Тема на форуме

Location: Ngabean Village, Wonosobo Regency, Central Java

Sound: Bundengan (also called kowangan or koangan)

By the time the Dutch civiil servant and ethnomusicologist Jaap Kunst made his way through thevolcano-studded highlands of Central Java on his expeditions of the 1930s, the instrument he called kowangan was already “gradually [becoming] very rare.” Always smitten by rare and exotic instruments, Kunst included multiple photos of the instrument in his massive “Music in Java: Its History, Its Theory, and Its Technique,” understandably as the instrument is so hard to put into words. Kunst describes it as a “shield-like” construction, while I might describe it as having the form of a beetle’s shell (the word kowangan is said to come from the local Javanese word for a kind of beetle). Imagine a woven bamboo mat held vertically, its two top corners folded and tied together. It's the rare kind of object where even after seeing one in person, you could still have no idea what exactly it's for.

Images from Music in Java: Its History, Its Theory, and Its Technique, Vol II by Jaap Kunst

An Australian conservator named Rosie Cook e-mailed me last year asking about an instrument called “kowangan” - had I heard of it? She’d come upon a dusty kowangan in the Music Archive collections of Monash University in Melbourne, later learning that the instrument had been collected by the preeminent queen of Indonesian ethnomusicology, Margaret Kartomi. Kartomi had come upon the instrument in the highland area of Dieng in the 1970s, and after some minimal research had shipped an example back home to Australia where it had been collecting dust in the archives ever since. 

As a conservator, part of Rosie’s job is diving deep into the material physicality of objects, such as trying to understand the preservation of dried bamboo leaves and the precise weaving of a kowangan’s bamboo lattice. What I didn’t know was that conservation as an art and science is moving away from an obsession with objects as pure material and towards an emphasis on an understanding of objects (from musical instruments to puppets) as being loaded with meaning and cultural significance, a web of cultural context and knowledge which is easy to miss when museum collections are seen as a bunch of old, exotic objects on dusty shelves. 

The kowangan (musical parts not yet added) in the Monash Music Archive, photo by Rosie Cook

When Rosie told me that she was planning to go to Wonosobo, Central Java to try to find out more about the instrument and this beautiful web of meaning and tradition that surrounds it, I couldn’t help but invite myself along. I had seen the pictures and description in Kunst’s book, but so much was missing. Kunst was pretty old school, a classic colonial surveyor, and as such he was usually more interested in making lists of instruments and tuning systems than in finding out what the music meant to people, or why it was played at all. This instrument, we thought, deserves more. 

A few months later, we were in Wonosobo, a cool highland area a few hours from Java's cultural capitals of Solo and Jogja. One of our first stops was at the humble workshop of Pak Mahrumi, the last craftsman of kowangan in the area. The kowangan, it turns out, is not the name for a musical instrument at all, but rather for the duck herder's tool from which the instrument arose.

What locals still call kowangan is up to this day the favored tool of the duck herder (penggembala bebek in Indonesian - yes, there is such a thing), men who shepherd their herd of ducks out to the fields to graze. As they wait on their fowl friends, these penggembala prop up their kowangan with a piece of wood or rattan and sit underneath it, the organic curves of the kowangan shielding them from sun and rain. When its time to go, the herder can hang the device off the back of his head like a rigid cape. 

At some point, some bored duck herder decided that the three-in-one hat, cape, and shelter combo simply wasn’t enough - there was musical potential here! The kowangan was already wrapped up in ijuk, or “palm hair”, a kind of natural fiber which when unraveled makes a perfect string. These strings were strung across the concave inside of the kowangan, probably in imitation of the Javanese folk zither called siter. This bored duck herder, not satisfied with making a simple zither, took it a step further: he wedged bamboo strips into the lattice of the kowangan, their tops poking out like fingers. When plucked, these strips became kendhang, or drums, the dry bassy sound approximating the busy polyrhythms of the Javanese kendhang drum.

