Killer roots detournement of Georgia Turner‘s dread blues about a New Orleans brothel, to the tune of a seventeenth-century English folk song, by way of Bob Dylan, Nina Simone and The Animals.
Bunny Gale revives another folk song on the flip — Dead Man’s Chest — via The Viceroys’ classic Studio One outing.
More crucial Keith Hudson runnings, courtesy of Dub Store in Tokyo.

Snoopy is hard to follow up. The same brilliant musicality is lavished on Orange — a combination of unmistakably original, skittering drum programming, startlingly fresh instrumental interjections, creepily invocatory voices, and dubwise treatments — giddily imbued with the dark arts of ritual and seance. But Orange is more gripping, focussed and urgent, more intense and ambitious. Next level.

Its first quarter presents a trio of forays in suspense.
Bassline squares up like an epic psych-funk grinder, with a moody guitar line traversed by ticking drum patterns and faint electric crackle. In no time the guitar is staggering and stammering under the duress of echo and distortion, and over-run with percussive electronics and the first of the voices massing in the music’s head. The mood has quickly become more trepidatious. We’re deeper underground; it’s gloomier, wetter.
Shred propulsively ratchets up the tension and menace. Glazily tentative xylophone is played against slashing, nervy cello. The voices are more strangulated and sick now. Flutes and chimes evoke the same kind of beautiful, contaminated efflorescence which is pictured on the LP’s front cover.
Voice Of The Spider makes easier progress across this cavernous, shadowy, dripping terrain, with funky pads and Nasty, eighties, No Wave electric bass; woozy chimes, non-plussed keys, singing-in-tongues.

Pink Mist marks an arrival, or unbottling, with annunciatory church-organ and choral voices from the off, and a newly relaxed, head-nodding kosmische rhythm.

Mandarin is a short, beat-less and voice-free interlude for piano and bass. It’s reflective and nostalgic, ambivalent and inconclusive, with a lovely snatch of melody. A bridge half-way.

Would You Like A Vampire is a triumphant, mesmerizing go at New Folk, with strummed acoustic guitar, descant song, and jazzily restless drum programming (including a tasty bass-bin trembler). Amazingly, Conrad Standish is joined at the mic by none other than Bridget St John. Together they sing ‘Earth is Paradise’ so repeatedly and tremulously — and the song is cut off so abruptly at the end — it seems as if the verb is teetering on the past tense, and hymn fading into valediction and catastrophe.

In the same line of thought, Storm Rips Banana Tree begins idyllically enough, with a CS-&-Kreme-style raga… before something like an immense, obliterative drill starts up. Harpsichord and organ — by James Rushford — and flutes, and clapping, distant chanting and insectile percussion steadily leaven the dread, till finally all that is left is lapping water.
It’s an epic, deeply immersive, compelling, thought-provoking, twenty-minute finale… the coup de grâce.

Classic pumping house from 2002. Sleek and classy, with soulful strings. Eight mixes, kicking off with the original Mood II Swing. Original copies.

Classic disco house. Eight mixes, by Spen & Karizma and Full Intention. Original copies.

Originally out in 1983, Love Power is co-produced by Fabian Cooke (from Itopia) and Lloyd Bullwackie Barnes, with assistance from Prince Douglas. Cooke plays most of the instruments himself, with his drumming centre-stage, though Ras Menelik puts in a brilliant shift on congas, and backing vocals are by Sugar Minott and the Love Joys. Cooke’s own well-crafted compositions are joined by covers of Irene Cara and the Four Tops, infectiously bridging roots, lovers and synthy, soulful eighties boogie.
Betrayed is solid-gold, signature Wackies. He’s My God is a tasty sip of low-slung, grooving gospel-reggae. Evoking Michael Jackson, the jamming album-closer Drums is top-notch disco-reggae, opportunely poised for revival.
Terrific stuff. Transgressive; full of personality and charm.

Deep, rootical lovers, darkly seething with one-step-at-a-time hurt and steely, vengeful self-esteem. Hypnotic, stripped and disconsolate, with implacable drums and bass, dubwise from the start, the production is classic, unmistakable Wackies, featuring Fabian Cooke’s scattered, abrupt organ stabs and minimal guitar-work, Ras Menelik’s masterful nyabinghi drumming, and harmonic commiseration by Sugar Minott and the Love Joys (with a strangled sob at intervals).
Over six minutes, the extended mix is different to the Love Power LP; and the additional dub, released here for the first time, is unmissable for its extra rawness and dubbed-out emptiness.
Plus thirteen minutes of blissful disco-reggae on the flip: two contrasting dubs of the Giorgio Moroder/Irene Cara/Flashdance cut from Love Power, both previously unreleased and a bit sick.

Superb soulful gospel from 1986.
Thank You Lord is a Floating Points shot.

Swingeing Millsian techno from the geezer formerly known as ∑. Nothing extraneous. Lethal.

An electrifying, previously unreleased studio album, recorded in 2003, this stunning solo piano suite condenses Mseleku’s visionary overstanding of South African music into a flowing, pulsing statement in six parts. With jazzwise echoes of marabi, amahubo, maskanda and Nguni song forms binding it to the deep music of Mseleku’s Zulu heritage, Beyond The Stars provides what Blue Note recording artist Nduduzo Makhathini describes in his liner notes as ‘a divine summary’ of Bheki’s life story: ‘a sonic pilgrimage from the beautiful and organic landscapes of Durban, to the vibrant energy of London and ultimately toward the inner dimensions of one’s being.’
A magnificent start by new label Tapestry Works.

‘Phil Ranelin was a session trombonist for the likes of Steve Wonder before setting up the Tribe label with Wendell Harrison in Detroit… The title track is lusciously, greasily funky and stands in pretty stark contrast to the kind of airbrushed fusion that was in vogue at the time. Sounds From The Village is even better (and dirtier), showcasing Ranelin’s oily trombone gymnastics and a viciously fuzzed guitar solo… The obligatory Coltrane tribute He The One We All Knew is the kind of groove-based free-playing typical of Pharoah Sanders, though only really picks up when the band launch into post bop swing mode in the last six minutes or so… Beautiful stuff… Essential.’