Montague

My review today is from Goat. I fell in love with them when I first heard – I Sing in Silence – still a firm favourite today.

🌞 Album Overview — Requiem

Requiem is Goat at their most earth‑bound and ceremonial. Where earlier albums leaned heavily into psychedelic rock, this one feels more like a folk‑ritual, blending:

  • trance rhythms
  • global folk instrumentation
  • communal chanting
  • fuzz‑rock eruptions
  • celebratory chaos

It’s an album that moves like a procession — beginning with invocation, passing through ecstasy, conflict, introspection, and finally ending in communal unity.

The production is intentionally rough‑edged, giving the sense of a live ritual rather than a polished studio creation. It’s immersive, colourful, and defiantly outside the boundaries of genre.

If you enjoy music that feels like stepping into another culture, another mindset, or another world entirely, Requiem is one of Goat’s most transportive works.

Below is one of my creations to try and capture the essence of their music.

🔥 Requiem — Track‑by‑Track

  1. Djôrôlen / Union of Sun and Moon

A ceremonial opening — hypnotic percussion, chant‑like vocals, and a sense of stepping into a circle where something ancient is about to begin. It feels like the album lighting its first torch. There’s warmth here, but also mystery.

  1. I Sing In Silence

A shimmering, almost pastoral groove. Flutes, hand percussion, and a melody that feels like it’s drifting across a summer field. It’s Goat at their gentlest — a moment of peace before the album’s stranger energies arrive.

  1. Temple Rhythms

Pure trance. A percussive spiral that pulls you inward. This track feels like walking deeper into the ritual space — the beat is repetitive in the best way, almost meditative, almost dangerous.

  1. Alarms

A jolt of electricity. Angular guitars, sharper edges, and a sense of urgency. It’s the first moment where the album’s psychedelic haze snaps into something more confrontational.

  1. Trouble In the Streets

A street‑parade‑gone‑feral. Brass, percussion, and a carnival‑like energy that feels celebratory and chaotic at once. It’s Goat’s version of a protest march — colourful, rhythmic, unstoppable.

  1. Psychedelic Lover

A swaggering, fuzz‑drenched groove. This is the album’s most “rock” moment — still ritualistic, but with a seductive, smoky pulse. It’s the track that feels like it could have been a single.

  1. Goatband

A jam session caught in amber. Loose, joyous, communal. You can almost see the musicians in a circle, feeding off each other. It’s messy in a deliberate way — the sound of a band celebrating its own existence.

  1. Try My Robe

One of the album’s strangest delights. Playful, theatrical, almost mischievous. It feels like a character stepping forward during the ritual to deliver a monologue. Goat at their most whimsical.

  1. It’s Not Me

A darker, more introspective turn. The groove is slower, the mood more shadowed. It’s a moment of self‑doubt or self‑distancing within the album’s otherwise communal energy.

  1. All‑Seeing Eye

A mystical centrepiece. The track feels like a vision — swirling instrumentation, a sense of revelation, and a slightly ominous undertone. It’s the album’s spiritual peak.

  1. Goatfuzz

A fuzz‑guitar explosion. Raw, heavy, and ecstatic. It’s the moment where the ritual becomes a rock ceremony — loud, distorted, and cathartic.

  1. Goodbye

A gentle, drifting farewell. After the intensity of Goatfuzz, this feels like the ritual closing, the fire dying down, the crowd dispersing. A soft landing.

  1. Ubuntu

A communal chant to end the album. Warm, inclusive, and spiritually open. It’s the final circle — everyone singing together, the ritual complete.

Marcel

Tonight I am listening to one of my favourite artists – Thelonious Monk, this time going back to 1967 and in Paris.

⭐ Overview — Monk Live in Paris, 1967, Vol. 1

This album feels like opening a time capsule sealed in cigarette smoke, brass heat, and the strange geometry of Monk’s mind. It’s Paris in ’67 — a city already humming with artistic electricity — and Monk arrives not as a visitor but as a gravitational force.

What makes this recording special is the ensemble energy: Griffin and Woods sparring like fencers, Rouse weaving that familiar warm reed‑tone, Copeland and Cleveland adding colour, and Riley/Gales locking the pulse with absolute trust.

It’s not a “greatest hits” set — it’s a portrait of Monk in motion, caught mid‑stride, mid‑thought, mid‑alchemy. The performances feel lived‑in, conversational, and gloriously imperfect in the way only real jazz can be.

🎵 Track‑by‑Track Review

  1. Introduction (Live)

A short doorway into the room. You hear the ambience, the crowd settling, the musicians adjusting their instruments. It’s the sound of anticipation — that moment before Monk’s angular universe snaps into place.
It sets the tone: we’re not listening to a studio artefact; we’re entering a night.