Pak Mahrumi modeling his kowangan with his wife in their home near Wonosobo

Pak Mahrumi, the kowangan craftsman, has nothing to do with this music making. He just makes kowangan, the duck herder’s shelter - what the duck guys do after they buy it is up to them. Once transformed by the duck herder/musician into a working instrument, the object is actually no longer called a kowangan. It has been transformed through that beautiful musical alchemy into something totally new: the bundengan. 

Despite knowing little about the musical experimentation of duck bros and modern revivalists, Pak Mahrumi was a well of knowledge about the kowangan at the heart of the musical bundengan. We spent an hour or so in his little studio as he began the work on a new kowangan, confidently weaving horizontal bamboo strips (penyendek) with vertical ones (pendawa), eventually forming such a firm lattice that he had to use a hammer to whack the strips into place. Later the corners of this fence-like mat would be folded up and tied with the aforementioned ijuk into a peak-like horn or sungu, which doubles as a handle. The lattice would then be covered with sompring, the bark-like sheath of young bamboo, “on top of one-another”, Kunst put it, “like the scales of a fish.” 

To get to the heart of what happens after a kowangan has become a bundengan, we had to meet with Pak Munir, the man who some say is the last real master of bundengan in all of Java. This is quite a contentious subject, it turns out. Before heading to Wonosobo, Rosie and I had both seen a documentary (and an article or two) which described a guy named Hengky as the last bundengan pro. They couldn’t both be the last bundengan master…what was going on? 

Pak Munir, it turns out, has something of a genetic claim to the bundengan throne. His older brother was a man named Pak Barnawi, a musician who locals credit with taking the private duck herder’s music and turning it into a modern performance art. Pak Barnawi had taken the twangy palm fiber ijuk strings and swapped them out for the synthetic strings of a tennis racquet, and he’d been the first to play the instrument on a stage rather than in a field full of ducks. Barnawi had died in 2012, and Pak Munir, his kid brother, had been cajoled by a local music patron into taking his place as gatekeeper of the bundengan tradition.

It became clear that claiming to be the only bundengan musician left in Wonosobo is a pretty crafty move, as if you’re the only guy left, you’re bound to be the one called when local government wants to put on a concert showcasing “regional arts,” or when the local TV crew comes through looking to spotlight this oddball musical tradition. That’s why this younger fellow, Mas Hengky, had claimed to be the last guy as well (Pak Munir shrugged Hengky off, essentially saying “yeah, he can play, but I’m the only one left who can really play”) And it wasn’t just a rivalry between Munir and Hengky - on our two day sweep through Wonosobo looking for surviving bundengan musicians, we met two others, Pak Suparman and Pak Muntamar (the latter an actual duck herder, the only musical duck herder we managed to meet) who also claimed to be the only bundengan musicians they knew of. Even stranger, the last two both claimed they’d never met another bundengan player, even in decades past. When asked how they’d learned to play, or how they knew to transform the kowangan into a bundengan, they simply said they’d made it up themselves!

We never got to meet Munir’s rival Hengky, but that was fine enough - Munir was such a treasure. A shy, soft-spoken man with a thick black moustache and intense eyes, Pak Munir didn’t seem well-suited to the role of Bundengan Spokesman into which he’d been forced. Behind the shyness was a decent wealth of knowledge about bundengan, its theory and technique. If we’ gone to Pak Mahrumi to get into the material of the thing, Pak Munir was a window into the intangible, the musician’s understanding of an instrument.

I sat with Pak Munir before his bundengan and he broke it down for me. We started with those percussively plucked bamboo strips called kendhang or tabuh (in musicology, this part of the instrument is called a lamellophone, a category which includes everything from African kalimbas to mouth harps - the bundengan is the only non-mouth harp lamellophone I know of, a fact which might only be interesting to musical instrument nerds like me.) The kendhang, Pak Munir explained, is the hardest part of bundengan to master - the two or three strips are plucked with the index, middle, and ring finger in the dynamic, triplet-based idiom borrowed from kendhang playing found in local gamelan ensembles. In fact, the whole instrument is meant to replicate the sound of a pared down gamelan, with the four strings (Kunst’s example had seven, but we’re not sure how that would’ve worked) representing the gamelan instruments kenong, bende, kempul, and gong. 

