The warnings on the cover claim that Bohevsky has gotten tired of playing games and decided to crank out a disc of utterly offensive offal. Luckily, he did much better than that.

The music is uninventive (wanky lite pop, with the odd intriguing guitar line) and Bohevsky's voice is generally whiny and annoying. Something like the famous Zappa "comedy vocal" style, with much less subtlety.

On the other hand, the lyrics are inventive and silly. Plenty of scatological riffs, with a good measure of sexual posturing thrown in. Song titles like "Bobby Floats a Fence Post", "Tanked Up and Horney" and "Grandma's Vagina" give you an idea of the material. But instead of merely being crude and rude, Bohevsky imbues his observations with wit and a strangely delicate touch.

The music is regrettable, but the lyrics more than make up for that shortcoming. An amusing ride.

Chaney "semi-produced" this tape, and that lack of sophistication does lead to some sound problems. Chaney plays a somewhat tortured version of mellow pop, but it is very hard to hear some of the overlaid music (I know theres some electric guitar and possibly keyboards). Still, I get the gist.

As you might expect, I can't really give a definitive opinion on the music. I simply can't hear it very well. What I do hear isn't anything exciting, though it sounds like Chaney at least can put together a fair approximation of a pop tune. His lyrics are extremely personal, which is easily the best part of the tape. And on "Ocean", he abandons the lite approach and lets loose, howling over a rather unstructured electric guitar riff. As untrammelled angst, well, this song is quite impressive.

And in the quieter moments, Chaney is able to communicate very effectively. He's not a great singer, he's not a great songwriter and he's certainly no great producer, but raw honesty goes a long way. I doubt he'll ever make "the big time", but this tape exhibits more courage than I've heard in quite a while.

You know, like, if Black Sabbath were, like, an industrial band and, like, if Type O Negative gave up on the cheesy keyboards and just sang, like, nasty songs about how, like, the world is all fucked up. And shit like that.

Reminds me a lot of the old band Dead World. Godflesh-style pile-driving beats combined with epic guitar riffs and dreadfully mean-spritied lyrics. Songs that go on for ages, and yet you don't mind a bit. And then after all hell breaks loose, one of those acoustic metal passages breaks out.

Yes, the sort of thing I craved in high school. And since it seems my general appraisal of life has been regressing, I simply want this more. Pain, anger, frustration and sin, all presented with style and mind-numbing sonic destruction. The mainline to agony can be tapped here.

A full-on rush. Like if you had your very own live power line to chew on for kicks. Mania of the highest order.

Not only do these folks craft (probably a bad choice of words there) some of the finest incoherancies ever produced on this planet, but they are well aware that there is never a good reason to take much of anything seriously.

So the liners proudly proclaim "Pay attention! Any feelings of tedium you encounter during Gods of Chaos is integral to the piece." I certainly didn't find anything tedious, though there were times I felt as lost as a free-thinker at a Christian Coalition convention. The Flying Luttenbachers specialize in sonic deconstruction, laying bare the foundation of modern music and then proceeding to crank up the jackhammers. Pretty cool, when you think about it.

The liners say Gods of Chaos was recorded in one take with no overdubs. The second part is easy to believe. I'm not entirely sure that the band didn't take at least a short break between songs (that what I'm calling them, anyway), but it really doesn't matter. The stuff is wondrously strange and inventive, even when it's hard to tell up from down.

Oh, the things that pass through the mind at times like this. Unfettered creative output is maddening and joyous all at once. Ultimately, I find this sort of music to be horribly inspiring. I know, I'm one weird motherfucker, but sue me. I love the Luttenbachers, even if I really can't describe the music.

It's easy to follow Fold Zandura's groove. The beats are processed for high accessibility, and the guitars simply follow that lead. Tight, focused pop music, with that whole "retro futuristic" feel. Something like glam processed through an electronic filter. You know what I'm saying, right?

And oh, the hooks, the hooks, the hooks! Glorious in their resplendent simplicity, bathed in a shimmering shower of rock candy and bubblegum. Mini-epics, flights of limited imagination but maximized entertainment.

Yes, yes, it does indeed get old. Fold Zandura kinda wallows in this bog, and after a few songs my mind began to wander. If only I could tap into that sense of wonder I found when I tossed the disc into play.

Those old saws about excess are quite applicable here. A dram now and then is quite pleasurable, but beware of the overdose.

