BURNT HILLS - herb saint LP (FOR25) take a headfirst dive into a boiling pool of wild vibes....side a was vibrated into being on 3/2/09 in the basement of the helderberg house with five heads shredding to live....side b was vibrated into being on 3/19/09 in the smog building of bard college with nine heads living to shred....edition of 99 copies....out of print BURNT HILLS - microburst LP (FOR24) shred your head as five blistering guitars rage with wah wah fury, a blown out bass drops the heavy anchor, an eight armed drummer pummels through the basement night and an amplified xylophone sprays broken glass into the clouds....reissue of the yod tapes cdr....edition of 99 copies....out of print CONNIE ACHER - spray me down CD (FOR23) amazing grace and beauty abounds on this fourth full length recording by connie acher....this time around strawberry is the foil and he sweetens her stew with precise production and virtuosic instrumentation....connie gushes forth streams of magic honey that slide right down to the sweet spot of the soul....full cover covers....edition of 500 copies....available, see catalog SICK LLANA - lost mind doodles BOOKLET (FOR22) after a 20 year "hiatus", sick llana picked up the pen and exploded some eyemelting brainmassaging doodles onto paper....she has done the cover art for many burnt hills recordings, including the "stoners pot palace" cdr and "microburst" lp on flipped out, the "morning glory" cd on ruby red editora and the "green blare" cdr on the lotus sound....this booklet contains 6 full color and 2 black and white reproductions of her lost mind drawings....edition of 22 copies....out of print BURNT HILLS - over the rainbow LP (FOR21) soar through the cosmos as five guitars radiate microwaves towards the sun's core, a bass levitates over the rings of saturn and shimmering percussive clatter seals up a black hole at the edge of the universe....co-released with noiseville....edition of 300 copies....out of print ZIAMALUCH & GAY TASTEE - losing new friends every day CDR (FOR20) ziamaluch - cello, gay tastee - vocals and guitar, recorded live in albany in 1998....edition of 41 copies....available, see catalog BURNT HILLS - tonite we ride CD (FOR19) dig the raging thunderstorm of sound as four squealing, reeling and paint peeling guitars thrash riffs, tones and cosmic bursts, a massive bass throbs and centers, propulsive dive bomb drums explode constantly and the sweet glaze of an insistent chiming xylophone rings out from the eye of the storm....one track, one hour and twenty seven seconds long....cover art by bill nace....edition of 500 copies....available, see catalog BURNT HILLS - stoners pot palace CDR (FOR18) the neverending search for the eternal riff has once again brought us to the basement, where a mass of guitars, an army of drums, a lone bass swimming upstream and a voice from beyond spreads it on thick for over 58 minutes of brain trauma buzzkill with hand decorated mini lp gatefold jackets and "vinyl" cdrs....edition of 99 copies....out of print POG - mitote CDR (FOR17) 69 hallucinatory, ghostly and otherworldly minutes of solo freak from this burnt hills member, recorded with bongos, floor drum, triola, acoustic guitar, kiddie accordion, broken kiddie electric guitar, cello, piano, electric guitar, kick drum, electric mandolin, wah wah, giant metal tweezers, pocket rocket and little big muff on a variety of boom boxes, tape decks and dictaphones with hand decorated mini lp gatefold jackets and "vinyl" cdrs....edition of 99 copies....out of print BURNT HILLS - to your head LP (FOR16) manic, frantic, buzzed and burnt, listen closely as this nine piece releases a tidal wave of freaked basement atmosphere filled with unhinged riffs, squalling feedback, bedrock bottom end and pounding pulse....edition of 99 copies....out of print BURNT HILLS - to your head CD (FOR15) manic, frantic, buzzed and burnt, listen closely as this nine piece releases a tidal wave of freaked basement atmosphere filled with unhinged riffs, squalling feedback, bedrock bottom end and pounding pulse....edition of 500 copies....out of print CONNIE ACHER - lovesick lip service CD (FOR14) come kiss the clouds with this debut record from harlem usa….ride the voice of an angel as glorious guitars wrap around home-made percussion and more to soothe the most chattering mind....edition of 500 copies....available, see catalog CONNIE ACHER & JELLY - love pop CD (FOR13) the rhythm of life in happy harlem spins jelly into the melodie jamming note chomping blur over and under connie’s cascading songs of high beauty....edition of 500 copies....available, see catalog PARAQUAT EARTH BAND - if you ain't with us you're against us CD (FOR12) full on twin guitar wrangling meets collapsing cracked kit for fuzz busting forty five minutes....relentless riff stomping draped through a weave of blaktinson....edition of 500 copies....available, see catalog CONNIE ACHER & BLIND DRUNK JOHN - for the love of it CD (FOR11) a mountain of melodie and shimmering strings makes a ghostly trail under sweet vocal clouds with percussion eruption and hot vapor guitar....edition of 500 copies....available, see catalog CONNIE ACHER & BLIND DRUNK JOHN - for the love of it LP (FOR10) a mountain of melodie and shimmering strings makes a ghostly trail under sweet vocal clouds with percussion eruption and hot vapor guitar....edition of 200 copies....out of print CONNIE ACHER & JELLY - love pop LP (FOR09) the rhythm of life in happy harlem spins jelly into the melodie jamming note chomping blur over and under connie’s cascading songs of high beauty....edition of 200 copies....out of print MACARTHUR PARKER - one sided LP (FOR08) sit down with this acoustic trio and float through a streaming funnel of guitar, voice, cello and drums….let’s mix another drink for the sphinx and the seven wonders of the ancient worlds....edition of 200 copies....out of print CONNIE ACHER - lovesick lip service LP (FOR07) come kiss the clouds with this debut record from harlem usa….ride the voice of an angel as glorious guitars wrap around home-made percussion and more to soothe the most chattering mind....edition of 200 copies....out of print ZIAMALUCH - V8 one sided LP (FOR06) it’s back to the bathroom for another twenty minute slice.…this time four cellos zone and drone around the tiled walls (my bathroom, your brain).…light’s out, goodnight....edition of 200 copies....out of print PRISONSHAKE / FIGGS - split 7” (FOR05) prisonshake throws down a flipped side complete with rocked wailing, acoustic revisitations, phone blurbs, locked groove madness and more.…the figgs kick back with a four track attack highlighting each member....co-released with philthy rex....edition of 600 copies....out of print PARAQUAT EARTH BAND - if you ain’t with us you’re against us LP (FOR04) full on twin guitar wrangling meets collapsing cracked kit for fuzz busting forty five minutes….relentless riff stomping draped through a weave of blaktinson....edition of 300 copies....out of print BEEF - piel’s sessions 7” (FOR03) third 7” of bring you down outsider cracked action from the rolling joint of kinderhook new york….takes you through howling tunnel riff nightmares and drops you in an acoustic pasture where nitrous is oxygen....co-released with footlong and kranepool....edition of 300 copies....out of print BLUE - solid state LP (FOR02) long time coming after five gone sevens for this first and only full length from the town of philadelphia.…freaked stretched excursions to blazing bursting explosions....edition of 400 copies....out of print ZIAMALUCH - one sided LP (FOR01) twenty dense minutes of one guitar flipping from amp to two dollar box in a small room of sweet tile….one sided with action photo pasted to the wax....edition of 200 copies....out of print ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Flipped Out Records are also available at Toonerville Trolley, Weirdo, Spirit of Orr, Eclipse, Time-Lag, Forced Exposure, Yod, Volcanic Tongue, Tomentosa, Aquarius, Carbon, Fusetron, Good Style Shop, Mystery Train and 8mm Records. