub label of Cleopatra release a cheap-looking collection of trance with music far better than expected, but did so by 'copy & pasting' another unremarkable release from a label that has – as far as I know – absolutely no association with Cleopatra, for no reason other than 'just because'.

But wait, this story gets even better! The World Of Dream & Trance may not have much going for it, but regarding its origins... hoo boy! The World Of... is a long-running series of double-disc collections from ZYX Music featuring such eclectic gatherings as rock, soul, reggae, house, salsa, techno, italo, rap, schlager, Russische folklore, surf music, krautrock, Indian pop, jodeln, truckers, and telefonansagen. What. The. F!? There's even a release for phone sex conversations. Who buys this stuff?

All this delightful associative info, but possibly the most interesting comes from an anecdote. While moving from one Canadian hinterland to another, I stopped over at a town where a couple friends lived for a rave happening that night. At the pre-party house, I rummaged through the host’s CDs as I’m wont to do, and saw a familiar blue sleeve with tacky clip-art and unrelated Time Magazine quote on the back. “Oh, wow,” I say to owner, “You have this too?” “Yeah,” she replied, “It’s a great CD, isn’t it!” It sure is.

Boney M. - Nightflight To Venus (Anecdotal 'Review')

Song BMG Music Entertainment: 1978/2007

Say what you want about Boney M. – and believe me, you won't be saying anything new – it's undeniable their popularity's endured thanks to Frank Farian's impeccable production chops and savvy marketing. Hell, it sure worked for me, Nightflight To Venus an irresistible concept to a kid just discovering things like Star Wars and other cool space-orientated- ack, no, no! I won’t turn this review into an endless parade of anecdotes. My self-imposed word count doesn’t allow for it. Okay, focus, focus...

Nope, not happening. I’m not getting through this review without dropping more. Sure, I could be all professional and shit about Nightflight To Venus, but there’s no fun in that. I’ve so many stories tied to this record, so many memories as a kid listening to it. You know what, screw it. I’m going all the way down Anecdote Alley here, and if that’s a problem, come back tomorrow where I’ll deal with the album proper-like. I gotta’ get this nostalgia outta’ my system, folks.

Nightflight To Venus is undeniably ground zero for my enjoyment of so many things musically: catchy hooks and harmonies, DJ mixes, dance rhythms, space-themed music, and Neil Young. For a kid getting into sci-fi, the titular opener was utter catnip for a fruitful imagination. Those robot voices, sound effects, gnarly guitar licks, and thumping rhythms was unlike anything I’d heard before, purely driven by a concept than actual song writing. Then it kept going into a totally different song about a bizarre Russian named Rasputin, with some of ear-wormiest hooks I’d ever heard. It blew my young mind you could even do that with music, make two separate tunes seem like one! And those awesome choruses are filled throughout Nightflight To Venus, some with lyrics that seem almost intended to be sung along with by kids (Painter Man, Rivers Of Babylon, Brown Girl In The Ring).

What’s elevated Nightflight To Venus above so many other albums of my young life, however, is the fact it was the first record I recall listening to front-to-back, and aside from Raffi’s Baby Beluga (shaddap), would remain the only one I would repeatedly do so for many years. For as much as I enjoyed The Police’s records too, I still could only ever get through half a Side A before getting bored. While Boney M.’s fun music was part of my willingness to go the distance, the fact one of my favourite songs on the album, Heart Of Gold, was at the end, forced me to sit patiently through the whole record to hear it (the original’s country? No way, this is the real version!). Even the slower ‘message’ song before it, Never Change Lovers In The Middle Of The Night, couldn’t deter me from waiting in anticipation for those wonderful vocal harmonies and funky disco guitar licks emerging. It instilled a listening habit that persists to this day, of appreciating albums as collective wholes rather than jumping from song to song. Well done, Nightflight To Venus. Well done.

Loreena McKennitt - Live In Paris And Toronto

Quinlan Road: 1999

When I lived in the hinterlands of Canada, I rented in a house with various other roomers who'd come and go. As I was the one with a decent stereo, my gear took up residence in the living room, where I'd often load the 3-CD tray with my own music. Fair enough, as my housemates shared similar tastes, what with being 'Rupert Ravers' and all. Every so often though, I'd play a combination of albums that threw them for a loop. One such day included a run of some EDM (I forget which now), the Hieroglyphics LP 3rd Eye Blind (“homie-b” music, the girl living with us called it), followed by this particular album from ethereal Celtic-folk artist Loreena McKennitt. They remarked how little sense it made for me to have such bizarre range of interest (for a 20 year old, anyway), and while hip-hop still had some connection to EDM, how did Loreena fit the puzzle of my interests?

