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Hello. I spent nearly 10 years selling on that other site (you can check my feedback there; It's under the same ID as this one; over 3200 positives, 99.7%). But I thought I'd give this new site a try.
Like all of my cds, this is an Original CD, with original inserts (NO CD-Rs or bootlegs).....
..Reviewed by Julian Cope...Is it too much to ask percussionist/fine art major/poet/lecturer Ed Wilcox perhaps to let one major parp loose that I could write proper words about? Or is the leader of Philadelphia’s Temple of Bon Matin always gonna be just too ‘too too’ to put a finger on? Am I destined to approach his canon of recorded work every nine months or so, whack together yet another Cope anthology of personal favourites – different everytime, natch! – and then stall at the tail-end of the piece just because it don’t do that man Wilcox justice? Or do I – at this late stage of January ’06 - just say fuck it and tell you all that this singing drummer Ed Wilcox is a living sea shanty, a raggedy-assed Huckleberry Finn-meets-Huckleberry Hound who, as leader of this Woden’s Hunt from the backwoods, conducts himself with the same impeccable Ginger Baker-meets-Keith Moon heathen glitterstompf rage as the Mongols of the Golden Horde displayed whilst careering across the Iranian Plain? Throughout Bon Matin’s 12-year career, Wilcox’s whistleblower voice has yelped and hectored, urged and cajoled like ‘Did He Die’-period Sky Sunlight Saxon, or a DUB HOUSING-period Crocus Behemoth wading through a swamp of music concrete, howling impressionist hoedown lyrics (Caligari’s Mirror-stylee) as he urges on his ever-changing pack of lo-fi mongrel synthesizer dogs and back alley guitar kitties (and let’s not forget the squeeling parps of his ornery occasional horn sections, neither), always towing behind his iron age battalions of rusted-up Dodge and Plymouth chariots a hang-gliding spectral army of free-jazz phantoms and experimental sonic ancestors, numbering among them the members of DOREMI-period Hawkwind, “We Are Time” Y-era Pop Group, LIVE IN HITLER’S BUNKER-period Liquorball1, ALIEN SOUNDTRACKS-period Chrome, all and every Monoshock-on-45, DISASTER-period Amon Duul, Exuma the Obeah Man, METAL BOX-period PIL (“Careering” and “Poptones” especially), STRICTLY PERSONAL-period Don Van Vliet (the tail feathers of “Candykorn” deffo), OM-era John Coltrane, and The Residents of FINGERPRINCE-period (a la PETALS FELL ON PETALUMA-period Harry Partch multiplied by zen). Imagine Creedence’s “Pagan Baby” with three analogue synthesizer players and Mitch Mitchell on drums, all sent through Comets’ Noel Harmonson’s Binson Echo Unit and you’re homing in somewhat on the obscurant Wilcox sound. Imagine that same treatment unleashed upon Hanoi Rocks’ immaculately decadent lo-fi “Self-Destruction Blues” (Andy McCoy’s lyrics refracted through the Instant Google Translator, aargh!) and you hit the nail on the head once again.
My cosmic assertion that the best rock’n’roll is achieved via an equation of 33% novelty + 66% tradition was never so perfectly realised as in the music of Temple of Bon Matin at their best. O ja, mein hairies, this is the shit… Now, of course, being a defiant motherfucker, Ed Wilcox’s music often falls way outside that aforementioned magical alchemy, alternately creating overdoses of unlistenable dins or overly devotional backwards/backwoods inbred folk music (campfire music concrete, anyone?), but as Mister Ed’s muse can only be discovered by those willing to probe the deepest recesses of the World Wide Web, we gots to imagine that only those hardiest perennials of souls are – ten long years into the trip – still making the effort to listen to his venerable barbarian free spirit. Ed Wilcox may have termed his band ‘space metal’ (perhaps in deference to the early UFO compilation of the same name), but his claims that the group takes as much of its inspiration a much from Judas Priest as from Sun Ra is disingenuous to say the least. Indeed, Ed’s days of the big riffs seem long behind him and – surely - the act of making music that sounds like the alchemical melding of the 17-minute unedited version of “LA Blues” AKA “Freak” by the Stooges into Mahogany Brain’s 21-minutes “Burning the Vibes” would, from the reactions of your fellow musicians alone, disavow you of any such notions. Indeed, Ed Wilcox has occasionally recorded whole LPs without so much as a single memorable riff to its name, albums where chanting like negroes in the forest brightly coloured seem to be his only raison d’etre; albums where Exuma the Obeah Man fronts the formlessness of TAGO MAGO-period Can’s ‘Aumgn’; albums where the ESP Disk ravings of Cro-Magnon’s stupor-duo classic “Caledonian” takes over for a whole fucking LP side (WE’VE GOT THE BIGGEST ENGINE, BULLET INTO MESMER’S BRAIN); dirty ass ambient records that seem to exist purely as a metaphor for the useless and vilely scruffy post-industrial hinterlands that lie, nay wallow, between the city conurbations and the rural landscapes beyond. Moreover, these records are real because – in his many and ever-changing dayjobs, Ed Wilcox is the poet of the in-between, the forklifttruckdriver, the manual labourer, the high level itinerant ranter busking a blue collar living in order to subside his music.
USED, but in great condition. NO scratches and NO signs of abuse or misuse.
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