It looks like this release is the only opportunity to hear the full-sized band Mazozma’s FATUFAIRFE, a group unwieldy in both name and line-up. Ma Turner and John Philip Farmer are at the core, playing their compositions with musicians previously sighted alongside R. Stevie Moore, Apples In Stereo, Blood Pheasant etc. 12 inches of weirdo rock, packed in envelopes with Jim Marlowe artwork.
12" £13.19 SL082
Limited 4-track 12" EP on Sophomore Lounge. Edition of 100 copies in hand-numbered envelopes printed w/ artwork by Jim Marlowe of Tropical Trash.
- Shipping cost: £3.15 ?
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You spend all day trying to reach your daily quota of water in a thankless attempt to stay hydrated, and then get all worked up to a sweat listening to weirdo rock. It’s happy new year and back to the drawing board for this tired writer: here’s Mazozma’s FATUFAIRFE, which contains the seemingly improvised slam dunks of Ma Turner and John Philip Farmer, who bridge gulped instrumentals, garage rawk hits, stoner slowcore and upside-down jangle pop into one bopping record. It’s wonky and raw -- and wherever your face is, it’s in.
Clint admits to struggling to get his head around this one, but I’m sure the duo at the core of this outfit would forgive him, since their music meanders in and out of proper songs and prog outbursts with little sense of direction, narrative or timetable. At times the group land on an indelible guitar line and then shoot it off into space, where it wriggles around in an infinite sour spot between riff and solo. At times they agree on a vocal harmony and bring their raw recordings the slightest feeling of texture, before rounding back in on a stoned-out, imprecise rock exercise that sounds like it’s happening from the floor of your neighbour’s garage.
“Glass Corner / Rejoice” ambles into post-hardcore avenues with a furiously noisy collation of guitars winding back and forth like Shellac trying to do proper punk -- with one swift maneuver they turn it into an almost pastoral Southern rock ‘n’ roll jam that sounds as bright as a summer’s day. The measures at which they play are so random and abandoned that you start to suspect a slow stoner bit, or expect treachery from a quiet passage. I won't be fooled again. It's my resolution.
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