It was likely my mother's influence, who was into Enya and all that New Age stuff when it broke into the early ‘90s mainstream (yeah yeah, total cliché there). Enigma was also a part of her musical rotation of the time, which led to ambient and world beat I still enjoy, but another act she liked was Loreena McKennitt. I... didn't quite latch onto her the same way, though my sister did. Hm, guess that makes sense, Enigma's 'tough' beats appealing to male sensibilities (no, stay with me on this theory!), and Ms. McKennitt's harps and singing more of a chick’s thing. What gender stereotypes?

Okay, sorry for that lengthy, anecdotal introduction. I felt it necessary to explain why, on a blog called Electronic Music Critic, there's also a live Loreena McKennitt album here. I've strayed off the EDM path often, but this must be the furthest I’ve gone yet. I don’t think there are any other ethereal Celtic folk-pop records in my collection, so at least it’s a one-off.

For those unaware of McKennitt, she gained international fame mostly through association with the New Age market. While her music is definitely of an Irish and Celtic tradition, she imbued her music with mystical qualities that set herself apart from staunch traditionalists, an incredibly appealing attribute for ladies into fantasy works and that; the guys had their Viking metal, the girls got their Arthurian romanticism (was this all Excaliber’s fault?). While having a deal with Warner Music gave McKennitt greater exposure (especially here in Canada, where the Winnipeg native enjoyed plenty of Canadian Content rotation), she’s remained an independent artist, self-producing and publishing her music through her own Quinlan Road print. Proper underground t’ings, mon! (whoops, wrong sub-culture)

There’s plenty more to her story, but I’m not the best person to detail it. Maybe try Ethereal Celtic Music Critic. All you need to know from my end is I liked her music enough to get a live album of it (essentially a greatest hits package), and that’s about it.

Asura - Life² (Original TC Review)

Ultimae Records: 2007

(2014 Update:
This was my first exposure to Ulitmae, and does this review ever show it. That is, I knew absolutely nothing about the label, so barely bring them up at all; plenty of research into Asura, however. Interestingly enough, even from the start, I was bemoaning the lack of journalistic coverage these guys were getting, though perhaps in a more confrontational way than I do now. Not much else to add to this review, though like much of my old stuff, a little wordy in places.

'Tis funny, my covering of Life² was practically by random chance. I was in the process of giving my old TranceCritic writing partner, Jack Moss, a rather ineffectual pep-talk, as he was going through review writer's doldrums, dissatisfied with new material to cover in 2007. I urged him to take a chance on something unknown, perhaps discovering gold in the process. As an example, I fired up Juno Records and, browsing through their new releases, clicked the first cover which caught my eye, which happened to be this. "There," I told him, "why not review this CD? Looks interesting." He wasn't convinced at the time, but the samples piqued my curiosity further, so I went about getting it for myself to review instead. Ultimae has gone on to be a favorite label for both of us, though it was likely an eventuality regardless of that first arbitrary exposure.)


IN BRIEF: Don’t you dare miss this one.

I think I’m going to go right ahead and straight-off declare this album a front-runner for Criminally Overlooked Releases In 2007. It seems unavoidable, really. Already there are factors limiting its success, despite the music contained being exquisite: tiny French label few are aware of; paltry promotional power; general lack of awareness for the name Asura; a form of music folks tend to be afraid to take a chance on these days due to the overabundance of downtempo bilge souring tastes for it.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. The psy scene has unofficially adopted Asura into their ranks, despite the fact the man behind the project, Charles Farewell, has never really claimed to be a part of it. And although he’s produced some music that easily fits into the psy chill category, Asura covers a far broader sonic canvas than mere trippy synthy soundscapes.

I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Let me backtrack a bit.

Although the brainchild of Mr. Farewell, there have been a few other names tied to the project over the years. However, on this third album, Farewell has gone at it solo, and raised the question if he’d be able to handle the marriage of organic and synthetic instrumentation that had become the group’s recognized style. Titled Life², the album makes for an incredibly strong argument in his favor.

