Muck | roc

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by Muck

Despite claims otherwise, Muck is Ernesto Diaz-Infante, Matt Davignon & Marjorie Sturm. "The strangest, most disconcerting take on any kind of so-called post-rock I have heard to this day." Francois Couture, All Music Guide
Genre: Pop: New Wave
Release Date: 

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  Song Share Time Download
1. The New Ritual
6:35 $0.99
2. Sensation
6:14 $0.99
3. Marcello's Angels
6:39 $0.99
4. On Any Given Day The Inspection from Within
4:16 $0.99
5. In this hour of only illusion
4:31 $0.99
6. Instrumental
7:31 $0.99
7. Sad Song
11:11 $0.99
Downloads are available as MP3-320 files.


Album Notes
Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Alfred T. Carmichael (aka Ability To Communicate, aka Ernesto Diaz-Infante) and my band found Pax Recordings to put out our music. My friends And Gnat Vomit (aka Matt Davignon), Tina (aka Marjorie Sturm) and I have been fine tuning our craft for over 3 months and we feel we are ready to unleash our music upon the unsuspecting world. The name of the band is "Roc", a clever play on words which combines the popular form of music with the giant bird from the middle ages. Our music reflects this too. We make gigantic, sunblocking songs which are also thought-provoking commentaries on politics and social situations. A lot of our songs have big powerful power chords.

Anyway, my girlfriend Tina, who writes the lyrics, says we're ready to go big time! So now we're sending out CDs to every cool magazine and college radio station we can find. Check out our music...

The very intense lyrics....

The New Ritual//He was half naked/Tip of his cock/Poking thru his pants/Chest bare, arm muscles moving/Flexing as he talked, wildly worth/His seduction./Through the hot orange night/The fire burned, churned/The ritual forward./She, his new protector,/Stood head facing the sky/Dressed in a gown of feathers/Arms open, embracing the inception/Of ideas newly birthed/Instilled now in a rain cloud./He will die on this day./She died yesterday./We all die one day./Pelting drops poured/He danced in circles/Exonerated the past/The last of the old ideas/He was no longer afraid/Of being naked./Shining and wet/Weaving into the world's womb/Too possessed for possessions/They owned nothing/But a rain cloud.

Sensation//I haven't been satisfied/by sensation for so long/my breasts on your chest/I float inward/fall into a stream/surrounded by jack rabbits'/steady steps soft gentle plush/your hand/on the back/of my thigh/my neck/In a cloud of smoke/you laugh and cough/cough and laugh/Can you hear that bell ringing?/I can/The morning melts, slithers slides by, we have studied/so much of each other's skin/this magnetism/manifested suddently/fragile dew drop/deep as the dark/The plants are spiraling up a beanpole./Where will we go?/The window won't shut/Your spirit slips out/travels with the ghost/that watches whales/weighing pros and cons of the situation/Each day the angle changes/along with my energy/I stare into the mirror/in utter stillness,/watching you crawl back/in the window/from behind.

Marcello's Angels//Angels wild with the wind each night/play their flutes on window ledges/enveloped by blue light/Their songs are upbeat, created to soothe/the heart,unique melodies rhythms/that enthuse a fresh start/If the angels sense that you are grieving/they'll perform songs that are healing/In these they will admit, an understanding so low/no explanation of this life and death that we know/Can you see them, become frenzied with dance/whirling around,/embracing the turbulance/The Angels hug Mystery face to face/such confrontation provides us our grace

On Any Given Day The Inspection from Within//Changing lightbulbs from room to room/telling time to the/ticket-taker/in the desperate wing/an angel rocks/to and fro/It is not forgotten/the forgetful slave/the future fugitive/of the invisible merry-go-wheel/sleep sleep sleep/lulled to sleep/like a magnet to the earth/moving fast/Off or on/non-understandable/the worm of light/wiggles in the dark dark/then withers away/piece of peace/to a dubious/destination/doubtful and doubly undone/the deceitful truth triggers/a quiet resurrection/From within/the inspection was exhausted/the carved cave paintings/revealed the withheld mystery/expanded the unexplained/only briefly/till memory eclipsed/the question/till the question/ eclipsed consciousness/in outer space/the bells are ringing

In this hour of only illusion//In this hour of only illusion/there is a knocking on the door/handwriting on the floor/You, who have cast the spell/can only creep so far away from the mirrors/that menace your champagne on ice/that heated chill/the cough in the throat that can't be cleared/we all stand witness/Sickly, barbed blue baby/hides in the basement

Sad Song//A wave, a roll of thoughts,/spiral in one direction/wave and then spiral in another/leaving me in/different locations/all while laying on my back./You want a family, a baby,/all I can say is maybe/my thoughts wave, roll,/spiral in one direction/leaving me with a sad song/A mourning melody/about what should be, could be,/what I thought it would be/nothing glimmers like the sea/and I am too young to enter it/Driving down the highway, staring at/7-ll's,/strip malls, cardboard halls, gray doors,/I knew I had to find something else to believe in./I prefer fantasy/because its more colorful than reality/I don't want to only pretend to care anymore/With you and me, /it's not simple, you agree,/pressures from society, our families,/the constant false dualities/city or country, intellect or spirituality/Lives that are illusively linear/with time constraints/that will not wait and/heed warnings such as/"we are not getting any younger." ©2004 by Marjorie Sturm.



to write a review

Francois Couture, All Music Guide

the strangest, most disconcerting take on any kind of so-called post-rock I have
I just want to say (and you can quote me on that!) that it is the strangest, most disconcerting take on any kind of so-called post-rock I have heard to this day. The whisper-singing-over-tapes-slowed-down-to-a-crawl has grown into its own rock genre -- one I won't even try to label, as it would spoil some of the shocking experience that is listening to it for the first time. Although the most shocking thing about it is that once you get used to the sound of this "band", it grows on you.