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ BURNT HILLS to your head LP / CD (Flipped Out) stoners pot palace CDR (Flipped Out) cloud nine CDR (Tape Drift) under the weather CASSETTE (Throne Heap) concussion CDR (Holy Room) green blare CDR (Lotus Sound) blunt greeper CASSETTE (Bum Tapes) morning glory CD (Ruby Red Editora) tonite we ride CD (Flipped Out) microburst CDR (Yod Tapes) amphipacifica CDR (House of Alchemy) holy fires CDR (Ruralfaune) over the rainbow LP (Flipped Out / Noiseville) microburst LP (Flipped Out) herb saint LP (Flipped Out) herb saint CASSETTE (Golden Lab) tba LP (Holy Room) - forthcoming ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~[ho] and others…While it makes a leak which is feedback noise and is it is slovenly in outer space the [i] [tsu] [chi] [ya] obtaining! Well -. The [bu] [tsu] it is flying. The [bu] [tsu] it is flying. The one-way ticket where to black hole of the pitch-dark darkness which light of the rainbow of seven colors focuses, it spreads the fire and the meteorite and scatters and keeps crawling. The gong obtaining it is under the New York land the empty as for connecting the creation world set which is plundered to the amplifier selfishly being who? Floating the satellite of the fuzz, while kindling the strange smoke, as for turning gain likely you turn on the switch of the electric chair mercilessly. [tsu]…It is highest. It has become drunk. [raivu] recording 1 hour 1 tunes. Drum and base, xylophone and guitar 4. Perhaps, the endless psychedelia which is colored in the feedback noise which the [do] does the sound which is performed in a way, improvisation almost and, eddies blackly. Free form the drum being warped, on based [hevui] [rihu] where angle stands, 4 guitars wriggles and turns. No one without the intention the backing of doing everyone lead/read guitar posture. Tone of the comb [ya] comb [ya] where wow and tremolo corrupt pulse, make the distortion be warped like the cloud it buries the space and has exhausted. The ceiling very close place, the radio wave noise which breaks the ear is flying about. Whether completely Comets ON Fire adjusts that freak out it does and, performs in mirror state it does. The [i] [tsu] [te] you put away also the people in question whom it performs completely to seem, the time the time semantic unclear war cry exceeds listening. The zombie of 200 bodies marches, or the insect buries the basement and has exhausted or, such an acoustic image. Although halfway midway collapsing in [guzuguzu], you dig performance to the frontier and keep advancing. Music pleasure to extremity. Perhaps pure [rotsukunroru] as for this. Turning off electricity, you resign and increase volume. With just that would like to dream is accustomed to feeling already…It is the highest album, as for this. If the ear permits, please at large volume. - Teardrop Missingpiece ~A genuine guitar army, with six lead guitarists, a bassist and two drummers, battling for oxygen in a sea of fuzz and effects. Over the Rainbow features a single, monolithic track that wraps itself around both sides. At points, Over the Rainbow almost feels like an electrified take on Ornette Colemans Free Jazz, with what sounds like a couple of groups playing simultaneously while soloists bat ideas at one another. The guitar sound is miasmic, with diverse centres of gravity pulling your attention away from and towards countless parallel attempts to anchor the jams. When the players do eventually cohere the sound is like a standing wave, a fabulously dense reification of the groups gridlocked psychedelia. But its when everyones soloing at once that the album feels truly inspired. – David Keenan, the Wire ~It’s sincerely hoped that the title of this churn through the universe is a reference to Blue Oyster Cult’s dumbly awesome fake-biker anthem “This Ain’t The Summer Of Love” – how gratifying to think that the inscrutable aviators of Eric Bloom might figure in this New York psych ensemble’s pantheon. A seven-strong tag team featuring no less than four guitarists, Burnt Hills also share some of the devil may care taste for excess that led BOC to assemble a five-man wall of axe-power at live shows in their 1970’s heyday. Yet far from being a ravaged howl from beginning to end, Tonite We Ride layers its sheets of distortion at leisure, ascending with a steady rhythmic pulse through continually morphing brown clouds of noise pollution while semi-formed riffs weave in and out of the sonic fog like searchlights wielded by a distinctly grudgeful rescue party. Despite the relaxed pace, Burnt Hills rarely dip into the slothful depression wallowed in by 2-era Earth, neither do they seem as malevolently motivated as IIIrd Gatekeeper-era Skullflower; they remain libidinously purposeful throughout, loping through the cosmos in search of its black heart and the secret knowledge it may harbour within. Burnt Hills certainly exhibit traits which conspire to place them in the good old Sabbath lineage, but their sluggish, wah’d-out funk betrays the equally strong influence of early Funkadelic and Osmium-era Parliament, albeit without the doo-wop discipline that kept George Clinton’s outfits somewhat grounded. – Joseph Stannard, the Wire ~Five-guitar stun unit Burnt Hills are the sound of heavy rock collapsing in on itself, riffs unspooling, solos fracturing, only the flailing limbs of the unnamed drummer (who should be named, because he's tirelessly great) producing anything close to a constant. As usual, there's a psych-funk element to the group's beleaguered crawl - Holy Fires sounds like an acid-damaged early Funkadelic rehearsal in which dodgy tabs and bad magic have caused two extra Funkadelics to materialise and add their own filthy stink to the sonic broth. Needless to say, this adds up to one hell of a crowded jam room. On the strength of this release, the Albany, NYC based Hills have remained pretty much the same since 2008's excellent Tonite We Ride. But then, if it's already broke, fixing it is a waste of jam-time. - Joseph Stannard, the Wire ~Burnt Hills are a constantly changing psychedelic garage collective who specialize in long-haired, nodding space jams that recall the bohemian improvising of Jackie-O Motherf#cker at the peak of their powers. On Amphipacifica the group have been reduced to a quartet - with one Sick Llana (not the Sick Llama of Fag Tapes label fame) as one of the players – and the group’s amplifiers are turned all the way up and guitars are encouraged to self-destruct. Something eventually crawls out of the reverbed sonic wreckage that the group churn out, but nothing that hasn’t already been piled up by like-minded Noise makers. – Edwin Pouncey, the Wire ~A free jamming project where five guitarists, three drummers and a bass player were locked inside a low budget recording studio and prompted to let fly. The result is a series of cacophonous improvised workouts that attempt a more psychedelic version of what was going down with the various European jazz/improv ensembles who recorded for FMP during the late 70s and early 80s. Although it hardly reaches the free blowing squall of Machine Gun, To Your Head occasionally lapses into almost epileptic throes of massed musical hallucination that are convincing enough to dispel the notion that this is not some massive private jape. It's a maddening, muddled mess that, given time, becomes an almost soothing background blur of noise and spiritual unity. - Edwin Pouncey, the Wire ~I'm imagining this Upstate New York seven piece heard their fill of contemporary psych and said "Pfah, take this!" and proceeded to pound out this hour-plus long epic freak out. Anchored by bass and drums, Burnt Hills adds four guitars and a xylophone. Given the length of the song, I'd guess the guitarists worked in shifts. And good thing, because as one starts to peter out and my ears mumble "Should it end here", another guitar clocks in and "Tonight..." soars once again. Late in the song, the presence of the xylophone becomes apparent, though unfortunately it is often buried under the guitar squeal. Also, at times, I thought that a brief vocal passage, even just repeating the title a dozen times in a row, would have added to the song. But these are minor quibbles. On the