Opener Golgotha will have you wondering if you even have an electronic album on. Thunderous percussion, somber symphonic swells, ethereal woodwinds, and haunting chants all combine to create something out of an epic biblical soundtrack; without the heavy-handiness such epics are often victim of, mind. It’s a gripping piece of music though, grabbing your attention right out of the gate.

Back To Light brings the synths and sequencers into focus, with many organic sounds wrapped around them. What may strike you as a bit odd, though, is just how plastic the beats sound. Considering the richly textures of everything else, it’s a bizarre contrast, yet fits within the context of the music just the same. The song itself? Lovely; stirring; exhilarating, especially in the second half where the rhythms turn breakbeat rather than steady... I could ramble on a number of adjectives, but I’d end up using them all up way too soon in this review, and this is only the second track.

Diversity is also the name of the game when it comes to Asura. Recalling the old synth composers of the ‘70s at their best, Galaxies Part One makes use of cascading soundscapes and pulsing melodies as soft gentle rhythms and chants float in the background. The second part, meanwhile, has a more modern take on this style, with urgency in its melodies, moodier synths, and grumbling dubby beats carrying it along. And unlike many ambient pieces, there’s never a sense of aimless meandering; it’s a meticulous path the way Farewell has written his music. Even The Prophecy, which even at seven plus minutes in length comes off more like an interlude in the album’s flow, has more going for it than a mere somber sonic doodle.

Of course, Farewell wouldn’t be known to the psy community unless he dabbled in that style too. Celestial Tendencies, Butterfly FX, and the title track pick up the pace, dipping into more proggy territory. There’s chunky acid burbling in the background, various synthy pads, electronic effects, tasteful vocal samples, and ethnic instruments sprinkled in for good measure to keep you constantly grounded. And while these tracks aren’t quite as evocative as the slower songs, they nonetheless manage to stir the soul with just as much finesse while providing something heavier to groove on.

There’s a couple more on here I could talk about too, but I’ll leave it up to you to find out how they sound - why should I spoil the surprise, after all (I will say the final track is a perfect capper) ? However, of important mention is how Life² is a complete package as an album. Everything flows seamlessly together, creating a gripping listening experience beginning to end. Typically, disparate tempo changes between songs can throw a wrench into things on other albums, but it works perfectly fine here, coming off like chapters rather than separate individual parts.

And all this probably doesn’t mean a lick to all but the most adventurous anyway. Well, maybe the psy scene will be more boned up on this release, but the rest of you. Yes, YOU! The one that doesn’t believe it, that Life² couldn’t possibly be as great as I say it is. Where is, after all, the love from the major players in this industry? Why hasn’t there been a glowing exposé in the magazines? How come there isn’t a ton of buzz online in all the trendy forums?

Honestly, I haven’t a clue why, but this isn’t an uncommon occurrence. Many fine albums slip through the cracks, often rediscovered by hunters of great music in later years. If this is to be Asura’s fate, so be it. In the meantime, those who have found Life² in their players shall have their ears richly rewarded.

Perfect Stranger - Learning = Change (2013 Update)

Iboga Records: 2006

(Click here to wander the barren wastes of my old writing.)

*blink* ...*blink-blink*

Sorry about that. My eyes dried out while trying to read that old review of mine. I still couldn't get through it. In fact, just thinking about it has left my creative process a desolate desert. I'm utterly stumped on what to say in this Update. It's still a good prog-psy album, far better than most of the material Iboga Records churned out in later years. What kind of material? Ah, you don't want me to tell you, it's really not interesting. I'm going to though, aren't I, just to burn some word count here.

Iboga was making a name for itself in the mid-'00s as a worthy contributor to a growing prog-psy scene, their finest offerings easily on par with the likes of Spiral Trax. Then, for some totally daft reason, the Iboga roster started getting bit by the minimal bug. Their tunes often had a deeper, tribal tone to them, sandwiched between the driving, melodic numbers, but not any longer. Perfect Stranger, Iboga's main man remember, was particularly smitten by this trend, churning out some of the driest tracks you could imagine. I don't know if they ever recovered from that nonsense, as I lost touch with the label as this decade took form. Didn't want to bother springing for music if it was gonna' be the listening equivalent of traversing the Gobi Desert.