Tight pop-punk that finds its roots in the DC suburbs. Yeah, ALL and NOFX are obvious influences (that's fairly common), though Ghoti Hook prefers to keep the sound a bit more stripped-down. The songs are uniformly upbeat, and differentiation can be sorta difficult.

But the tunes are quite catchy and even occasionally poignant. For the most part, though, these are the thoughts of suburban kids who kinda like subdivisions.

The music is rote, though performed with admirable energy. Similar to Millencolin in lots of ways, though not nearly as witty. Ghoti Hook is workmanlike punk.

I don't hear much to distinguish the band from a multitude of others. The stuff is good, but not terribly noteworthy.

Explorations of modulated sound. Whatever created the base track (a guitar for much of it, I think), Gilbert has taken that sound and created something completely new. This is the pure electronic noise music. As Gilbert was present at the creation of Wire, well, this sort of mordant creativity should be expected.

Much like Namanax, really, though Gilbert keeps his sound very clean. The first track, "Soli" is a bit longer than 45 minutes, and if you're expecting something coherent, well, go buy a Hanson album or something. The noises Gilbert finds generally fit into the "otherworldly" category, but since his hand is so technical, there's an almost mathematical feel to the squeals and yelps.

Perfect for meditating on the madness of modern life, or simply for clearing your mind of extraneous data. This music requires your full attention, and then some. Yes, you have to think. My guess is that you're out of shape in that area, anyway.

A truly amazing journey through the world of electronic disturbance. Sure, it scares the kids. That's just one of its selling points.

Electronic stuff with a serious goth jones. A sterile surface has been prepared for the slaughter.

The style is the most impressive aspect of Godhead's sound. Great care has been taken to craft this artificial world, where all emotions are controlled and any extraneous threads have been cut off.

Perhaps the easiest point of entry is a cover of "Eleanor Rigby", which replaces the strings with a softly throbbing drum machine and then bleeds in enough keyboards to get the point across. Exquisitely produced, restrained and yet still vital.

It's as if the muzzling has forced a greater amount of creativity within the bounds of the sonic construct. It took me a moment to really appreciate Godhead, but once I forced my way through the door, my frustration turned to admiration. Goth music in a cool mode. Who'da thunk it?

A follow-up album to Intoxicated Man, whereby Harvey is translating the songs of Serge Gainsbourg. If you don't know Gainsbourg, well, that's because in America we generally don't pay much attention to French music. Trust me, this you want to hear.

Harvey recreates Gainbourg's cafe jazz pop style, infusing that moods with a style all his own. As my seventh-grade French has been decaying ever since, I can't really comment on the quality of the translations, though the lyrics are quite arresting, which I assume echoes the originals well enough.

As the best jazz artists do, Harvey has taken a set of classic songs and made them his own. The method may seem a bit obsessive, but it's impossible to quibble with the result. This set is much more eclectic than Intoxicated Man, and while it is not quite so single-minded in its pursuit of the Gainsbourg ideal, I guess, I think this works at least as well.

Ambitious, certainly. And Pink Elephants works. Completely satisfying, dropping any listener into a world that sounds familiar, but is a bit strange to the touch. Always good to find new bearings.

I must admit, when I first read about Tim Armstrong's formation of Hellcat (under the broad Epitaph umbrella), I was a bit worried that there was something of a reaction to a fad going on. That's exactly what it was, but in this case, Armstrong, Gurewitz and friends have endeavored to bring to the fore real, live ska music, stuff that's faithful to the Studio One and London ideals. An education for the kiddies and edification for us oldsters.

Soul music with a syncopated groove, in other words. Hepcat skanks through song after song with sweet horns blowing and tight harmonies swinging. The production is wonderfully sparse and loose, giving the sound a wide, echoey, expansive feel. It's like you're in the club fetching the beat.

Traditional, but hardly wallowing in the past. Hepcat is no copycat, but an innovator true to the original concept. Luminous in its presentation of the real ska.

Simply a joy to behold. Like the Slackers album from earlier this year, Hepcat combines stellar musicianship with pureness of musical intent. The shining countenance of the band is palpable in the sound. Way too cool to miss.

Instruments: Bass, guitar, effects, samples. That's it. And that's more than enough. Kinda spacey stuff, like Seam without vocals or something. A lot like Pell Mell. That sorta thing.

Yeah, the guitar lines echo a lot, and sometimes I wish those lines had a bit more meat to them. The use of samples is subtle and effective, one of the better things in the disc.