whole Tonight We Ride is a great ride, just make sure you carve out the time to listen to the entire thing in one sitting. - Scott Soriano, Z Gun ~Burnt Hills is an amorphous collective jamming at the intersections of drone, noise and psych. The seven musicians on this CD's single 60-minute track perfectly document the group's sound: four-guitar electric mayhem at times only barely kept in check by a rhythm section, while at others the group finds a groove and one or two guitarists take the lead. The whole is mesmerizing in a wonderfully twisted way, and is a great entry into a local scene that makes itself heard sometimes in a very underground series of basement shows, at others through the public work of the Albany Sonic Arts Collective, and is always devoted to free explorations of the extremes of musical collaboration. – Joel Reed, executive director of the Saratoga County Arts Council ~An hour-long single track from the warmest heavies out there. OUT!! This batter is over-fried, so crisp and fragile, so fully bloomed, and deep riff research. Albany, oh Albany!! Its everyones home town, super-star neighbors, and of the prime motivators. The HILLS are the latest FLIPPED OUT HOUSE BAND, they follow many incredible forbearers…ZIAMALUCH, PARAQUAT EARTH BAND…today is history. – Spirit of Orr ~If you have been keeping track at all, you’ll know that this Albany roots rock powerhouse is laying everyone to waste. This recent limited release is another furious example of howl and fire cooked up in the FLIPPED OUT BASEMENT LABORATORY. Summer heat, molten fleet, raging fuzz supreme and yes there is love in the soup. edition of 99 copies – Spirit of Orr ~So very very thankful to share a longitude with these warm lights. And thankful to these creatures who can take it so far beyond judgement, into the clean air of pure statement; rarified and yet just at the tip of the finger. Released as part of NV's "Outer Bounds Of Sound" series in an edition of 300 copies with a hand-made cover. – Spirit of Orr ~And the cruise controls into the early evening with the one and only Burnt Hills, who I hear are putting out their killer Microburst disc on vinyl shortly, if they haven't already. This one here came out a couple months back though, and is indeed the group's introductory vinyl excursion via the Noiseville label and their Outer Bounds of Sound series. I like the aesthetic with these, each one set up like one of those hi-fidelity releases from back in the day. You know, AND NOW IN QUADROPHONIC SOUND style. Cool look and a nice little cover. As for the jams, they're quintessential Burnt Hills. Which of course means that they rule. Actually, it sounds like a smaller unit this time out, meaning that the beginning is super tight and almost songy, with the usual riffage riding above rock solid bass and drums. Even some synth weirdness going on beneath that is played wonderfully in the context of everything else going on. The Hills dudes man, they always do it right. That signature maniacal guitar shredding that guides the entire unit back and forth as one gigantic steaming pile driver. Totally slayer. The group actually seems to be getting a bit tighter lately, really getting a grasp on their sound and pulling off some more subtle improvisations as a result. Not that Burnt Hills has ever been about subtlety, and surely the group never lets go of their cajones during the proceedings, but there is a swing to the beast in recent releases that was often obscured by pure fuzz mania earlier on. It's almost like the group, in making their wall and allowing the cracks in it to widen, has arrived at something both transparent and thick. Each line is clear, each move noticeable, yet if you take in the whole thing at once it's a total barrage of basement wall bouncing groove. Killer one, totally together and a beautiful package. Limited to 300, so check Jack's Flipped Out website for copies, he's sure to have a few. Awesome always. Long live Burnt Hills. – Henry Smith, The Ear-Conditioned Nightmare ~Ah, another Burnt Hills. The Albany crew's been busy lately, having just released this, a Ruralfaune number and a beautiful Noiseville LP, all of which will likely be covered here. Figured I'd start with this one though, as Adam from House of Alchemy just got in touch with me randomly about a day after getting handed a bunch of stuff from his label and Chapels project. Small world. As far as this particular disc goes though, it's a totally wild one. Stripped down to, would you believe it, a quartet, Jack, Ray, Eric and Sick Llana get together for an hour long cathartic blast. If you're thinking that Burnt Hills are losing their edge then ("These guys are going all soft on us, what with this quartet approach--who do they think they are, the Stones?"), well, you thought wrong. Rather this is one of the most chaotic, noisiest discs in the unit's cannon, a total shredder of a track whose guitars interweave into a psychedelic cesspool atop gently writhing drums. The usual you say? Me thinks not. Eventually this thing dissolves into the thickest batch of noise these guys have ever conjured. Totally grinding, menacing stuff, the latter half of this bad boy is unforgiving as hell. Thick analog murk does battle with increasingly lethargic drum builds that speak to the physicality of the approach. Some weird synth stuff eventually takes over for a bit, bouncing all over the place with jubilant distress. I'm guessing this is Ray, as he's usually the man manning the pedal setup at shows, and he has a knack for taking his vocals and turning them into some truly odd blips, shrieks and creaks. When the rest join back in, it is utter demolition, with screeching guitars rebounding around the concrete walls of Helderberg's underbelly as they ascend toward noise-screech heaven. Really sprawling stuff, and totally unforgiving in its vision as always. Gorgeous work in an absolutely beautiful package complete with see-through wax paper and gold prints. A killer manifestation of this unit which shifts personnel every Monday night. The fluidity of such an approach however, rather than closing off possibilities, opens them up into a canvas of thick internal instrument unification. As always, a slayer. – Henry Smith, The Ear-Conditioned Nightmare ~More gargantuan psych out tumultuity from Burnt Hills, this time on serious up and coming label Bum Tapes. With a nice and filled out lineup of six guitars, bass, two drums and of course xylophone, Blunt Greeper does as all Burnt Hills do. Which is to say, ignite the universal vibrations of riffdom and journey into the cavernous depths of the land of Helderberg. As usual, Burnt Hills opt for the single hour long outing, yet another moment of glory from the scores of Monday jam outs these guys have over in Albany, but again, as with their Morning Glory disc for Ruby Red Editora, Blunt Greeper suggests even greater growth from the unit. Rather than Eric Hardiman on bass here, he works the guitar angle while Eric K. steady's the ship with some mind-numbing bass work that's just right for the kind of scree conjured up by the rest of the band. What's funny though is that among all of the action going on you can tell the players are different--the thing has a different kind of feel, perhaps a little more stable and less elastic than Hardiman's take on the rudder. Which isn't to say it's worse or better; quite the contrary. It just further serves to show the depth that the group has developed and the natural, individual as collective sound they can harness and work under. As for the guitar sounds here, these are some of the best I've heard from the group--the six axes really slam around, careening all over in fits of ecstatic glory. Whole thing even dissolves at a certain point to some kind of weird quiet(ish) place where the drums and xylophone are left tinkling under waves of guitar blast. Always been a fan of Phil's drumming too, and he shows some serious versatility here too, working up a spasmodic beat only to let it become crushed under its own weight before finding another pocket to hack away at. Actually, the tape features a lot of slowing down and stretching