Hypnagogue Music Reviews

I last reviewed Christopher Alvarado in his Twilight Tranmissions guise. That disc was an aggressively dark affair, so when I received Translucence I prepped myself for more of the same. But Alvarado is one of those artists who can switch up identities and approaches and make them work. What you get in Translucence is music that retains a distinct edge of shadow throughout, but trends more toward ambient spaces lightened in spots by Alvarado’s rich, Spanish-flavored acoustic guitar. After two tracks of excellent grey-scale driftwork, including the mildly haunted flow of “Passage,” along comes “Fire Above the Desert Mesa” and the first major helping of that guitar. Coming out of “Passage,” the rich and solid tones of the strings are a startlingly pleasant surprise. The guitar sings over ghostly vocals and washes of sound. That Spanish flair brings layers of drama to the song. It’s my favorite track here. Alvarado smoothly throttles down into the comparative quiet of “Marbled Mask” before heading into the ominous tribal tones of “Ascension of Silence.” This is another great example of the near-dark tonal shadings that make Translucence so interesting. The sound is soft, perfect ambient pads, but the feel of the thing hovers at dusk, the drums working to ground it. It’s one of those tracks (and there are plenty here) where you just listen to the way the layers work; you take in how much is going on. The stretch that covers “Solace” and “Arcades of Light” showcase Alvarado’s slightly lighter side. “Solace” drifts along with title-relevant ease, synth pads appropriately breathy and broad; “Arcades…” pulls out all the New Age stops; Alvarado’s guitar is joined by softly whistling flute and lush piano in a work that’s calming and beautiful. Diversity is the hallmark of Translucence, and it’s diversity that moves along logically. Dark becomes light at the right time, smoothness picks up beats and textures right when it needs to. This is a must-listen disc from Christopher Alvarado.

Available from Dungeon Recordings.

Now and then when I’m writing a review, I’ll Google to see what other people have had to say about a disc. Not that I’m looking to plagiarize, of course, but just to see how others perceive the music. Looking at reviews of Tapage’s new release, Overgrown, I came across this line at Sputnik Music, and it fairly well sums up my own feelings: “You probably will not find anything truly unique in Tapage’s Overgrown. But, damn, what a great record this is.” I often feel this way about glitch in general. The base of the genre is achingly common; what makes a disc stand out is what’s there under the pops, snaps, and crackles and the pulse-racing microbeats. While I may not go so far as to call Overgrown “great,” I would say that Tijs Ham certainly understands what makes for very good glitch. I hear a track like “Crab,” and I know that Ham gets the power of juxtaposition. His adrenalin-laced beats power their way over lightweight, drifting melodies, not waiting for them to catch up but respectively co-existing. Its followup, “Ethyl,” maintains a fantastic balance–a downtempo backdrop that would be a very good listen on its own weaves nicely through a restrained field of snappy glitch. Wind chime tones make this one work very well. The short track “Mortuary Beef” (what a great title!) rises up from a slow drone to take on a beat. This is another spot where Ham works the balance. The beats come in at a low volume and stay there, just off in the distance with metallic clashes of sound. Ham can also amp up the beats, of course. “Loss” is textbook glitch, crunchy curls of sound and punched-up beats; “Mimic” is a rapid-fire array of standard glitch memes. But here’s the thing: go all the way through Overgrown and come around to listen again to the calm character of “Sine.”  This is when you get what makes this a very good glitch disc: sometimes it’s not all about the glitch. Tijs Ham understands that, and this is why you’ll listen to Overgrown more than once.

Available from Tympanik Audio.