I did have a chance to see if Perfect Stranger had changed his sound this summer, as he was one of the headliners at the Shambhala Music Festival. Unfortunately, he was slotted for a ridiculously early time at the psytrance-worldbeat-hippieshit stage, at which point I was slotted to work on the clean-up crew as part of my volunteer duties. Yeah, after six years attending this festival, I gave back to that which gave so much to me – the early-entry, gettin' fed, warm showers, and cool co-workers was a good incentive too. That Friday evening shift, I rode around on the trash collection truck; dirty work true, but a lot of fun too, hopping on a moving vehicle chanting “Trash! Trash! Trash!” along the way, dancing to music whenever we neared one of the stages. It was one, big, moving party, keeping the grounds tidy and that.

Still, my fondest memory of that trip didn't occur at the festival, but the night before my travelling posse got there. We stayed overnight in a small town called Trail, famous for a massive steel mill in the centre. We thought maybe a pub might be open late, but as it was a holiday night, Trail's downtown was dead, not a soul on the street, and a disconcerting sight for us city goers. Meanwhile, looming in the background of this abandoned area lay the massive factory, its evening lights eerily illuminating massive smoke stacks billowing thick clouds into the warm summer night. A real steampunk sight for this day in age.

What? Oh hey, Learning = Change. Still worth a listen, it is. Trust.

Banco de Gaia - Last Train To Lhasa

Mammoth Records: 1995

I was so disappointed when I first got Last Train To Lhasa. All the expectations and preconceived notions of what Toby Marks' proper sophomore effort would bring, and none of them came about. In fact, what the Hell is this music on here? House beats? Techno? Weird wibbly ambient excursion? I thought Banco de Gaia was supposed to be a cooler sounding Deep Forest. This isn’t what I'd heard from him before. Okay, so it was only two tracks by that point, both on an ambient dub compilation, but it was enough to know exactly what my new favourite electronic act was all about. Don't judge me. I'm old enough to know what's up with music in the world, at this old age of seventeen.

Yeah, 1996 Sykonee had a lot to learn, but I'm continuously amused by that first impression of this album, one that obviously dissipated after a couple more play-throughs. Some things still hold it back from being a great Banco LP, yet there’s also things you’re not gonna find elsewhere in his discography either.

Like that thirty-six minute version of Kincajou on CD2! Essentially carrying on where the main album version faded off, story goes Duck! Asteroid came about during a studio jam. What, was Pete Namlook hanging out at the time? It definitely has the hallmarks of the ambient wizard’s lengthy noodle-fests, but somehow never meanders, feeling like you’re travelling about the galaxy in a space-born Tibetan monastery. The fact it’s followed upon by another spacey dub cut (Eagle) completes the sonic trip through the cosmos (I guess the tribal-trance Gnomes Mix of Kuos is the launch).

What about CD1, then? Well, Last Train To Lhasa’s here, made popular by its inclusion on the first Northern Exposure. I like it fine, but not as much as others do – good atmospheric moments and all, but rather lacking in the rhythm department. In fact, most of this album has that ‘some-good, some-meh’ production going on. Kuos has a fun idea somewhere, but is undone by using such an overplayed African sample for its hook. Amber builds wonderfully at the beginning (that bass!), then doesn’t go much of anywhere after; alternatively, 887 has a great finish, but ambles far too long to get there. White Paint’s pretty good, what with its soaring choral pads and dubby beat, but I’ve been spoiled by the chipper version on the Live At Glastonbury CD. China’s a pleasant little chill number, portraying the culture in a more positive light compared to the scathing indictment Marks mentions in the liner notes regarding Tibetan atrocities. Take a stance, guy.

Speaking of stances, I’m always surprised by how many point to Last Train To Lhasa as their favourite Banco album. Sillies, his follow-up albums were far better, ol’ Toby finally and firmly breaking away from standard dance music moulds marked by his early work. This one has its share of brilliant, sublime moments within the Banco discography, but not to the degree latter efforts offered.

Various - Human Traffic

FFRR: 1999

Movies properly capturing club culture are rare and often crap, but Human Traffic’s one of the few that got it close. Sure, it's a comedy, exaggerating all the highs and lows associated with “clubs, drugs, pubs, and parties”, and it only highlights one aspect of a global phenomenon – specifically the UK in the late '90s. Still, I can't think of another country that had as much sway within dance music as the Brits did at the turn of the century, what with so many self-important DJs, clubbing brands, and magazines exporting their narrative across the world. Even in the hinterlands of Canada, we were lapping it up. Groove may have been more realistic in the parties we actually went to, but we yearned to be a part of the Human Traffic ones.