Nicely understated, basically. This isn't groundbreaking music, but it sets a mood quite well. Icecake is a constructed act, with each piece being properly sequenced in with all the others. That sort of sterile breeding ground might have yielded a shrill or unfeeling album. Not here. Icecake is contemplative and warm.

Yet another path to the inner recesses of your mind. Icecake's hypnotic grooves can be grating if the listener isn't in the proper mindset, but with a little stretching, this music is ready to take you on a ride.

Oh, the hype that arrives with this album. A set of Brazilian critics have placed this album among the 15 most important recordings in Brazilian history. The back cover calls Karnak "The Mothers of Invention Go to Brazil". The band's leader, Andre Abujamra says in the liners: "Karnak is not world music! Karnak is a band without precedent! Karnak is a temple!" I'm sitting here thinking, "This shit better be good, or I'm gonna start lobbing mortars right and left."

First, let me say that Karnak is not a band without precedent. However, that's probably the only bit of excessive hyperbole in the hype. Paul Simon, among other folks, has blended multiple musical concepts into songs (including Brazilian pop), though his gift has always been language more than music. With Karnak, the music is of paramount importance.

Well, I'm sure the lyrics are at least interesting, but I'm not terribly proficient in Portuguese (like, I kinda know Spanish), so you're not going to get any announcements praising wondrous poetry here. But, see, the music is amazing. The rhythms are probably the most intoxicating part, but the way that musical ideas from a multitude of cultures are laid over Latin and South American grooves is most impressive. Abujamra has assembled a large number of musicians with experience in a wide array of music forms, from classically trained virtuosos to instinctive hackers.

And so the Zappa reference is most appropriate. Abujamra utilizes the talents of his musicians to the utmost, fully fleshing out his rather expansive vision. The final result is a gorgeous array of tunes that throb with the vitality of many diverse cultures. It's the unusual album that make such complicated concepts sound so appealing. Get lost. Now.

Rumbling through what sounds like wildly distorted and sometimes quite lengthy tape loops, Laddio Bolocko actually plays a series of mechanical-sounding vamps, eventually assembling generally incoherent pieces into a fairly pleasing whole.

Man, that description is obtuse. But then, Laddio Bolocko probably faces two reactions to its music. The first (and probably most prevalent) would go something like "What the fuck is that shit?" The second, more reasoned approach would consider the fairly complex sound, mull over the variety of noises presented and conclude that Laddio Bolocko is somewhere off the edge of the ledge, though it hasn't quite hit the ground yet.

A train wreck in progress, the sound of a dying civilization, whatever. Laddio Bolocko is a noise band in almost every sense, from the keen appreciation of sonic discord to the wide spectrum of distortion employed at various points. The best way to dig into this kinda thing is simply to burrow into the mess and see where you end up. Lose yourself, and take the chance that you won't be coming back any time soon.

Chaos breeds order. Laddio Bolocko understands this better than almost any other band I've encountered. A brave and unsettling disc, one that brooks no cowards.

The coolest thing about packages from Skin Graft is the strange little oddities that arrive in concert with the latest from the founders of the Now Wave. And so I get this slab of vinyl, which has nothing more than a phone number for a contact (though it seems this may be the product of a label called Westside Audio Labs--the info is at the bottom)

Poorly-produced, and even if I could hear what was happenin', I have a feeling it would be incoherent and vague at best. Mini Systems doesn't play songs in the traditional sense (or maybe in any sense at all), but the noise does have its moments.

Avant-garde, experimental, you stick whatever moniker you like on this sort of thing. It doesn't matter. All it means is that 99.9% of the universe will consider it something lower than the latest Kylie Minogue offering.

But we know better, we of the enlightened freak class. We know that music like this foments cultural fermentation and righteous change. We hold as true the idea that no matter how fucking bizarre (and quite possibly unlistenable) the music is, such expressions are vital to the progress of civilization and the future survival of the human race.

Well, at least I do. So there.

Relatively clever lyrics and easy-as-pie three chord punk pop. The Nimrods don't have much in the way of a serious set of messages, but they manage to leave a smile along with their harmony-laden hooks.

Not too tight, though, because that would sound dreadfully processed. Naw, the Nimrods simply ply their wares with workmanlike skill, not worrying about the odd dropped chord or grating shout.

Sounds a lot like Green Day's Lookout says, though with more punch in the guitar (probably because this is a quartet, and there are two six strings). Enjoyable, and not too filling.