everything way out in to bent and heated metal rings that start to create audio hallucinations reminiscent of some kind of strange tape music as fed through infinite feedback loops. Pretty wild work. Also have to mention the killer cover art, which could be the sun exploding over the mountains or some huge ball of fire emerging from the distance to speak to you. "Come, it is time for me to light you up." Or maybe it's just your mind on Burnt Hills. Either way, another nice and crusty one from one of the truest practitioners of psychedelic mayhem in the world. It just keeps getting better, and I haven't even heard Microburst or Tonite We Ride yet. How good a title is that? Tonite We Ride. Says it all. - Henry Smith, The Ear-Conditioned Nightmare ~I've spoken much of Albany basement legends Burnt Hills before. Their particular brew of sludge rock always hits it right for me--equal parts Fushitsusha, Parson Sound and Sun Ra--but what we have here is a different matter indeed. Released on the well established Ruby Red Editora label, Morning Glory is, as near as I can tell, the Hills' first official (that is, not cd-r) release, and it more than deserves that honor. This is Burnt Hills at the height of their doped dementia, and it slays. The opening few minutes might be the most cohesive assemblage I've heard from them, especially being as their improvised stews are actually working within relatively narrow sonic confines. Each jam being different, and one could suggest a further continuation down the righteous path toward sludge rock heaven, it is good to see the band further proving their evolution. The pummeling drums that open it beckon the cries of guitars and bass while the tinkling of xylophone reverberates underneath. It takes nearly five minutes of open ringing chords, like a (at least relatively) better recorded Les Rallizes Denudes Big Band. When the band finally unites in one pummeling action it moves along with a cohesion and fluidity like few of their releases before. It seems an odd adjective but for better or worse the whole group seems to really be swinging here, and you can practically picture their bobbing bodies as the dual drummer tandem of Phil Donnelly and Mike Lopez, along with bassist Eric Hardiman, keep the motion rock steady, heavy as the earth. Of course, in the grand tradition of Burnt Hills, the whole disc is about an hour long and contains only one jam, making it a kind of presentation of the band in a certain place at a certain time (one Monday night at Jack's I would guess...). What keeps Burnt Hills stuff so good, and so immediate, is the constant honing of approach, a total dedication to its form. One gets the sense that the band never sits down and talks about what they want to do; they simply do it, each member shaping it in its own way so that it grows into its own living breathing creation. Using what seem like all too tried and true methods of rock making--guitar, bass and drums--along with the subtle clanking of the xylophone, the group is in constant seeking of one potential shape of rock to come, a new rock language. And the best part is that the louder you crank it, the more the details reveal themselves, slinking you deeper into the intertwining lines of each member. A big cloud of smoke resides over this one. Still available from the label I believe, and with great cover art from Sick Llana herself--check out how concerned that kitten looks. Relax dude, the truth is scary. – Henry Smith, The Ear-Conditioned Nightmare ~Slithering out of the basement & over to Bard College, the weighty, 18-armed beast arises, stinking of smokin' riffage. So many, many bands who start out with the same wishes as Burnt Hills end up just making college bar rock instead. May they always keep it thick. Edition of 99. - Weirdo Records ~Jackson & Lana & pals have gotta be the best hosts, best cooks & friendliest folks around, and they also make fat streams of sloppy smoke come puffing out of their amps. Straight from the Monday basement jam sessions come these latest cumulus clouds, and glad to see the signals are starting to be caught by those far from the chimneys of Albany. – Weirdo Records ~Hitchike your way to oblivion as these Albany sweets make their 4 thunderous guitars lasso the heavens. A stoner rhythm section sludges mightily & Llana's clear xylophone chimes through the din. Cover art by Bill Nace. – Weirdo Records ~Lotsa bands think they play sprawling psych, but they're usually just shitty college bar bands in disguise. Let the ever-battling wahs of Burnt Hills get you sloppier & higher. 5 guitarists worth of lumbering, Llana on xylophone, and a rhythm section that slops in the whirlwind center. – Weirdo Records ~Another high psych monstrosity that'll lumber you all the way to heavy heaven. One huge jam of solos plowing all over each other & fat drum rolls straight from the smoked-out basement in Albany. Drawing by the lovely Lana on the cover. – Weirdo Records ~Heavy is as heavy does when this huge Albany ensemble of hiiiiigh floaters gather like ghosts in Jackson's basement. Dig the riff eternal and howl like your moon came up. Handmade full color gatefold digipack. – Weirdo Records ~How many pot brownies does it take to lift off a band with this many guitarists in it? A veritable sh#tload, so it's damn lucky that Jackson is such a fine bakerman. Head-smoosher jams from the comfiest basement in the northeast, with a mere four stoners on tripped out axes, a bassist, a drummer, & the lovely Llana (who also draws pictures like the one on the cover) on xylophone. – Weirdo Records ~An evening in the smoke-filled Flipped Out basement with Burnt Hills' seven flailing guitarists, 4 of whom assist the drummer at various points. There's one solitary bass player who acts like the string on the balloon. It all makes for an awesome & undrivable heavy rock 18 wheeler. These folks also bake the best brownies on the entire east coast. – Weirdo Records ~Basement free bong jams that are heavy as a charging rhino. Five, count 'em, five guitars, three drummers, and a lone bassist to rudder the boat. Word on the street is they have a new member named 'El Diablo' (Insert sound of catcalls here)! Once you've sipped from this psychedelic soup, you'll never have the sniffles again. – Weirdo Records ~Numbered edition of 99 copies LP from this East Coast USA guitar army generating the kind of axe-on-axe euphoria of behemoths like Vermonster and Superconductor. First side is a five-piece head-dive straight into the void ‘vibrated into being’ at the Helderbeg House, flip is a nine-piece levitation recorded live at Bard College. With colour paste-on sleeves. - Volcanic Tongue ~Limited edition of 300 copies LP with paste-on sleeves, already sold out at source from this North American guitar army. A great, explosive set from these heads with the full-on psych blitz style of Vermonster circa “Children Of The Sun” transposed to the multiple groups soloing at once methodology of Ornette Coleman’s Free Jazz, flitting between dense standing waves of gridlocked guitar and beautiful polyphonic six-string excess. Sold out at source, limited supply. – Volcanic Tongue ~Limited edition of 80 copies from this guitar-heavy big band and easily one of their best this one has the collapsing universe feel of The Dead C circa World Peace Hope et al and the gargantuan weight of Vermonsters Holy Sound Of American Pipe DBL with a bunch of heads soloing in several directions at once while crude drums work to detonate time altogether. – Volcanic Tongue ~Dunno if the title is a deliberate nod to the Blue Oyster Cult but it would f#cking figure: Tonite We Ride is a single monolithic hard-rock four-guitar freeway, supported by bass bombs, drums and, uh, xylophone, that vibrates in a beautiful, skull-f#cking anti-summer of love style that is closer to the “black nightmare” sound of Lemmy-era Hawkwind as filtered through yr own faulty imagination or the live blitzkreig style of prime BOC than any contemporary drone=momma’s boys style. So, yeah! Cover art by Bill Nace. – Volcanic Tongue ~Hand-numbered edition of 100 CD-Rs from this Albany-based guitar army, who take a