The tuning of these four strings can be described most kindly as “idiosyncratic.” Kunst wrote that “the tuning is said to be in slendro [a common pentatonic gamelan tuning]; in reality, however, it resembled slendro only remotely, whilst considerable discrepancies could be heard between the different tudungs [bundengan] playing together.” Sit down with a bundengan for long enough and these “discrepancies” become understandable: the strings are not tuned with any kind of firm system like pegs; rather, they are stretched across and wedged or tied to the bamboo lattice. This isn’t very exacting, or permanent, and that doesn’t seem to be a problem for the musicians. 

This slippery tuning only began to make sense to me when my friend Agus explained that bundengan musicians tune their instruments not to a particular pitch, but to a particular timbre. So, for example, the gong string doesn’t have to have any special pitch in relation to the others - it simply has to have a deep, rich “gong” sound. The kenong simply has to have a round “nong” sound, the kempul a high and dry "ning", sound, and so on. This is accomplished by using little bamboo pieces (Kunst called them bandulan, but Munir had no name for them) spaced out along the strings. The physics of this is complicated, but these little floating “markers” both weigh the string down, which lowers the pitch, while also complicating the harmonics in such a way that the string has this kind of wavering gong-like sound. Again, we’re getting into dangerously nerdy organology here, but I’ve never seen another string instrument in the world that has anything like this (the closest, maybe, is John Cage’s prepared piano strings!)

For such a large, strange-looking instrument, the music played on it is actually quite simple: literally the same four note pattern is played on every song (for songs in the pop fusion style campursari, the picking becomes more fevered, but that’s the only difference). The “zither” part, then, is not playing a melody like other zithers in Java like siter and kacapi. Instead, it is just holding down the basic colotomic elements (the kind of foundational structure of all gamelan music), with the melody supplied by a singer. In our recording session, as is usual when Pak Munir performs, the bundengan is accompanied by family friend Pak Buhori on vocals (we recorded and filmed the material for this post in Pak Buhori’s living room, right after a dance rehearsal with Buhori’s daughters.) My favorite, though, was the tune where Pak Munir shyly sang himself, just as the duck herders once did.

The songs are taken from different Javanese folk music repertoires, from lagu dolanan (children’s songs) to campursari. Especially popular in Wonosobo is adding a dose of lengger, a dance, theater, and music form popular in highland Central Java. These days performative bundengan is almost always accompanied by lengger dancers and theater, which has its own fascinating history that I just don’t have the space to get into!

Despite seeming to get some kind of prestige from its sheer rarity, the bundengan looks to be entering a new era of revitalization. Rosie and I have been lucky to meet with a new generation of Wonosobo-ites eager to embrace and reimagine the place of bundengan in their society. While bundengan may have become less common as local culture shifted away from a purely Javanese, agricultural way of life towards a modernizing, globalized culture, it is that rustic, hyper-regional charm which seems to be spurring the bundengan revival now. Young guys like new friends Agus and Yudi are inspired by the bundengan’s unique, romantic past, but they aren’t stuck there - they envision the bundengan as a potent symbol of Wonosobo’s folksy charm, mixing it with indie pop songs and other very “untraditional” experimentations. 

Meanwhile, a local teacher named Bu Mul is leading a bundengan revolution with her young students, commissioning literally hundreds of new kowangan/bundengan from Pak Mahrumi for her students to play, even coming up with tiny versions that are easier for her kids’ tiny fingers to get a a hold of. Just this month, Rosie even returned to Wonosobo to take part in a bundengan workshop with Bu Mul and dozens of schoolkids.