Good music for taking the top down and cruising. Of course, it's winter now, so maybe you can drop this in the discer and imagine a sunny paradise somewhere. Though, as the Nimrods would probably point out, paradise ain't what it's cracked up to be.

While this disc has been segmented into nine tracks, the reality is that the piece runs all together. Non uses a series of electronically-processed drone structures to cement the foundation, and then runs some other stuff on top. Sometimes, you can even understand what's being said.

But that's not the important part of the plan. Non's focus is on the music, and how sound can be used to speak just as eloquently as Cervantes. Indeed, sound can convey thoughts and ideas, and most of the concepts disclosed on this disc are of the dark variety.

You already figured that out by looking at the cover? Okay, then. The philosophical basis of the album is to explore the areas where the beast and god in Man intersect. Hiroshima comes to mind, as does the American holocaust of the "civilizing" of the West. You can come up with plenty more examples, I'm sure.

The sounds are unsettling and disturbing. That would be the point. If you don't want to explore the dark recesses of your own mind, then go buy the Hanson Christmas album. Those of us who feel like doing a little grout work in our minds and souls will take the Non, thankyouverymuch.

Strikingly sloppy punk that abuses hooks, chords and even lyrics, but manages to amuse in the end. Somehow, flat oozin-ahs still work.

The strangest thing is that the production makes the sound so sharp that every little flub becomes awfully apparent. The drums are as punchy as a machine, and the guitars sound like they're cutting off the fingers of the band.

That dichotomy works for me, though, as does the generally insightful songwriting. The band may not be the most proficient I've ever heard, but the music is top notch. Just enough of an emo coloring (the use of strident chords) to bring about a fine finish to the stuff.

Messy, but after listening, I'm almost convinced the band wants it that way. This is a fine pop album assembled with punk parts. Echoes of the Wrens, the Smiths and Bad Religion. Now, that can't be all bad, can it?

You know, backward masking is a bitch to decipher when all you've got is the CD. And Panicsville makes use of that and a whole host of other tricks on its way to creating one of the most grating, annoying and generally painful discs I've heard in ages.

That's a compliment, by the way.

Oh, yeah, this is another of the extra goodies that arrived in the Skin Graft box, stuff that is so far off the fringe it flies ahead of the expanding universe. Weird is an utter understatement. Tape loops heavy on the distortion, samples run every which way, throbbing electronic noise and a general lack of respect for the average music listener. All of this explains why it showed up in my mailbox.

I'm not going to make any grand claims of genius here. In fact, albums like this are one of the reasons I quit handing out ratings. There is no standard I can refer to in order to hand out a qualitative analysis on the basis of one to five. This is easily one of the strangest albums I've ever heard (I've gotten a lot of that this issue), and all I know is that I'll be listening to it for a long time to come.

My wife? I think she'd rather I used it as a coaster. It takes all kinds.

You know, I have a feeling these guys know how much I like upbeat pop songs that have that particular sound which lends an epic feel to the proceedings. Yes, these are power pop anthems, with the odd touches of organ (mouth and keyboard). A definite Seven Seconds influence crashing through at certain moments.

As often happens, the lyrics sometimes get a bit too convoluted for the music, and that certainly takes a few style points away. After all, the art is to craft perfect poetry to fit the form. Editing, boys. It's called editing.

Still, there's a groove pervading this disc that I simply must mainline. Punchy, playful and really, really insistent, Plankeye throws out some real fine pop stuff. Sounds a lot like many other pop bands, but when Plankeye finds its happy place (about half the tunes, a fair average), all I can do is bask in the glory.

Alright, sometimes it doesn't work out perfectly. But I defy you to play "Someday" or "Playground" without jumping up and down and squishing a few brain cells against yer cranium. If you don't, then you might as well kill yerself today.

Pro-America, pro-pot rock. Hey, a slogan I can live with. Paul Topete wrote the music and played many of the instruments (with some help from a few friends). Topete sounds like he's lost in the 80s, that whole Survivor and later-day Journey thing going on.

And he does a better-than-fair job with that sound. The production is top-notch, and he's got a good ear for the power-rock anthem chorus. While the emphasis on his brand of patriotism (which isn't utterly whacked like many of the "patriots" in militias) would sound out of place in music that flows away from the mainstream, AOR is the perfect medium.

Now, if you got over this sorta music when you were in junior high school, well, you're not gonna like this anyway. But if you still listen to Vital Signs with fond feelings of nostalgia, then you'll like where Pokerface is coming from.