Johnny Loftus, All Music Guide

It's essential for fans of antimusic stuff...
The Pax Recordings roster is obsessed with slurred detachment. The relative light of post-rock doesn't even reach the deep space niche of types like Matt Davignon, Ernesto Diaz-Infante, and Muck; it chokes and dies in the hovering junk cloud of a million unspooled reel to reels. Muck's Roc, in particular, barely registers as avant-garde, since the readout for its whispering and tape experimentalism is so muted. "Albert T. Carmichal, aka Ability to Communicate" (the proper nouns attached to this recording are too rich to be real) delivers lyrics like "Angels wild with the wind each night/Play their flutes on window ledges" in a barely audible monotone; the lyrics are like the half-speak of a zombie daydreamer, only truly discerned with the aid of liner notes. The "instrumentation," as it were, is as it won't. Muck lists everything from "4-track manipulations" and "60hz" to mic stands, pitchpipes, electronic percussions, and turntables as instruments on Roc, but good luck trying to hear any of that distinctly. "The New Ritual" and "Marcello's Angels" are backed by muddled, exceedingly slow series of sounds that never spike enough to count as noise, let alone music. And yet, Roc possesses a viscous gravity that's hard to outrun. At first, the air vent rumble of "In This Hour of Only Illusion" is punctuated with a few clanks and piano key stabs. But your mind soon starts to qualify the dull burble as a needle butting up against a rotating turntable spindle. Again, the lyrics are the loosest of frameworks. "Instrumental" and the lengthy "Sad Song" might offer the most definition here. Both set the levels to fluttering with what passes for a consistent beat; the latter even builds its rhythm from slowed and/or backward looping, à la IDM convention. Muck is a barely tastable acquired taste. It's essential for fans of antimusic stuff, particularly that on the far side of the Skam label.

Dolf Mulder, Vital Weekly

It's music - sometimes almost 'songs'- that comes directly from the subconscious
What to make of this one? A typical Pax Recording release, that's for sure. Low profile, slow rock and soundscapes. Albert T.Carmichael (aka Ability to Communicate) whispers and murmurs the texts written by Tina in the microphone, like somebody who is daydreaming and who isn't really speaking to someone. Sort of 'interior monologe.' Together with And Gnat Vomit, Albert uses a diversity of instruments
and techniques: tape, guitars, keyboards, synths, electronic
percussion, sequenced beats, 4-track manipulations, bass, 60hz, sampler, acoustic guitar, mic stand, vocal loops, sk-1 siren whistle, pitchpipe, turntable, drum machines. All these instruments are hard to identify in all 7 pieces. Both musicians built abstract sound environments around the lyrics, as if you are entering the inner world of someone. It's music - sometimes almost 'songs'- that comes directly from the subconsciousness level. Listening to this cd, my
eye fell on another record here in my room: 'Vocoding Life/Psycho-Akustik' (1980) by german Maran Gosov. Yes,
psycho-acustic music that?s the term I was looking for. This
describes perfectly what we hear on this strange, but convincing cd.

Rotcod Zzaj, Improvijazzation Nation

All that comes in th' "press kit" is a note portending to be from Alfred T. Charmichael (aka Ability To Communicate)... I've got a strange feeling about these trax, tho'... sounds an awfully lot like my friend EDI singin' those disturbing slowed-down lyrics; actually, they're not all that troublesome until you READ them. Somewhat along th' lines of what I 'magine Lennon was writing in his steepest smack strangeness(es) - whispers of wholeness, too submerged to sink in to.. DEEPest reaches, to be sure. You (just) can't listen to this with any other background going on... imperative that you descend to th' depths with th' players. Some of th' beats are intriguing, & not just "beats"; part of th' larger (?stellar?) compositional format, without any overbearing electronics. Noise can be fun, & it's certainly more intellectually satisfying than th' debates. In the overall, this gets a HIGHLY RECOMMENDED for listeners who want to hear something that digs deeper into the psyche than David Bowie (unless he was on blue dot).

Jackal Blaster Zine

Something different, something weird, and something to check out.
Pax has also just released something a little different then what you may have come to expect from them. Muck- a rock/industrial two-piece from CA, have their debut, ROC, out now. Seven tracks of ultra slow, minimal rock, with spoken word, surrealist lyrics dealing with society, sexuality, and other things that really don't make much sense at all. Dreamlike and surreal lyrics fit the slow meandering, neanderthal music though. It not feedback twisted heavy, and its not drone, its just something out there. Something different, something weird, and something to check out.

Massimo Ricci, Touching Extremes

hypnotic, distorted, low-key, often sounding like a drunk astral voice
The definition "surreal, slow motion rock" used on the cover is a good one, but don't you ever think about Tortoise or anything similar. "Roc" is a like an old audio cassette falling apart under the sun, played in an old magnetophone; it's hypnotic, distorted, low-key, often sounding like a drunk astral voice coming out of dark rumbling clouds. Albert T. Carmichael's monotone laments actually "sing" about many peculiar situations - take a look at those great lyrics - fitting magnificently in a constant flow of out-of-tune oscillations and about-to-die sequences. It's like if you turn the dial on a radio and find the same warped-mind station forever: at the end you get used to these manifestations of ironic narcosis, to the point of a complete appreciation of this methodical absurdity.

Jon Worley, Aiding & Abetting

Sounds like Leonard Cohen played at half speed...
Sounds like Leonard Cohen played at half speed, and, well, that might well be what this is. It's certainly muddy, spooky and often dreadfully dreary. Just the sort of thing to warm a cold winter's eve. Put this on and wait for everything in your house to commit suicide. Or just bask in the blow of subterranean pleasures. Either is cool with me.