This is a whole new world of bundengan. When Kunst found (what he called) kowangan in nearby Boyolali, he poetically wrote how the instruments would be “placed in threes or fours in a close circle with the openings turned towards each other, as a small house or shelter." In this formation, "In complete serenity and peace of mind, squatting, dry and cosy, underneath this contraption, and with music and song, they wait until the shower is over.” I love this image, I really do, but that world is gone now. Bundengan is finding its way forward in a new context, with a new generation giving it new meaning. There’s even a hashtag, #bundengan, where bundengan enthusiasts can share their latest discoveries and creations. It may not have the naive charm of duck herds in a field, but its just as real, and just as alive.

+++

Huge thanks, in no special order, to Rosie, our friendly assistants Aji and Budi, Pak Buhori and family for hosting us, Pak Munir for the ilmu, plus Pak Suparman, Mahrumi, and Muntamar. Also to the new bundengan generation, Agus, Yudi, Sa'id, and Bu Mul. And can't forget local documentarians Pak Agus and Pak Bambang Hengky. What a crowd! 

Follow #bundengan and check out Rosie's Instagram, @rosiehcook, where she promises to soon release her amazingly comprehensive thesis on bundengan! 

Link em baixo...

320 kbps | 104 MB | UL | OB | TB | KT

Tracklist:

01. Holy Fever
02. Shave ‘Em Dry
03. Sound of the Summer
04. Where Monsters Lead
05. Daddy Grace
06. Two Tonne Testimony
07. They Cut We Bleed
08. The Fear
09. We Know About Cha
10. Blues Uzi (Reprisal)

320 kbps | 72 MB | UL |

A folk singer’s head and a rocker’s heart – drawing inspiration from the melodies and lyrics of Neko Case and Aimee Mann, along with the hooks and harmonies George Harrison and Tom Petty.

Driving through the desert felt almost like flying. The saffron-tinted sandscape, undulating with the slightest variation, made it feel like I was barely moving at all. The dry desert air parched my lips to a tight chap, snapping my speech…and so I listened. My heart still vibrating from the special intimate moments I spent with Hamad and his band Bambara in the village of Khamlia, in the Merzouga district, was archived in a CD that now provided a soundtrack, a steady narrative via shifting tempos. Unknowingly, I surrendered to a sonically induced trance, preparing to connect to Morocco through her mosaic of music. Wandering in between tangerine shoulders, I contemplated the meaning of the name of the indigenous nomads of Morocco, the Amazigh, the free ones. I could hear that freedom in the sound of high-flying birds in an otherwise soundless sky, the alluring whisper of running water calling from deep wells and the gentle rhythm of baskets shaking steam free from freshly roasted peanuts.

Morocco has many worlds, shattered and pieced together, with their rough edges touching in a beautiful mosaic. Bass and rhythm come from indigenous Berber tribes and southern Gnawa nomads, while melodies are floated in an Arabic influence. Despite the range of diversity, much of Morocco’s music huddles around a similar sonic sensibility, the use of music to induce trance. Whether it is the heartbeat in the drums, the dance of the shaken, oversized Gnawan castanets, or the expression of a single Arabic word sung over hours, music in Morocco casts a spell. Far from a strict Western ideology of music as performance, music is a vehicle of transcendence, used in celebrations and in healing individuals and communities. Hamad explained to me, “This music gives you energy you know … this music, you can play it if you are tired, if you are angry, if you are happy…you know. Sometimes, you know you move it in your body and your spirit.” Throughout Morocco, people dance to listen and create a direct experience of knowledge rather than studying it through pages in a book.

Big Blue displays his wares. Photos by Tasha Goldberg.