I don't think this sound is coming back any time soon, though I wouldn't have ever bet on a band like Hootie and the Blowfish, either. For what he does, Topete's Pokerface turns in a good performance.

A bass and drum duo from Japan. You might scoff, but when you consider the personnel (drummer Tatsuya Yoshida has played with Zeni Geva, John Zorn and many other cool people), well, you've gotta listen.

Taking a noise sledgehammer to art rock, they do. Anyone who claims that the folks who do the noise thing are untalented hacks would walk away from Ruins with another idea altogether. While seemingly random and chaotic, Ruins songs are actually rather carefully crafted deconstructions of that thing we call rock.

And those roots are laid bare. It's hard to imagine that music of such power and grace could come from two people playing their instruments alive at every opportunity. That's what's happening here. The press clippings have references to everyone from Zappa and Beefheart to the Butthole Surfers to Led Zeppelin and Yes. That's all applicable and then some.

Oh, and by the way, this is mind-blowing fare. The last few tracks of the disc are live, baby, live, ending with a truly inspired and completely bizarre "Prog Rock Medley". Just so you're sure to get the point and all. All hail, indeed.

An interesting counterpoint to the Pokerface album I reviewed a few slots back. Screaming Politicians subtly discuss the politics of the person, not the demagoguery of the people. The music falls within the acceptable norms of that whole "alternative" rock form, with some nice keyboard texturing.

The sound is also one of the 80s, though make that the rather late 80s in the style of those anthemic R.E.M. wannabes. Screaming Politicians does a decent enough job of updating the music, though the stuff still comes across as somewhat dated.

The lyrics are the best part of the package, poetically written and rather affecting. While they don't get in the way of the music, the spoken thoughts far outweigh the sonic ones, by a wide margin.

If the music were more adventuresome, I'd be somewhere near ecstatic. Screaming Politicians has plenty to say, though I wish it sounded better when making its points.

Still stuck in the turgid metalcore that characterized the EP from earlier this year, Shai Hulud does exhibit better musicianship and shows signs of progress, particularly in the area of songwriting.

While still not as punchy as a Pro-Pain (which is, admittedly, much more metal by intent), Shai Hulud does manage to make these songs at least listenable. The band, somewhat stung by criticism and comments on its previous releases, felt compelled to write a lengthy statement in the liners stating that any and all viewpoints expressed are not necessarily felt by all members of the band, etc. Methinks that's a bit too much of a protest.

Once again, the most intriguing piece of the puzzle is the lyrics. Of course, given the singing style, they're damned difficult to discern. Which wouldn't be so much of a problem if the music had a bit more life.

Yeah, but even with my bitching, Shai Hulud has managed to actually write some coherent and appealing songs, rising above the murky muddle of the recent EP. Great? Nah. But on the move, to be sure.

Three chords, and the same ones just about every time out, it seems. Nicely throbbing, but still somewhat dull. The rather muddled production and low mastering level don't help a lot.

Extremely basic. This approach works fairly well on songs like "Twotiminsongofabitch" (say it fast), but when spread over a full album's worth of songs, well, it gets old. Hey, I like upbeat and moderately hooky punk-style pop as well as anyone else, but some variety is needed.

And Snuka is stuck singing the same song over and over again. Ouch, ya know? God, I kept waiting for the groove to shift (or even an infusion of a new chord progression, or something). Alright, so "Fuck You (With a Song)" does provide such a respite, but then it's back to the same old same old.

I'm guessing Snuka puts on one hell of a show. Live, see, you can change things up and use all the palpable energy in a way that can be awe-inspiring. That spirit didn't translate onto this disc. Too bad, really.

Combining the lighter side of acid jazz with the blue-eyed soul pop of, say Spandau Ballet, Culture Club or Simply Red, Tom Dick and Harry takes me back to some of the most frightening moments of my adolescence.

Yes, I'm talking about the slow songs at the junior high school dance. A real rough time when you're not exactly socially adept. I know, I know, the band has nothing to do with my neuroses, but fuckit, that's where my head is. The playing is nice, and the sound is dead-on, but man, this groove creeps me out.

So my skin is crawling from sensory memory recall, and I find it really hard to concentrate on the music. I don't listen to stuff like this as a prophylactic against this sort of reaction, and I'm going to have to bow out.

Mellow, tightly-played pop with falsetto vocals and a nice horn section. Hey, these guys do it well enough. But I've got too much weirdness in my head right now.

Chunky rock that kinda fits the title of the tape. Not particularly risky or innovative, Union Deposit Road makes the most of its thick riffs and blue collar melodies.