Threnody for Collapsing Suns starts out in an arc of ominous, borderline-industrial drones, and if you weren’t familiar with Michael Page’s work as Sky Burial, you might figure that this dark ambient outing would, like its kin, continue on in this vein. But no. About 14 minutes into the opening track, “Return to the Peripheries,” a strident old-school analogue pulse shoulders its way into the dronework and now there’s a shot of rhythm arguing with the bold washes behind it. Toward the end of the disc, the bounce rises and lightens without giving up its intense geometry, fading back out toward the end of the track to make way for a fresh change of tone. This Tangerine Dream-like moment is brought to you courtesy of page’s always-evolving Sky Burial identity, and it deftly turns Threnody into not-just-another dark ambient disc. Don’t get me wrong–there’s plenty of dark here. “The Cadence of Collapse” opens with pounding drums that would inspire an Orcish legion to war, and “Refractions from the Rift” thrums and thuds with a marked industrial edge. But “Cadence” filters its way down into a perfect twiddle-and-wash spacemusic composition that rings with older-electronic echoes. The softness stands perfectly against the potency of the opening few minutes. Page sends the sounds orbiting around the listener’s head, creating an almost synaesthetic visual as your brain follows it around. “Refractions” ushers itself in with metallic, heavily echoed clattering and a galloping sequencer rhythm. The noise thickens, your pulse rising with the density, and then Page throttles back. There’s still an industrial timbre to the atmosphere, but now it’s like you’re looking at it from a distance rather than passing through its harsh, churning center. As the voyage continues away, the sound takes a more ambient tone, but shot through with infrequent metallic grinds and a high whine, like some lost radio signal. Within each of Threnody for Collapsing Sun‘s three long pieces (23, 16 and 13 minutes), Page creates distinct movements–changes of tone or intent that glide logically one to next. Each one is thus a nicely complete piece in itself while also a working part of the overall. Page runs the listener out to the edges of dark ambient and dangles them over the precipice without dropping them. You get a taste of darkness, but then given respite. The balance is perfectly modulated. One of my favorite releases so far from Sky Burial.

Aegri Somnia, which translates to “a sick man’s dreams,” offers up two drone-based pieces of 40 and 16 minutes respectively. Here, Page is joined by renowned Hawkwind saxophonist Nik Turner. The first track, “Movement I: The Synaethete’s Lament,” opens with a big 10-minute wash of building drone. Turner’s sax rolls in below and off a bit in the distance, wailing in a rock/free-jazz improv in harmony with the movement of Page’s dronework. The middle section winds down into a full-on hypnotic wash, a complete immersion in shadowy sound that invites your brain to just surrender. Turner returns later in the track, blowing through the murk like a waypoint for the mind-numbed traveler. “Movement II: Within and Without,” is similarly structured. For about half its length, it’s  a churning, aggressive and challenging track, sharply edged and not at all interested in your comfort. Then, in keeping with is comparative title, it changes over, becoming less cluttered in its sound, less claustrophobic. Page keeps some of the harsh elements prowling at the periphery, but brings Aegri Somnia to a reasonably soft conclusion.

Although of the two I prefer Threnody, both discs firmly cement Page’s reputation as a drone craftsman who knows that the form doesn’t live by drone alone. Both are also good discs for listeners who want to get the flavor of dark ambient without diving headfirst into grim, cluttered soundscapes.

Available from Collective XXIII.

Self-described “classical punk composers” A Journey Down the Well present a four-part suite that combines a chamber music sensibility, a touch of deconstructionist thought, and field recordings for How Little Can Be The Orchestra, a disc that wants me to like it more than I do. Taner Torun and cellist Ipek Zeynep Kadioglu lay down beautiful, classically inspired works that are quiet, thoughtful and intimate in their simplicity, then layer on the field recordings, and this is where they lose me. While the first track, “How,” remains true to the chamber-music idea, the next track, “Little,” opens with two minutes of nothing but field. Two minutes and then it simply cuts out entirely. It doesn’t augment the track, it doesn’t create a counterpoint, it just plays for two minutes and stops. Then the music begins, another quite nice bit of piano and cello, Kadioglu’s notes quivering off the strings. Conversely, in “Can Be,” the two sides of the equation blend. Rowdy sounds of a sporting victory–cheers, car horns, shouts–get a contrary accompaniment of slow, almost morose strings, and it works perfectly. What doesn’t work at all for me is the brain-assailing mewling of kittens in “The Orchestra.” After a minute-long setup of string and piano, in come the kittens. As Torun and Kadioglu meter out a hesitantly paced dirge, the kittens whine like nails on a chalkboard. From an idea standpoint, I get it. Contrast. From a listening standpoint, I stop listening. When A Journey Down the Well aren’t over-muddling the sound, How Little Can Be The Orchestra is a pleasing, if short, listen that nudges ambient and neo-classical together in a quite intriguing. I listen to more from them as long as their next recording is kitten-free.

