My favorite pop stars are all pop stores. Rumors continue to circulate about the next Warner Bros. Prince deluxe reissues in online communities. 2021 came and went without a new box (although the first issue of the shelved Welcome 2 America was a happy surprise). Diamonds & Pearls was a prime contender, the 30th anniversary of its release passing last October; an early version of the album that leaked from the famous vault has been bootlegged and it packs way more of a punch than the final version, making for a natural bonus disc. 1986’s Parade is also likely contender, which would be more than welcome as its one of Prince’s best, and worst-sounding, albums. Meanwhile, the David Bowie estate set up shops in Soho and London from October until the end of January, a bit of venture enterprise I huffily avoided until closing weekend, and in truth it was a good bit of fanboy fun.
Both Prince and Bowie estates have been, for the most part, refreshingly classy in their rehashing of product. The Bowie camp has been plenty busy with reissues and unreleased demos, and one which shouldn’t be missed is the triple-disc Toy (ISO/Parlophone). The album is comprised of new versions of Bowie’s earliest songs, recorded in 2000 with his working band, including longtime associates pianist Mike Garson, guitarist Earl Slick and bassist Gail Ann Dorsey, who’s one of the finest singing partners Bowie’s ever had in a band. Itwas finally included in the 11-CD/18-LP box set Brilliant Adventure (1992-2001) last year, but the new, 3-CD Toy box set includes yet more bonus fodder: two discs of alternate versions of the songs from the same sessions. They’re not demos and drafts, the set is a primed band trying out different things, resulting in three finished and sequenced versions of the same album. Much of it is a bit too anchored to its nearly-still-the-‘90s pedigree, but the third disc, “Unplugged & Somewhat Slightly Electric,” makes it worth the modest price—or at least searching out online. (It is, as of press time, still available on a major if seemingly rapidly tanking streaming platform.)
Tanya Tagaq’s sharpened tongue. In 2017, the Nunavut vocalist Tanya Tagaq gave an unforgettable performance at Jazz at Lincoln Center as a part of the American Songbook series. It was a bold booking. Coming from Canada’s Northwest Territories, Tagaq is certainly American, but her extended throat-singing improvisations (at that point with bandmates violinist Jesse Zubot and drummer Jean Martin) weren’t what many people might call a “book.” The high point of the set had Tagaq with her back to the audience, looking out the Appel Room window and growling “colonizer.” It took me a minute to sort out that she was singing to, or condemning, the statue of Christopher Columbus in the circle below.
Tagaq has apparently kept that trick in her book because the colonizer incantation plays a recurring part in her new Tongues. While her performances can be long streams of thought, her albums are usually broken into song-size chunks. The new Tongues (Six Shooter Records, streaming in full on Bandcamp) features two versions of “Colonizer,” adding up to a nine-minute indictment. There aren’t many words, more threatening throat rumbles, but the message is clear. On “Teeth Agamp,” the hit is more direct: She assumes the role of wolf mother, menacingly intoning “touch my children and my teeth welcome your windpipe” over a cold synth beat. Tagaq’s music has grown increasingly pointed over the years, and her targets aren’t always direct. Following her on social media can provide instructive sourcing, but the background isn’t necessary for listening. Tongues is a fierce and fearless album, suggesting a new kind of American songbook.
The return of the most important band in the history of rock. Way back in 2020, I declared in these pages that the Argentinian band Reynols is most important band in the history of rock. At the time, they were releasing their first record in 17 years. For being the most important band in the history of rock, they weren’t much known before their hiatus—or after, for that matter—but 2022 is looking to be a busy year for the unparalleled ensemble.
The band is the brainchild of Miguel Tomasin, whose passions drive the band. Tomasin often suggests unorthodox projects, due at least in part of the fact that he has Down syndrome. He also has musicians—chiefly Roberto Conlazo, Pacu Conlazo and Anla Courtis—ready to realize his ideas, for example: a record made entirely of recordings of fire. That album came out in 2002 and has now been reissued in expanded form as Fire Music Reloaded by the German label aufabwegen. Tomasin also has an extended network of collaborators, including Japanese freak-out rockers Acid Mothers Temple. The two bands met in 2017 and recorded enough material for two albums, released as Acid Mothers Temple and fitting titled Vol. 1 (Vert Pituite La Belle, 2020) and, as of January, Vol. 2, via Hive Mind Records. The new volume is a glorious chunk of mayhem, entrenched in Krautrock and drenched in psychedelia with some smattrerings of free jazz, and all three albums can be streamed on Bandcamp.
The 2022 Reynols agenda holds a book and more recordings, including a previously unreleased album with the late sonic spiritualist Pauline Oliveros (their third). Maybe most notably, last month Tomasin received the 2021 Henry Viscardi Achievement Awards for increasing “the visibility of artists with disabilities” as “one of the most successful musicians with Down syndrome in the world.” The award is named for Henry Viscardi, Jr., who was born without functioning legs and went on to serve as a disability advisor for eight U.S. presidents. Maybe the world is starting to catch on to the power of Reynols.
The Residents not unmasked, their story not told. This month’s issue of Texas Monthly contains an article unthinkable just a few years ago: a profile of a member of the longstanding, anonymous San Francisco band of cultural outcasts the Residents. Hardy Fox, a founding member of the band, had outed himself in 2018 in the final months of his life, so it was likely only a matter of time before someone decided to follow the trail. Andy Beta’s piece is a worthwhile read.
But the Longview, TX, born Fox was only a quarter of the original band, and an uncertain fraction of the unknown number who have counted themselves among the mysterious ranks. The band itself was obscure legend in the ’70s with its own mail order record label, and in the ’80s, when they managed to get their cartoonish, unsettling videos into regular MTV rotation. The fact that they’ve kept up the façade and the artistic vision for so long is truly remarkable.
The full story of the tuxedoed and eyeball-masked oddballs still isn’t told in The Residents: A Sight for Sore Eyes, Vol. 1, a fancy, 364-page coffee table book. It’s more or less a scrap book, filled with photos and ephemera with brief exposition by famous (or somewhat famous) artists and entertainers who knew (or kinda knew) the infamous Residents. The photos are a treasure trove for those who care, but the stories, brief though they are, make for sweet little portraits of weird adolescence. Zach Hill of Death Grips identifies their trademark eyeballs as the “weirdo kids’ Mickey Mouse.” Miroslav Wanek, who founded the longstanding dissident band Už jsme doma, writes about getting records by the Residents and other Western rock experimenters through a cultural attaché at the American Embassy in Soviet-ruled Czechoslovakia. And Paul Reubens relates being shown their music videos as he was pulling ideas for The Pee-Wee Herman Show. “I felt such awe that the music and the visuals—every aspect of every moment of what they were doing—was artistic. I don’t think anyone’s been more artful than them, before or since.” As much holds true for the book as well. The hardcover volume carries an art-book price tag, but every page is a joyful overwhelm of visual information.
