Hey readership. Glad to be back, to be able to be back, to have the bandwidth to be present to divine these thoughts about music for you. I wanted to thank everyone for their patience, and for those of you who reached out about my mom’s passing. I’m still piecing together my thoughts about it all, but for now you get the generic: for good and ill, I would not be the person I am without her. The people who shape you give you a map with which to walk through life, and where you decide to let it take you is all that we really get. I’ve been elated and I’ve been disappointed; I’ve likely elated and disappointed many in equal measure, but I’ve never been bored, and I owe it to those people who saw me and decided not to give up.
That said, I am back. Two Heathen D and two Purple V coming up this week, with more on tap. This one is free, and it’s with the help of those of you deigning to click this ad you see below that can keep it that way for now.
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Those of you who subscribe to Heathen Disco and Purple Vu get my unconditional thanks and respect. With so many finding they don’t have much left to say about music, the voices covered here will shine that much brighter.
Those of you who have music worth celebrating and deign to ignore Heathen Disco, however? You’re cowards. Philistines. Nobodies. How fucking dare you mouthbreathers try to escape the purview of one of the last good ones standing.
Release yourself from my judgment by submitting to it directly:
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And so forth…
THE TRUFFLE PIGS Lanes and Lanes and Lanes LP (Docklands)
A confluence of voices long missed – the Al Montfort and Amy Hill connection from Terry and Sleeper & Snake, and Al with Steph Hughes from the glory days of Dick Diver – come back around to us d/b/a The Truffle Pigs, to remind us of the dried tears that turn into bitter laughs, the acute ironies of life as we live. Lanes and Lanes and Lanes quickly settles into Diver mode, but removed a bit from the notion of a rock band, mostly acoustic, with minimal percussion, mostly the wrists and the big hand/little hand keeping time, the grand sweep of rhythm guitars and eventual understanding, canny tales of bureaucracy (“73339”) transposed with the most serious, haunting folk these three have created to date (“The Trial”). What made previous projects from these three work, including Hughes’ most recent outing with The Hedge Burners, is how thoroughly they wring believable feelings and empathy out of their art. It’s all left out on the field, it’s all they brought. I’ve been through it with their music and this brilliant return lets me, and you, know once more that they’ve been through it too, and haven’t forgotten.
HELEN Linda’s Head LP (Kranky)
Sophomore outing from the occasional pop trio of Grouper’s Liz Harris, with Jed Bindeman and Scott Simmons rounding out the triangle once again. I put this on at the beginning of a long drive back to Pittsburgh to bury my mother, and I don’t think I even got out of Illinois before it was finished, but what struck me is how Harris had transposed the diaphanous layers of white noise from Shade into the band, how it tamped down the notions of melodic escape, how antiqued it all sounded, and how defined it got through the setting sun in the the rear view. These textures applied to a band that is clearly roaring allows only the elements that can break through the restraint, to where it gives the impression of memories, and their organic distortion in the human mind, even as they play out for the very first time. That which does get through is the embodiment of streaks of light, still cameras capturing motion, that blur between Painful and the Chris Knox drawing on the front. The notion of Chills/Clean/Verlaines-level songcraft is still right at the front, but if all you came for is shoegaze, there’s plenty of punters out there ready to serve you. Maybe not for fans of Grouper who hate rock music, or for those with expectations, but if you’re willing to accept that art can change, and appreciate the intentions behind it all, maybe the truth between “dead shark” and “dead shark II” is the space you’ll share with me, as we listen and forget at the same time, and remember what it was like. You’ll likely remember more than what you’re given here, which is maybe the greatest trick played in the overleveraged eternities of 2026. Your mind will create the abundance out of this stencil.
UNMARRY ME Lions of Autumn 12” EP (Bruit Direct)
Keeping with the two records observed above, here’s some more nightwork, the notion of songs with their flourishes pulled away, just the beat and pulse and late night thoughts whispered out. Chris Rowley and Jon Slade from Huggy Bear are present to present “their jazz” with Lise Edwards’ purpose-shot vocals serenade us through the hours of sleep, a cavernous sound that clings and locks around the head, the most disparate elements of dub art and triggered caution thrown like dice off the table, debuffed playing cards hitting the casino floor, dying without a sound and living on, preciously undead, powered by generational vengeance and cool remove. In the spirit of a few other records this year, Unmarry Me has found a freedom in restraint and subtraction, a release from expectation’s leg irons, the careening riffs of Rowley’s last band Adulkt Life rendered away into the thin bones within. It’s pretty remarkable and unbeatable, the faintest pulse giving the life eternal.
Doug H