post-Vermonster sledgehammer to wall of wah-styled six-string sun-gobbling. This is classic, wasted guitar oblivion in the switched-on mode of late-60s/early-70s monsters like Dark, Wicked Lady, Misunderstood et al, all spun simultaneously at full volume. Doof! – Volcanic Tongue ~Six guitarists and three drummers in the service of collapsing galaxies ala classic string-toting orchestras like Vermonster (circa The Holy Sound Of American Pipe), Superconductor and the Budgie/Black Sabbath big band. Some totally frazzled cough syrup/LSD-style grudge with cranked, gnarly riffs escaping from a hairball mass of locked-down sludge/groove. If you your idea of heaven is a fleet of lead-weighted guitars in eternal pursuit of spontaneous riff-nirvana/heavy metal polyphony then yr in the right place. Recommended. - Volcanic Tongue ~Heavy Dead C/Trapdoor feel to the latest album by this cultic American guitar army. – Volcanic Tongue ~New edition of 55 copies tape from this US guitar/drums behemoth. Screened sleeves. Four guitarists and three drummers play Amon Duul-esque communication breakdown with a classic smoky basement/reptile mind vibe. Recorded live opening for Demons/Bill Nace/Sightings in Albany 9/2/07. Forthcoming LP on Qbico too. – Volcanic Tongue ~New limited to 99 hand-numbered copies 58 minute CD-R in hand-made card gatefold sleeves from this American guitar army. You can hear aspects of Twisted Village big-bands like Vermonster in the way these guys hulk layer upon layer of wonky six string riffage in an attempt to scale the heavens but there's also a touch of New/No Wave in the way the bass waddles and the drums dunk that'll have you scratching your head trying to name the missing link between Mars, The Girls and Can - I mean, I'm guessing it's The Magic Band? Or is it Sunburned Hand Of The Man? Either way, these guys got it all figured out. – Volcanic Tongue ~Latest blast of skull caving psychedelia from this constantly shifting collective, on this 2 track lp shifting from 5 members to 9, from two guitarists to FOUR guitarists and two drummers, not to mention a xylophonist!!! But none of that is as important as the monstrous sounds these guys and gals conjure up, and it is MONSTROUS. The A side is a riffy sprawl of blown out bong smoke psych sludge crush, chaotic, relentless rehearsal space drumming, churning, chugging riffage, wild tangled chaotic leads, totally burnt out (of course) and endlessly hypnotic, definitely sounds like this was a 20 minute chunk extracted from an all day, all night drug fueled orgy of psychedelic excess, which of course means F#CK YEAH, and WE WANT MORE. All you have to do is flip it over, and voila, more. WAY more. The flipside is slower and dirgier, almost doomy, a swirly mass of garbled psych-drone freakout, crashing speaker punishing drum damage, total free for all pound and skree, like the A side, epic and endless, and no doubt part of a massive whole that had Burnt Hills' entire neighborhood, stuffing cotton in their ears and pushing furniture against the doors and windows. This is about as heavy and druggy and noisy as improv space rock gets these days, and we LOVE it. LIMITED TO ONLY 99 COPIES! Each one hand numbered, in cool paste on sleeves, got very few of these, so be warned. - Aquarius Records ~Everyone went nuts for the most recent Burnt Hills full length, Tonite We Ride, reviewed here a while back, and rightfully so, a heavy dose of druggy improvised spaced out psych rock, recorded live in the basement of their house / jampad, as is everything they release, we think, all the product of a long running weekly jam, with an ever shifting lineup, but with a pretty consistent sound. In fact, it wouldn't be all that far fetched to posit that Burnt Hills NEVER stopped jamming, holed up in that basement wreathed in bong smoke, soaked in alcohol, playing on and on and on and on, every day, on through every night, and each release we get, is just a snapshot, a snippet of sound snatched from the frenzied endless riffing and the infinitized drone-space-kraut rocking. It does sound like that, these are not songs as much as movements, and they don't start and develop like a normal piece of music, it's the recorded equivalent of walking down the stairs, pushing the door open, and finding yourself immediately immersed mid-jam, and said jam continues until the record ends, or you get up off that ratty sofa in the corner, the one under the Christmas lights, and head to the stairway, the song only REALLY ending when you get up to the kitchen and finally slam the door. Raw and lo-fi, chaotic and free, with brief stretches of lucidity, an extended free jam, wrapped in sheets of feedback and tangled riffing, the drums mostly locked into a simple motorik rhythm, but just as often splintering into flurries of free jazz splatter, the tracks themselves, two sidelong ones, veer from locked in distorted druggy groove, to total outsider abstract freeforall, drifting more toward Sunroof! or Skullflower than Acid Mothers Temple. It's a strange brew, equal parts heady experimental noisemaking, and classic garage rock riffing, blown out dronemusic, and tripped out space rock, those two disparate sonic sides get mashed together and the result is, well... THIS. A gloriously cacophonous effects drenched, outsider, heavy riffed, acid soaked, garage kraut space rock freakout. Which obviously means that this is WAY recommended. Cool handmade covers, pasted on front and back, and again, LIMITED TO ONLY 300 COPIES!!! – Aquarius Records ~Been a while since we've heard from Burnt Hills. Our fault entirely. They may have been absent on the list, but they have most definitely not stopped releasing records, or partaking in a weekly jam at the Burnt Hills HQ, which is where we assume this massive psych jam blow out was captured on tape. For those new to Burnt Hills, the group seems to be an ever changing collective, sometimes a duo or trio, other times, like here, expanded to a seven piece, heck they even got someone on XYLOPHONE this time around. Not that you'd really be able to tell. The sound of Burnt Hills is a sonic mushroom cloud of grinding psych guitar squall, practice space drums, throbbing earthquake bass, all woven into a sprawling space-psych-kraut jam that could have gone on forever. Heck it could have started weeks ago, as the track opens jarringly mid-jam, just explodes right into it, expanding into a hazy, woozy, effects drenched expanse of druggy psych bliss. Folks who eat up every last thing by Acid Mothers Temple, Heavy Winged, Titan, all that modern psych shit, have no excuse for not being crazy obsessed with these guys too. Equal parts all those bands as well as plenty of Hawkwind, Monster Magnet, German Oak, Boris, White Heaven, just imagine a dingy black lit basement, packed to the rafters with amps, and a bunch of folks hunched over their instruments, probably high as a kite, channeling some mysterious otherworld spirits through the speakers into physical sound, into THIS, whatever this is. You can almost imagine the whole neighborhood gathered around this unassuming house in the suburbs, clad in slippers and robes, bleary eyed and a bit terrified, staring at BH HQ, a dilapidated little house that seems to be coming alive, the whole thing shaking on its foundations, emanating kaleidoscopic lights, emitting a deafening roar unlike anything these normal folks have ever heard. They call the authorities, the police, the F.B.I., but by the time they arrive, the house is dark, and quiet, and empty. Absolute ear candy for psych-kraut maniacs into blown out heavy psychedelic space rock freakouts, which as far as we're concerned should really be just about everyone reading this. – Aquarius Records ~This is the sound of burnt hills, the smell of burnt hair, the black musical smoke from a burning methlab in an abandoned trailer park, a glorious blown out, burnt out, drug addled freak rock free for all. Imagine the Dead C if they had grown up in Modesto, skipping school and doing lots of speed in the 7-11 parking lot, or if they had spent their formative years in Texas in the early eighties smoking pot and huffing glue. Or imagine a