Funnily enough, us far-flung Northwest Coasters almost never learned of the movie's existence. Quite by chance, I’d stumbled upon the soundtrack in a local shop, a double-disc of music featuring names and tunes I was familiar with. Upon realizing there was a whole picture associated with it, I special ordered the DVD to sate my curiosity over what sort of movie could have such mint music. It fast turned into a hit within my party crew, getting umpteen repeated plays almost every weekend as we showed it off to any and all (almost always while stoned). For most of 2001 (yes, we were really that late to the Human Traffic revelry), we would not stop quoting the damn thing, and I somehow suspect similar occurrences went down in other areas to the world who dug the flick.

But enough about the movie, how's the soundtrack? Pretty darn good, I'd say, though like its cinema counterpart, very much a product of its time. Almost all the big producers and genres of the late '90s are accounted for, plus nods to classic tracks of clubbing yore are included too. Interspersed throughout the discs are clips of dialogue from the movie itself (like I said, damn quotable!), often leading into music associated with those scenes (Orbital's Belfast after the Comedown Sermon, for instance; or William Orbit's Ogive after What Was I Talking About?).

The two-discs also separate the music between a DJ mix (handled by Pete Tong) for CD2 and a 'miscellaneous' CD1. For my money, the mix disc is most fun, running from garagey house through trance and finishing hard with techno – a proper clubbing disc. The first one features mostly broken beat music (trip hop, gangsta rap, downtempo, breaks, etc.) with a few ambient pieces added; in other words, where all the music that couldn't fit on the DJ mix ended up.

Whether fresh-faced ravers will find much of interest in Human Traffic, I'm not sure, as there's almost an entire generational gap from when this came out. On the other hand, there's yet to be another movie celebrating dance music hedonism as entertainingly as this one did, retaining a timeless quality to it. Nice one, bruv.

The Police - Ghost In The Machine

A & M Records: 1981

2 Unlimited was incredibly influential in developing my musical tastes – it’s possible I might not even be writing electronic music reviews were it not for them (what would this blog be instead? Rap Music Critic? Grunge Music Critic? Country Music Cri- oh, God no!). There is a group, however, that I heavily enjoyed well before that, predating even the obligatory Raffi stage we all go through as children. Well, two, but no point in getting into Boney M right now, as this review’s already in danger of getting lost down Anecdote Alley.

Right, The Police. I’m surprised how ingrained memories of playing Ghost In The Machine are. Fiddling through my father’s record collection, always looking for that distinct black cover with the weird LCD markings (it's the band's faces, Toddler Sykonee). Putting it on the turntable, instantly being mesmerized by the opening synth stabs of Spirits In The Material World, feeling giddy over the pop-romp of Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic, and eagerly anticipating that haunting, emergent pulse of Invisible Sun. I don’t recall listening to much beyond that. I was only ever after the opening salvo, the rest of the tunes going way over my young head.

I could also point to this album as planting seeds for my fascination for things electronic based, but that's stupid, exposure to themes of technology overtaking humanity an inevitability growing up in the '80s (well, where such technology existed anyway). Maybe it was the recession of the time souring moods, but Ghost In The Machine finds The Police (re: Sting, mostly) far more contemplative than they'd been in the years prior. Sure, they still have time for uptempo rock numbers like Rehumanize Yourself, reggae jam One World and the like, but aside from Hungry For You (a sort of sister track to Everything...), the themes of fear for the future and where mankind's heading persist. End the album with a melancholy track titled Darkness? Yeah, definitely far more mature topics than I could have hoped to understand.

Significantly older now, I've not only come to appreciate the themes of this album (if somewhat snicker with the benefit of hindsight), but the musicianship as well. The Police have long been one of those remarkable bands where their talents were often overshadowed by their hit-making ability. Four albums deep now, and they've started experimenting with jazz fusion (oh, Sting loves to honk on that sax throughout) and prog rock (Secret Journey has lovely guitar effects in play); and yes, more synthesizers than ever used before. And damn, that bassline in Spirits In A Material World is bonkers, utterly remarkable how such a screwy hook gels with the rest of the song. I got to catch their reunion tour, and Sting couldn't get it right, causing a muddled rendition of the song.

Ack, that's yet another anecdote. Too many, gotta abort this review now. Check out Ghost In The Machine if you haven't already, it's easily the darkest of The Police's efforts.