The kasbah

Out in the desert, far from any city center, I discovered evidence of voices in vinyl. Counter current among native sounds is recorded music from the world. Records have that special way of delivering connections beyond the confines of physical travel. The music makers stay in their home, while their sound takes flight, landing wherever the needle drops it. In an ancient kasbah, a man we called Big Blue, an adequate moniker for a man whose eyes matched his indigo djellabah that wrapped around his head, curated ancient memories by the artifacts left standing. In the center courtyard where a cluster of pomegranates, oranges and dates sweetened the air, he shared the lifestyle of the past. Off to the side, standing in a shaft of light just like an old Casablanca starlet with sunglasses on, I spotted a vintage phonograph. The soft palette of colors in the heavy-set box literally took my breath away. Its needle looked medieval, a stout thickness that would make the big boys of the DJ world squeal like little girls at the thought of dropping that anywhere near a record. But judging by the years of caked desert dust, this was likely the only needle that could carve out sound from the cracked wax slabs, turned a chalky gray from years of exposure.

Market vibes

Truck stop tagines

The sighting of this vintage vinyl made my ears hungry. We caught a few more delicacies of desert travel, stopped through the High Mountains for truck-stop tagines, and headed back to Marrakech. I wanted to try my luck and find some wax delights. First stop was to one of Marrakech side markets, sprawling a good eight to 10 blocks radius from its center. Dodging donkeys, my eyelashes danced to fan away the pungent aromas of jasmine, roses, meat, urine, diesel and incense. I was hoping to find the dealers with records stashed among their antique wares. When I leaned into a stall, I felt like a neon American dollar sign, dealers instantly jacking the prices at the sight of me. Selecting from vintage stacks and bargaining, well, let’s just say this was not my first rodeo and before long they had their sleeves rolled up with mine to invest in the dig for scratch-free 45s. My select was based purely on the least number of scratches, unable to decipher the Arabic words. The record turned out to be exactly what I wanted, a recording of some type of tribal trance music.

Flirting for 45s

My favorite find was a spot narrower than a bathroom in a bar in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. With barely enough room to squat on the small velvet stool and pick through thousands of naked stacks, I actually felt more comfortable than in most places. The young man helping me eagerly handed me his prize collections first, featuring mostly French pop from the ’70s and ’80s collected by his father. Records were not often asked for, and so he had to find a key for the locked chest, literally re-enacting a fantasy of mine where I am privy to a secret stash of sound. I worked my best broken French and flirty eyes to get him to help me dig, and after hours of work and laughter, we came up with some Moroccan and plenty of Egyptian music. We spent another hour or so trying to wind up a vintage record player to sample the sounds, finally giving up when the effort sparked a heated argument with a neighbor that seemed possibly about other matters. I settled my selections, although to this day I still wish I would have grabbed a few more, even if I had only one side to enjoy.

One album I scored that was fully intact was by the great Warda El Djazairia, or Warda the Algerian Rose. This iconic woman was adored and cherished by her fans, held up in a manner similar to that of Fairuz and Umm Kulthum. She made beautiful music, but she also made meaningful music; music that spoke to the true stories of her social context. Born in France around 1939 or 1940 to a Lebanese mother and Algerian father, by age 11 her music was already being heard in northern Africa. Soon after, her family was forced to leave France after her father was accused of storing weapons for the Algerian independence movement, Le Front de Libération Nationale (FLN). At that time, Algeria was still under French colonial rule and so the family settled in Beirut. The young teenaged Warda continued to sing in local clubs and cafes, blending popular songs with nationalist subjects. She won the heart of a prominent Egyptian singer-songwriter Mohammed Abdel Wahab, known for his songs that became national anthems in Libya, Tunisia, the United Arab Emirates and Egypt. He invited her to live in Egypt, where she continued to blossom and caught the attention of the second president of Egypt, Gamal Abdel Nasser, champion of pan-Arab nationalism. Upon his invitation, she famously sang the song composed by Abdel Wahab: “My country, and the revolution against colonialism/If we all seek to sacrifice ourselves for you/Colonialism will come to an end” (from the film Al Watan al Akbar–The Greater Nation). Her voice became an aspirational expression for revolution, not only for Egypt, but within the pan-Arab movement.