Hawkwind practice space jam session moments after each band member received a partial frontal lobotomy. How about a playground fight between Liquorball and Faxed Head, the 'Ball armed with flaming wadded up balls of black aluminum foil and the 'Head flinging guitar picks dipped in lighter fluid and rusty guitar strings. Weird and wonderfully f#cked up. Fans of freaked out psychedelic punch ups, dizzying clattery outsider free rock and getting super high and diving head first into a huge pile of drums and guitars will feel right at home. - Aquarius Records ~The return of Burnt Hills, a gloriously freaked out, damaged and deranged, psychedelic garage stomping space rock trailer park stage destroying, instrument thrashing drug drenched sonic dervish. We dug the last record tons, and if anything, this one is even better. One looooong hour long drugspacepsych jam that actually tends more towards the krautrock than the noiserock, with its motorik beats and looped sounding riffage, but fear not, it's still chaotic and noisy, the relentless groove filtered through some Dead C and Liquorball free noise filters. This time, there's lots of space, guitars are angular and detuned, in the backgrounds little squalls of distorted buzz drift in and out of range, vocals buried in the mix spouting some wild and wooly mumbo jumbo, getting all tangled up in the spidery guitar melodies and the shimmery sheets of feedback, while over the top, the drums stumble and sputter, a sort of freenoise freejazz mash up, with the various instruments clicking every once in a while into one of the aforementioned krautrock grooves, only to splinter into weird jagged pieces moments later. Burnt Hills are most definitely the Stoner's Pot Palace house band, and odds are they probably get paid in weed. Packaged in handmade gatefold sleeves, with various artwork and photos affixed to the inside and outside, some hand drawn designs inside as well, limited to 99 copies, each disc hand numbered, the cd- r's cool faux vinyl discs complete with inner label. – Aquarius Records ~Another glorious blast of blown out bong smoke free rock dope jams the way only these Burnt Hills cats can do it. We won't bother going into too much detail as this puppy is limited to 50 copies, we got a bunch, but they won't last long. Burnt Hills, on this particular evening in May of 2007 consisted of nine members, seven guitars, five drummers, one bass, folks obviously swapping back and forth, and it sounds like it. A super fluid, chaotic confluence of sound. Like some lost subterranean Crash Worship Drum jam wrapped in thick sheets of Haino-like guitar skree, everything enveloped in thick clouds of smoky FX, like some musical opium den. The bass and the guitars are thick and slippery, swooping amidst the relentless percussion, and the wild squalls of psychedelic freakout. At times it almost sounds like some DJ rocking multiple turntables, playing several different No Neck and Sunburned Hand records as the same time, a blurry, drugged out free folk tribal mash up....Awesome. Limited to 50 copies. Each disc hand numbered. Full color artwork in a mini cd sized dvd-style clamshell case, inside a sticker and printed vellum insert. – Aquarius Records ~For those cold turkeying for the free commune rock sound, look no further than TONITE WE RIDE, on Flipped Out Records (www.flippedoutrecords.com), the very wonderfuel new album from that Hooligan Guitar Collective known as Burnt Hills. Yes, theyre back with a single one-hour freekout from Hell and this time its personal! Ive reviewed Burnt Hills before, but this is the best batch yet, occupying their audience with a full hour of devolved dyslexic dance music for the prematurely aged. At times during the hour, the ensemble very occasionally undergoes a re-shuffle, as new momentum is pumped in from some previously dozing and under-achieving member, and so the sonic baton is passed and the propulsion forwards maintained. Whats most to be admired in Burnt Hills attitude is the heroic manner in which they soldier through the ups and downs of the hour; for adventurers who dare to forge beyond the acceptable boundaries into landscapes considered off limits may find themselves in treacherous terrain for much of the time. As evidenced by this album, however, they do also trespass into some heavenly/hellish territory that brings forth highly providential material. – Julian Cope, Head Heritage ~For heads demanding even more of such things, check out Burnt Hills mesmerising TO YOUR HEAD (Flipped Out Records). This nontet features a six-guitar sonic attack that develops into the superb 38-minute Vibrated Into Being In The Shadow Of A Full Moon Under The Influence Of The Red Bulb Beneath The Sycamore Stairs Directly To Your Head obviously named after the little Welsh village where they were all born. This is essential stuff, all you Moonrakers, Quakers and Episcopalians. - Julian Cope, Head Heritage ~Imagine a great bronze phallus flying through the depths of the navy night sky and f#cking the warm wet and golden, vaginal sun. Sante sangre rains down on our blue Earth, something of the end has begun....I’m partial. I must admit. I’m partial to out rockists who just f#cking flat-out jam somewhere in a basement, guitar sparks flying, bass moves blasting concrete chasms cross dilapidated, deserted streets, drums pummeling vagrant skulls of ages , improvising the Alpha and Omega as best we can ever understand. Burnt Hills is one of those bands, a gargantuan (and perhaps under-heard) myth of the underground. Blown from the furnaces the likes of Vermonster, BORB and other stony giants, Burnt Hills never seems to let up. Their momentum appears to be immediate, and rolls and rocks on until someone, anyone, runs out of breath. They may not even stop then. For all I know, the music is still going on a la La Monte Young, but spoken through another, entirely alien tongue. As I said, I’m partial. I love this sh#t. It’s Ornette’s “Free Jazz” transformed into a rock idiomfree rock, whatever you want to call it. It’s my kind of thing. It would be easy to go on writing impressionistic, quasi-poetic lines about Burnt Hills, but I really see no point. The references are clear and the playing is over there, so best just to move toward the sound. Guitar freakouts? Yeah. Drum damage? Sure. Psychedelic monstrosity? Of course. It’s almost pointlessly subjective for me to describe the conversational aspect of the music, the interplay, the way the instruments mirror our conversations: we sometimes listen with intent ears, and other times, we ignore, moving on in our own directions. I can’t think of a music which is as relevant to our experience as this, as I have long held the conviction that so-called “free” music does the same. 9/10 - P. Somniferum, Foxy Digitalis ~Primal. Thats the linguistic shortcut for succinctly describing free rock, noise rock, or virtually any other musical relative that does not possess the glossy sheen and over-blown production techniques riddling modern recorded music. There are at least two ways to interpret this words usefulness for describing sound. Probably the most common summons the earliest developments in rocknroll, whether thats derivative Chuck Berry riffing or the swagger and jive of electrified Mississippi Delta emanations. Another possible reading connotes our stylized approximation of Neolithic mankinds musicsavage, violent, pulverizing. More or less the same way the word Teutonic tends to pop up in reviews of krautrock. This utterly scorched offering from upstate New Yorkers Burnt Hills belongs to the latter, as amplifier squall and guitar clatter act as fill for massive walls of loosely synchronized stadium rock beats. For this outing, Burnt Hills appears as a basement nonet, cutting Cloud Nine in a single day with members trading instruments over the course of the fifty minutes and seven untitled tracks. Earlier in the summer, I attended the epochal 77BoaDrum event in Brooklyn. At that performance, seventy-four additional drummers added to the annihilating stomp of the current incarnation of Boredoms, guiding a euphoric series of simple melodies into the stratosphere. Cloud Nine acts as a perfect counter, utilizing its percussion army (of course, significantly inferior in size) to drive the listener blindingly into primordial muck and filth, choking and gagging. The rotating guitarists offer not even the faintest melody, as slashing lines declare aural warfare from the very outset. Four-track cassette fidelity only adds to the smoking haze. Without a constant eye on the stereo, the arbitrary shifting of tracks would be unnoticeable. My guess would be that this is an unedited live recording. I wanted to become jaded to this sound, but instead I was hypnotized (and thrashed about the room a bit from time to time). Unrelenting and for that reason alone, it soars. If they can keep it up, this collective will make substantial ripples in our small (but ever-growing) pool. As of right now, theyve got a forthcoming LP on QBICO - a continuing mark of excellence and the usual horde of discs and tapes. But don’t sleep. Pick up this one first. 