  1. Epistrophy (Live)

This is the first real ignition point.
“Epistrophy” is Monk’s labyrinth — sharp corners, sudden drops, rhythmic puzzles — and here it becomes a multi‑horn conversation.

  • Griffin and Woods trade lines like two poets arguing in different dialects.
  • Copeland’s trumpet cuts through with bright, metallic punctuation.
  • Rouse, ever the loyal interpreter, threads Monk’s logic into something warm and human.
  • Riley and Gales keep the whole thing from flying apart, grounding the chaos with swing.

It’s exhilarating, slightly unruly, and absolutely alive.

  1. Evidence (Live)

If “Epistrophy” is the maze, “Evidence” is the courtroom.
Monk presents his musical argument with clipped phrases, unexpected silences, and those trademark rhythmic nudges that feel like he’s testing the floorboards.

The horns respond like witnesses:

  • Woods brings sharp articulation,
  • Griffin adds swagger,
  • Copeland and Cleveland give the brass section a muscular presence,
  • Rouse ties it all together with that warm, rounded tone.

It’s witty, sly, and full of Monk’s sideways humour.

  1. Ruby, My Dear (Live)

A complete mood shift — suddenly the room softens.
This is Monk at his most tender and architectural, building emotion through space rather than density.

Rouse shines here. His playing is intimate, almost confessional, and Riley/Gales give him the gentlest frame to lean against. Monk’s piano feels like someone touching a memory with careful fingertips.

It’s the emotional heart of the set.

  1. We See (Live)

A perfect closer.
“We See” has that sly Monk grin — playful, slightly off‑centre, full of rhythmic mischief.

Copeland’s trumpet adds sparkle, Rouse dances around Monk’s phrases, and Riley/Gales keep the groove loose but insistent. It feels like the band is enjoying themselves, leaning into Monk’s quirks rather than smoothing them out.

It leaves you with the sense of a night well spent — not polished, not perfect, but deeply human.

🎼 Final Thoughts

Monk Live in Paris, 1967, Vol. 1 is a snapshot of a master surrounded by musicians who understand his language and relish the challenge of speaking it. It’s warm, angular, funny, emotional, and unmistakably Monk.

By 1967, Monk was 50 years old — a veteran, a survivor, and a legend. He had spent decades fighting for recognition in the United States, often misunderstood by critics who didn’t know what to do with his eccentricities. But Europe understood him.

This period marks:

  • His late‑career touring peak, with the classic quartet (Charlie Rouse, Larry Gales, Ben Riley) forming the backbone of his sound.
  • A shift toward more spacious, architectural playing — fewer notes, more meaning.
  • Increasing physical and emotional fatigue, which gave his performances a kind of haunted beauty.

Paris was one of the places where he still felt energised, still willing to push, still capable of those sudden bursts of angular brilliance.

Johann

Today, I am reflecting on Tim Curry, with his passing on 25th August, 2026.

The album I will be listening to is from 1976, …from the vaults.

⭐ Overall Takeaway

The album feels like Tim Curry before the spotlight fully hardened around him — exploratory, mischievous, and unvarnished. These unmixed versions have a grain, a room‑tone, a sense of process that makes the whole thing feel like a backstage pass to 1976.

🔹 1. Just Fourteen

A strange, tender, slightly dangerous little number. Curry leans into his talent for narrative mischief, delivering a vocal that’s half‑croon, half‑wink. The unmixed quality gives it a smoky, rehearsal‑room intimacy — you can almost hear the musicians watching him, waiting for the next twist.

This track shows the embryonic form of the theatrical persona he’d later sharpen in Fearless and Simplicity.
A tribute to the moment an actor discovers he can be a storyteller in song.

🔹 2. Cold Cold World

Here Curry goes full lonely‑bar‑philosopher, with a vocal that feels worn at the edges. The instrumentation is sparse, almost brittle, which lets his voice carry the emotional weight.

There’s a proto‑new‑wave chill here — a sense of alienation that predates the icy synth aesthetics of the early ’80s.
A tribute to the way Curry could make melancholy feel glamorous.

🔹 3. We Went As Far As We Felt Like Going

This is Curry in rambling raconteur mode — a road‑movie vignette disguised as a pop track. The unmixed version gives it a loose, almost jam‑session feel, like the band is discovering the song as they play it.

It’s playful, wandering, and full of character.
A tribute to Curry’s ability to turn a simple lyric into a cinematic moment.

🔹 4. Spaceship Races

A delightful oddity — Curry embracing the whimsical, cosmic side of ’70s pop. There’s a childlike wonder in the melody, but he grounds it with a sly, knowing vocal.

This track feels like a precursor to the surreal humour he’d later bring to his more flamboyant roles.
A tribute to the way he could make even a space‑race sound like theatre.

🔹 5. Girls

A swaggering, tongue‑in‑cheek rocker. Curry leans into his cabaret‑punk energy here — playful, exaggerated, knowingly performative.