Warda rose to popularity during an era that would be difficult for us to imagine, a time when everything was changing, evolving and reforming. As countries gained independence from colonial rule, young people were exploring their new freedoms and international interest was high. This was a time in history when the Black Panthers had headquarters in Algeria, and

Jimi Hendrix spent his down time in the coastal areas of Morocco. Diverse cultures lived among one another, sharing philosophies and expressions of life. In 1969, the first Pan-African Cultural Festival took place in Algiers. Musicians from all over the African continent made their way to the event, including Nina Simone, Miriam Makeba and Archie Shepp, as well as political leaders like first president of Angola, Agostinho Neto, and Amilcar Cabral, leader of the Guinea-Bissauan independence struggle. The popular music of North Africa reflected the shifting and sharing ideologies and new styles. And yet, there seems to have been a respect for tradition.

Warda has remained important throughout all of the shifting times. Her music shared strong national messages and her voice was, and still is, enchanting. The album I found was originally recorded in 1974, and reissued by La Voix du Globe, an Algerian label operating in France. A sweet songstress friend of mine, herself half Syrian, half Lebanese, HaBeBe (HaBeBe.rocks), listened to the tracks along with her Skyped-in aunty living in Syria. They were delighted to help me translate the meaning of the Arabic words, but it was the deeper feelings of Warda that I hold dear from those talks. Appreciating the loveliness of the sweet music of the flute and Arabic violin is easy, and of course the sheer authenticity of Warda’s voice. But as HaBeBe and her aunty listened, the track was punctuated by the sound of bombs going off in the distant but not too distant village in real time. How could the power of music to transcend and heal be so accepted and clearly understood, yet be so disconnected from the pain and suffering of today’s world? Why wouldn’t every radio show in the region broadcast the music that could soften and heal? It is possible, Fairuz was famous for this. Radio shows that played her music had the power to halt fire during war times. HaBeBe and her mighty aunty dared to do just this, they turned up the volume and prayed that even one broken-hearted soul who has fallen into the shadow of war would hear the song. They prayed that the sweet herb called madritouche that Warda sings of, the healing plant that is a cure-all, would find those ravaged and suffering and heal them. Perhaps when we listen again, we can be as brave as HaBeBe and her aunty, and dedicate the song to delivering its power of healing to those who need it most.

“Madritouche” by Warda El Djazairia.

(excerpt of the loose translation of “Madritouche”)

My love I’m telling you
Madritouche
I swear my love
I’m telling you
Madritouche
Reassure me
My mind is going crazy
Reassure me
Put me at ease
I’ll believe anything you say
Tomorrow is going
It’s coming literally in peace
Gd is going to bring another day
Kiss me and hug me
When you see your girl is upset
When you see your girl is upset
Hug and kiss me

 ABOUT VOICES IN VINYL

320 kbps | 102 MB | UL | OB |

Tracklist:
1. 100 Times (2:27)
2. 57 Chevy (4:56)
3. A Girl Called Gasoline (4:03)
4. Man In A Suit (3:40)
5. You Gotta Call (3:26)
6. Somewhere Out There (5:22)
7. Green Eyed Lady Blues (4:27)
8. 40 Days & 40 Nights (4:15)
9. The Back Doorstep Blues (3:49)
10. You’ve Gotta Move (3:19)
11. Love So Strong (3:42)