7/10 - Brandon Miller, Foxy Digitalis ~Here is the latest full hour of power from the Burnt Hills clan. Quick recap on Burnt Hills: an amorphous unit out in Albany, NY whos membership ranges anywhere from 4-11 people (usually landing on the larger end of the scale) and is responsible for destroying everything in its path on numerous occasions. Tonite We Ride is about the most badass, fitting title that anyone could give this CD. The line-up on this recording features drums, bass, xylophone and four guitars and altogether sounds pretty monstrous. As alluded to earlier, Tonite We Ride is a single, hour long unedited jam. The record eases to a start keeping things relatively loose but maintaining/creating a focus. The rhythmic section holds things together nicely; the drummer knows when to mix things up and when to strictly lay down the beat. Eric Hardiman (also known for his work in Century Plants and as Rambutan) offers some righteously gnarly and hypnotic bass lines while the guitar quartet acts like a unified hovering mass of fuzz. This is the thing that always boggles my mind about Burnt Hills, there are a lot of people playing here and it sounds like a lot of people playing but at the same time it sounds like theres only a few people playing. Catch my drift? Probably not, Ill try to phrase it more coherently. Here, these 7 folks play with the same focus/unity that a good trio has. Even with all the frayed wires here there is always a consistency to the jam. Its interesting too because occasionally the Hills will drop into some long lost rock song where things arent even psychedelic anymore just catchy. I really like things around the 18 minute mark, everyone begins to freak out a bit with some nice free drumming and I can even hear Sick Llana hammering the xylophone amidst the feedback. Theres a yelp in the left speaker and everything slows to a devastating lope. After the flayed freak out, an almost militant blues rock riff is introduced and deconstructed. Theres some guitar in here with a vocal-like quality to it, I dont know if its just some precision wah wah playing or what but it sounds choral and awesome. Maybe its actually vocals for all I know, but I dont see it in the liner notes. This is probably the best sounding Burnt Hills release Ive heard yet; aside from the xylophone getting buried a lot of the time, everything sounds pretty clear so you can hear the nuances of all the players. Probably the next best thing to being in the room during one of their jams. After a sonic pile-up and an extended comeback, everyone reconvenes with a chugging riff which they ride momentarily before whipping up more shitstorms of feedback. I have to complement the drumming once more, cause not only does this guy play the drums like a bastard for an hour straight, the dude is constantly spitting out new rhythms my favorite one being a nice little rave up about 3/4s through the jam. Getting to the 50 minute marks, the sounds get stretched out and, Id say, spacey if they werent so fiery and immediate. That gives me a good idea for a metaphor. Burnt Hills are the sun. Somehow all the feedback radiation and sonic mass ejections balance each other out, finding a collective stability in aggressive, unstable processes. This is a pro-pressed CD with sweet, minimal artwork by Bill Nace, which makes me think, when are Nace and the BH gang gonna team up. I have name for it already, Bill Nace and the Burnt Hills Orchestra. Sounds classy, right? Get on it Northeasterners. Still available from Burnt Hills member Jackson Ziamaluchs Flipped Out label, and worth snapping up if youre down with the Burnt Hills manner. If yr unfamiliar, this is a great place to start too. - Auxillary Out ~So heres the deal, Burnt Hills is a collective hailing from upstate New York who get together each week to jam out 100% improvised madness and host/play shows in a basement. On this recording, there are nine people though apparently it ranges from four to fourteen four of which spend time behind a drum kit, seven who spend time wailing on axes of destruction and one lone bass slinger. (I realize that doesnt add up to nine and sort of defies natural law, but, you see, that’s just what these guys do!) This a line-up so tremendously loony, so perversely awesome, so crushingly splendiferous, it makes be wonder why it took the human race so long to devise it. Thank the heavens that the brave souls that pilot the S.S. Burnt Hills push the record button every once in a while, so those outside the one mile blast radius can still hear the ruckus, even if its only in our headphones. Anyhow, this record is called Cloud Nine, out on the recently formed Tape Drift label. The first of seven untitled tracks (from what I can tell, this is all one long piece divided up seven ways) opens with a few seconds of aimless jamming kinda like playing three Lambsbread records at the same time, but then, unlike most Lambsbread stuff, the jam starts going somewhere and its all the more awesome for it. This thing seriously sounds like a train. It is like a bunch of people got together and listened to a field recording of a train and covered it with instruments. Its relentless, heaving, rumbling from afar and if you pay attention there is lots of buzzing and feedback and shred-offs. There is a real depth to the recording, which is probably because there are nine fucking people playing guitar! The dudes playing drums must be American Gladiators cause they just keep on rollin, keeping the band in a perpetual state of motion without taking so much as a breather. In my experience I’ve found that drumming can make or break a noise rock record, and here with four people playing, stakes is high. The drummers play really well with each other, all locking into the collective groove and don’t try to do too much or show off. They ain’t no robots though, they change up patterns often enough, throwing in little tom tom flourishes or cymbal work. The third track is an excellent example of the wicked drumming as is the final, drums only track. The guitar drops back a bit, sustaining some and allowing the percussion folks to do their thing. The next couple tracks see the guitarists getting a little more wild and unhinged and the drummers holding down the polyrhythmic fort. It is really easy to get lost in this recording and thats without it being hazy or dreamy in the slightest. First, you get baptized in the cacophony and then zone out to the groove. Burnt Hills navigate noise rock wreckage with ease and, more importantly, a beat. It’s hard to believe with as many people jammin as there are, that the whole thing stays coherent and in tune. There is definitely something special being brewed down in that basement of theirs. I do wish the guitars were a bit louder in the mix but thats a small grumble. So that rounds out the first three Tape Drift cd-rs. What I liked is that each release is pretty different and neat in its own little way. Like Century Plants and (VxPxC), Burnt Hills has a bunch of releases lined up, including ones on overseas heavy hitters QBICO, Ruralfaune and Ruby Red. So pick up Cloud Nine and warn Europe, cause Burnt Hills will probably leave it