About where you want a bar band to be. This is music that sounds great in a club. The songwriting limitations become obvious only when the tunes are committed to tape.

The band plays with spirit and panache, and the production is better than most demos. All instruments are clear, and the vocals are mixed in at a good level. The only thing missing is a more unique inspiration.

Solid, if somewhat unimaginative. Rock and roll for the everyman.

A celebration of one of the great gothic labels in the world. Twenty-two tracks from 20 bands, spread over two discs. I'm not sure how much of this is previously released (the gorgeous liner notes give extensive biographies of each artist, but don't say where the actual songs came from), but my guess is there's a bunch of stuff here that has been damned difficult to get on this side of the Atlantic.

Now, when I said gothic, I meant the real thing. None of that silly Marilyn Manson stuff, and none of the gothic pop (a la the Cure) that is so popular with the kiddies. No, this is sonic structure stuff, with a little black industrial and black metal thrown in for kicks. As the liners note, label founder Roger Karmanik is interested in the art of music, not in aligning with any rigidly-defined genre.

The Absolute Supper is a wildly expansive exploration into the true intellectual and emotional potential of music. No rules, just pure sonic power. A walk down the stairs into the dank basement of the musical experience, where a mad scientist works, readying his latest creation.

Stunning, really. I assume you can get the through Projekt (who distributed most of the CMI releases), though I got this puppy direct from Sweden. If you even pretend to be interested in the music of the mind, well, this is simply a must. No excuses.

B. Sides is the project of Billy Sides, one of the fine people at Skin Graft. This single is one of the extra goodies I got in the Skin Graft mailing. Sides says he started his new label to further foster the whole Now (!) Wave sound, and that's what can be found on this little slab.

Topside is F'Stein and the Grouchos. The F'Stein track was crafted to sound like a skipping record. And that's exactly what it sounds like. It didn't fool me (my record player makes ancillary noises when it skips, and those were absent), but it still sounds cool. That song sounded best at 33. The Grouchos piece sounded much better at 45, until the last minute or so, which works better at 33. I might note that there is no indication of a proper speed, so I just experiment. Generally, I'm at odd with the actual proper speed, but whatever.

The flip contains Zeek Sheck and the Torture(d) Machine. Now, while I think the proper speed is indeed 45 (the voices sound, um, human), I like the strangely stretched out gothic effects achieved by playing the thing at 33. I apologize for fucking with Miss Sheck's art, but I think that's part of the point, anyway. Oh, and the Torture(d) Machine sounds good at either speed. Lotsa cool noise to round out the set.

Sorry if my ruminations about speed sound cavalier. That's just one of the beauties of the 7" form. More room for experimentation on the part of the listener. Never assume the music you hear is a finished product. You must supply the final ingredient: Your mind.

Four guys who wandered through the band in the 70s and 80s (Jon Anderson, Steve Howe, Chris Squire and Alan White) add a much younger member (Billy Sherwood) and crank out a set of songs that are quite accessible by Yes standards.

Traditionalists probably won't be happy. And I'm not sure how many new folks will flock to this sound, which is something of a 90s update of the 90215 concept: a stricter adherence to pop song structure and a greater emphasis on vocals.

Technically, of course, Yes satisfies. Steve Howe may look like Keith Richards's vampiric cousin, but he can still play with precision. And somehow, Jon Anderson is able to waft that weird falsetto as well as ever. The songs themselves aren't particularly interesting (a few too many musical and lyrical cliches for my taste), but they don't suck (a problem which has plagued Yes releases for the past few years).

A rebirth? Not really. But it is nice to hear a listenable Yes album again. I certainly wasn't counting on even that much.

The last of the extras in the Skin Graft package proves to be one of the finest. Otomo Yoshihide is an acclaimed master of the noise form, and the two 20-minute plus songs here prove that point.

Yoshihide creates whorls and swirls of distortion and then lobs them against one another. Kinda like watching Life, the old mainframe computer game where pixels react to one another in accordance with the rules of the universe, building huge sets of beautiful patterns before getting wiped out by a magic arrow from another civilization.

A firestorm of creative genius. Yoshihide fires his static with a soft touch, bringing a level of subtlety not usually heard in such compositions. Sure, it's loud, but listen for the little voices which flit about just behind the wall of pain.

Agonizingly beautiful. An acquired taste, of course, but one I succumbed to years back. This is one of the finest examples of this sort of music I've ever heard. Brilliant.