The unmixed quality gives it grit, which actually suits the song better than a polished studio sheen would.
A tribute to Curry’s ability to parody desire while still sounding irresistibly charismatic.

🔹 6. Meet Mr. Blue

A standout. Curry slips into a noir‑ish persona, half‑detective, half‑fallen angel. The track has a smoky, late‑night feel — the kind of song you’d hear in a bar where the neon flickers.

This is Curry’s theatricality at its most controlled and elegant.
A tribute to his gift for character‑driven singing.

🔹 7. Biting My Nails

Sharp, nervy, and jittery — almost proto‑punk in its energy. Curry’s vocal is clipped and anxious, perfectly matching the theme.

This track shows how comfortable he was with emotional extremes, even in early sessions.
A tribute to the restless, electric side of his artistry.

🔹 8. Baby Love

A warm, slightly off‑kilter love song. Curry avoids sentimentality and instead gives us something more human — affectionate, imperfect, and charmingly theatrical.

The unmixed version lets his voice sit closer to the listener, almost conversational.
A tribute to Curry’s ability to make sincerity feel stylish.

🔹 9. White Cadillac

The closer — and it feels like one. A dusty‑highway track with swagger and a hint of danger. Curry’s vocal is confident, relaxed, and full of character.

It’s the kind of song that makes you imagine him leaning against the hood of the titular Cadillac, cigarette in hand, telling a story he hasn’t quite decided how to end.
A tribute to the cinematic Tim Curry, the storyteller, the wanderer.

🎖️ Final Tribute

…from the Vaults isn’t just an archival curiosity — it’s a glimpse of Tim Curry before the world fully understood what he was capable of. These tracks show the raw clay of his artistry: theatrical, mischievous, melancholy, cosmic, noir‑ish, and always unmistakably him.

Marcel

Marcel sat at his favourite cafe, on the Rue des Lombards, Paris.

Sipping his coffee, and mumbling to himself – Marc Mullen – hmm!! I haven’t been listening to him lately!!

Entertainment — Track‑by‑Track Review

(Marc Moulin, 2004)

  1. Silver (Who Stole the Groove?)

A sly opener: dry, crisp, and deceptively simple. Moulin sets up a rhythmic puzzle — a groove that feels like it’s been half‑erased, then drawn back in with pencil lines.
It’s playful, slightly ironic, and unmistakably European.
A perfect thesis statement for the album’s mood.

  1. Preface

A miniature overture.
Sparse chords, brushed textures, and a sense of stepping into a gallery where each room will have its own sonic installation.
It’s Moulin signalling: listen closely — this is crafted, not thrown together.

  1. Y.U.? (The Vowels Tune)

One of the album’s most charming pieces.
It has that Telex‑adjacent wit — a tune built around linguistic play, but delivered with jazz‑cool restraint.
The melody feels like a question asked with a raised eyebrow.
A perfect example of Moulin’s ability to be clever without being showy.

  1. Calligram

Here the album deepens.
“Calligram” feels like a geometric drawing translated into sound — looping motifs, clean lines, and a sense of architectural precision.
It’s hypnotic, almost meditative, but never static.
A quiet standout.

  1. Irony

Dry humour in musical form.
The track leans into Moulin’s signature: a groove that sounds like it’s commenting on itself.
Cool Rhodes textures, clipped beats, and a sense of someone smirking behind the mixing desk.
If Entertainment had a manifesto, this track would be it.

  1. Easy

A warm exhale after the album’s more cerebral moments.
“Easy” is smooth without being soft, relaxed without being lazy.
It’s the closest the album gets to a lounge moment — but with Moulin’s trademark intelligence intact.
A gentle reset.

  1. Le Grand Voyage

A slow‑motion travelogue.
The track feels like watching landscapes pass through a train window: rhythmic, steady, quietly emotional.
There’s a subtle melancholy here — not sadness, but distance.
A beautiful midpoint.

  1. What Was It Again?

A playful return to the album’s conceptual humour.
The melody circles back on itself, as if genuinely trying to remember something.
It’s light, witty, and impeccably arranged.
A palate cleanser with personality.

  1. Where Is It?

A companion piece to the previous track — but darker, more searching.
The bassline feels like a question asked in a dimly lit room.
There’s a noir‑ish quality here, a sense of wandering through fog.
A subtle shift into shadow.

  1. There Comes a Time

The emotional peak of the album.
Warm, reflective, almost elegiac — Moulin lets the chords breathe.
It’s a moment of sincerity after all the cleverness, a reminder that beneath the wit is a musician with deep feeling.
A quietly stunning track.

  1. X‑Irony

A closing wink.
It revisits the earlier “Irony” theme but twists it, distorts it, folds it back into itself.
It’s Moulin signing off with a knowing smile: you’ve been entertained — but also challenged.
A perfect end to a perfectly balanced album.