more ravaged than World War Two. - Auxillary Out ~Bruising 4 drummer / 7 guitars outsider rock that prowls with malevolent intent and gathering hurricane-like intensity. – Boa Melody Bar ~Vast rutted lumpy landscapes carved out of raw guitar, bass, drums hammering and crushed under enormous weight and explosive enthusiasm. Beaten into a wide variety of shapes and forms over the course of the single over 56 minutes that compromises this live instrumental monolith. Wiggly space jazz lurches into a phased-out new kind of gravity where everything moves more slowly and dinosaurs still roamed the earth. Big heavy riffs are churned and rotated like an overheated engine, the forward momentum walks backwards, as chugging energy burns the hills black. – Dream Magazine ~Yikes! One long track, though it lists what could be song titles or one long song on the back cover. A clattering bashing drumming, slow doom laden bass, howling guitars, what sounds like horns and much more all colliding and crashing together. Not truly pure chaos; there are patterns and rhythms being ground into dust beneath the cacophony of mangled noise makers. A bit like walking in on the middle of an Acid Mothers Temple freak out, after all vestigal remains of song have been long abandoned. – Dream Magazine ~Comprised of five guitarists, a bass player and three drummers, Albany, NY's Burnt Hills plug in and play thick, no stopping til the weed is gone, improv psych that's the musical equivalent to trying to thread a needle with a fire hose. To Your Head (Flipped Out Records) is comprised of four extendo freak-outs somehow captured before the National Guard was called. Fans of Vermonster, Liquorball and home dentistry should be drooling about now. – Ben Wawa, Chico Beat ~There are grizzled dudes who sit in poker sheds all day and all night for years playing every crappy record in the world. And then there are college grads who are slumming it until they inherit their daddys shoelace factory. Consider Burnt Hills in the former. As history has proven time and time again with everyone from Magic Muscle to The Screamin Mee-Mees, (not to mention those apple cheeked/ mentioned above Magik Markers) there is a strange and tempting allure to letting it all go in a basement, especially when you’re smoking toenail clippings out of a soda can. A thirty plus minute jam that is constantly shifting into the red eye zone, this is the type of stuff that makes bunk greens THAT MUCH better. – 200 LBU ~Holy moly! I went to Albany, New York once, about five years ago, packed in a Dodge Neon with a couple of fellow summer-camp counselors looking to get away from the Berkshires of western Mass in an attempt to find some semblance of the trashy college life that we had been missing. Albany is a f#cked-up town, and you know it from the first glance… at night, the city looks like an old set from ‘Blade Runner’ and the nine-piece (five guitarists, three drummers, and a lone bassist holding down the fort) Burnt Hills calls the wasteland “home.” Sheer volume and geography puts gets them comparisons to the almighty Vermonster, but these guys have gone even further in the direction of that sweet new free shit (Lambsbread fans/collectors take note), and just wait until you get to the final five minutes of the record: an outer-body experience… “if only this record was long enough!?” – Marble Stature ~ConDemek fans might disagree, but the germ for the contemporary Albany fringe scene would've been the lil group that did, Erl. Their debut 7" (& subsequent lp) was a soupy, Smashchords based cauldron of simmering, derailed twang that functioned as a seismic rumble throughout the "Cradle of the Union", a call for all likeminded-whether they be cityfied or country fried--to come forth & be counted. The results were estimable & the Erl label was founded. Then sometime in the mid 90's, there was a schism, Erl dissolved & out of the bubbling crude came a new & more resilient taskmangler, Flipped Out. The label has torched a few different numbers through the past decade; Ziamaluch, Connie Acher & Paraquat Earth Band, but the latest, Burnt Hills, might be stickiest of the icky yet to function in the Eastern NY junction. Comprised of 6 guitars (known here as blutar, gertar, bootar...you get the idea) & 3 drummers (skins, skips 'n skids), Burnt Hills is a raw, rambunctious floom ride through a gauntlet of sharred metal & splintered wood white caps. Comprised of four (non banded) tracks, the run is akin to shooting the unchartered rapids of Vermonster's 'Instinctively Inhuman' lp in a bong-canoe insulated w/Global Unity Orchestra records to absorb the shock. In the dark! It's a sprawling 'n seemingly rudderless trip which at times feels like it's gonna crash into bits. But somehow they manage to navigate themselves back into an ebb 'n flow & as the final track fades out in a blaze, you know that while these herb grinders're gone, they ain't to be forgotten, even though they left only 99 numbered copies of this debut lp as their legacy. Those of you who're curious about this bootiful cacaphony should contact http://www.fusetronsound.com or http://www.flippedoutrecords.com for they are sure to go quicker than a bag of bammy at a bee-in. - Tom Lax, Siltbreeze ~Burnt Hills are an oxymoron a weird amalgam of the familiar and the strange. The notion of an ever-growing bunch of middle-aged folks in Albany, N.Y., getting together every Monday night and jamming on psychedelic tunes brings a certain picture to mind ... and its not a pretty one. Filter that through a musical diet focused more in the Skullflower direction than Phish, however, and the image gets a bit more interesting. At the same time, it seems as though theres surfeit of CD-R bands, tossing out disc after disc of noisy fuzzed-out riffage, once again invoking the best-known version of Sturgeons Law: "Ninety percent of everything is crap." The trick for these bands is remembering that music needs to be more than fun to play; it needs to be fun to hear, too. On Tonite We Ride, Burnt Hills make a fairly good effort. With a membership of nearly a dozen at full capacity, including at times multiple drummers and enough guitarists to satisfy Glenn Branca, Burnt Hills noise potential is pretty high, even with a xylophone player in the mix. On Tonite We Ride, the lineup only has four guitarists, lone bass and drum players, and the xylophone, but they still manage to open with a thick blast that bodes well. Head-nodding drums and heavily fuzzed riffage provide a pretty strong start, and the band does manage to peak a few times throughout the album. Offered as a single hour-long track, the CD unfolds as a series of movements, from the opening riffs through random noisemaking and cymbal rattling, before getting down to serious droning and skittering blobs of feedback. The seven players are clearly listening to each other, and they respond fairly well to changes. Nonetheless, the improvisational format and the number of players inevitably means that there are no clear breaks it takes a bit of time for everyone to settle on the same page. Similarly, hour-long improvisations inevitably consist of high and low points. The question that every improv group has asked themselves is: to edit or not to edit? Its obviously wonderful to present a performance exactly as it was played from start to finish, as Burnt Hills have seemingly opted to do here. But editing, while it may disturb the purity of the performance, often does the audience a favor. Is it pandering to try to ensure that listeners hear a group at its best? Either way, on Tonite We Ride, Burnt Hills give a warts-and-all performance, during which theres plenty of aimless noodling and unhinged squalling sandwiched between periods of cohesion. When the rhythm section dials in a riff, at least some of the guitars find their way around to complementary playing, and the results can be pretty great. But all too often the proceedings fall apart into random noisemaking while one or two players refuse to give up on their own creations. The albums high points may be worth it, if your tolerance for anarchy is high enough. – Mason Jones, Dusted |