320 kbps | 160 MB | UL | OB | TB | DF

Tracklist:
1. ‘s Too Much (Alternate Master) (2:53)
2. Wild At Heart (2016 Re-Mix) (3:16)
3. I Like It Like That (2016 Remaster) (3:08)
4. Lonely Weekend (2:29)
5. Only A Dream (4:13)
6. He Ain’t Got You (2:57)
7. Dream Again (3:01)
8. Hangin’ On (2016 Remaster) (3:56)
9. That’s Not Love (2016 Remaster) (3:42)
10. Wicked Moon (2016 Remaster) (4:18)
11. Miss You Bad (Feat. Mark Knopfler) (2016 Remaster) (3:41)
12. Heartbreak Town (2016 Remaster) (3:23)
13. Waiting On A Dream (Feat. Micky Gee) (2016 Remaster) (3:16)
14. Hey Mister Night (Feat. Mark Knopfler) (2016 Remaster) (3:40)
15. Wild Woman (2016 Remaster) (3:26)
16. Let’s Talk Now (3:01)
17. Ain’t Gonna Cry (3:08)
18. Gonna Make Love (3:26)
19. Goodbye Heart (2:19)
20. She Means Nothing To Me (3:28)

320 kbps | 358 MB | UL | TB | OB

SoulMusic Records is very proud to present ‘Love Changes: The Anthology, 1972-83″, a first-of-its-kind 2-CD set by Mother’s Finest, considered the premier black rock-and-soul band of the ’70’s and ’80’s. This 37-track collection includes the entire 10-track 1983 LP, ‘One Mother To Another’, only ever released in Europe and making its worldwide CD debut. In addition, six tracks that were recorded for the group’s first RCA LP (in 1972) and only issued on a now out-of-print US CD in 2010 are also included here along with the team’s four charted singles, recorded for Epic Records during their seven-year tenure with the label. other standouts such as ‘Somebody To Love,’ (produced by Jimmy Iovine) along with ‘U Turn Me On’ and ‘Evolution’ from the 1981 LP, ‘Iron Age’ and key cuts from the group’s three Epic studio albums such as ‘Give You All The Love (Inside Of Me)’ and a cover of the Motown classic, ‘Mickey’s Monkey’. Formed in 1970 originally by vocalists Glenn Murdock and Joyce Kennedy, the band expanded with a nucleus that included guitarist Gary ‘Mo’ Moore and bassist Jerry ‘Wyzard’ Seay. Extensive liner notes by renowned US writer A. Scott Galloway including quotes from original members of the group including Glenn, Joyce, Gary and Jerry; and excellent mastering by Nick Robbins.

Oba Loba
Sir Robert Williams
(Three:Four Records, 2017)
more details

320 kbps | 109 MB | UL | OB |TB

Tracklist:
1. My Getaway (6:04)
2. Freight Train #9 (3:21)
3. Getting In The Way (3:16)
4. Dead Or Alive (5:30)
5. Outrun (5:19)
6. Don’t Blow (4:29)
7. Sandy’s Candy (6:22)
8. Hellbound (4:06)
9. Crazy Mike (7:08)

320 kbps | 125 MB | UL | OB | TB

Tracklist:
1. Tiny Bridges, Homemade Islands (5:04)
2. Shift (6:14)
3. Someone For Something (6:38)
4. Inside Brooklyn Thunder (8:09)
5. Hedning (4:50)
6. Staffans Visan (6:08)
7. Continuum (5:40)
8. Byssan Lull (4:41)
9. Lucia (6:18)

Тема на форуме

320 kbps | 84 MB | UL | OB

Tracklist:

01. When I Get Down
02. It Doesn’t Matter
03. Natural Girl
04. Got to Be True
05. Create
06. Paris Show Some Love
07. I Got It Covered
08. Stir It Up
09. Ain’t Funky Enough
10. Wood for My Fire
11. Shout Out!

Тема на форуме

320 kbps | 64 MB | UL |

Mark Kozelek—the artist behind Sun Kil Moon—has released a new EP under his own name, as Stereogum points out. It’s called Night Talks and is out via his Caldo Verde Records. The five-song effort includes a cover of Kath Bloom’s “Pretty Little Flowers” (featuring Bloom) and a cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Famous Blue Raincoat” (which he performed at a Cohen tribute this past November). There is also an acoustic version of “I Love Portugal” from Sun Kil Moon’s 2017 LP Common as Light and Love Are Red Valleys of Blood.