Available from Fluttery Records.

Miles Tones, the first new release from General Fuzz since 2008, should come with a disclaimer that listening to it may cause euphoria and widespread outbreaks of generally feeling pretty good. Employing side musicians on guitar,  strings, trumpet and more, James Kirsch douses his listeners with a deep blend of New Age, electronic jazz and post-rock that hits and sticks, track after downright pleasant track. It’s got the laid-back ease of lounge, but shot through with a strong emotional honesty that’s a major part of its allure. “First Steps” makes for a fine introduction. Twinkling glockenspiel keys like a child’s music box start it off. Acoustic guitar and a sharp tattoo on snare ease in, setting the stage for soaring, wordless vocals from Audio Angel. (She reappears on “Return Value” like a funkier, grittier sister to Clare Torry from Pink Floyd’s “Great Gig in the Sky.”) A piano bass line that to my ears comes away like a slight homage to Pachebel’s Canon rounds out the sound. From there it just gets tight, happy and cool. Latch onto those three words for the remainder of this disc because that’s what you’re getting. Hit “The Jam” and you’ll be courted by Ryan Avery’s lush violin work before Josh Clark of Tea Leaf Green steps in to light up the room with a hot guitar solo. JP Cutler and Emiel Stopler add more guitar into the mix. This may be my favorite track here. Kirsch lays down a snappy glitch-style beat for his musicians to work with, and they run with it. (One of his preferred working styles is to put forth a structure and let his guests riff over it as they will.) “The Gorge” heads for the jazz side of the street, electric piano playing off bubbly sequencer as Phoebe Jevotvic Alexander lays in vocals.  “Slow March” is an intensely emotional piece. It feels like the slow arrival of something positive in the wake of a hard decision. There are undertones of sadness, amplified by Avery’s strings and Jessie Ivry’s cello playing a gorgeous duet, but Peter Medland’s trumpet arrives in smiling counterpoint, singing a silky line and growing consistently jazzier as the track moves along. An amazing track.

Maybe it seems like a reviewer shortcut to say that Miles Tones is a pleasure to listen to, but two things: 1) It just is. The takeaway as the last track fades is that you’re finishing on a high note. You’re uplifted and  a little invigorated. This release is a mood enhancer, plain and simple. And 2), it’s clear that it was Kirsch’s pleasure to create this. It’s a very personal-feeling disc. If the twinkly tones in “First Steps” and “Arrival” aren’t there as a tip of the hat to Kirsch’s baby boy, I’ll eat my reviewer hat. The honesty I mentioned above virtually drips off the music; you’re being invited in and Kirsch hopes you’ll stay a while. The thing about Miles Tones is that it feels both quite personal and yet widely universal. James Kirsch has created this as a gift to himself, but he is sharing it with you.

Available as a free download at the General Fuzz web site.

For his latest release, Igneous Flame (aka Pete Kelly) opted to put aside the tools he’d gotten used to using to create his typically airy, richly layered ambient music and look for new ways to achieve his sound. Lyra started life as a guitar ambient disc in the style of David Sylvain but, as good Art often does, soon steered itself off in different and more individualized directions. The result was that Kelley split the work into two discs–one being synth-based and the other more rooted in guitar. The two share the warmth and depth typical of most Igneous Flame discs. Low drones form a base over which Kelly floats vaporous pads, long and prone to slow fades, sometimes giving themselves over to a big buildup that swells before evaporating. In among the drifts Kelly, as always, weaves emotional and narrative threads. Take a track like “Translucence,” which eases along, shifting tone before passing through a rushing wash of sound, a sort of sonic nexus, a portal that gives way to a new expression. There’s excellent motion at work here, and it packs its share of drama. “Brilliantine” shows off the same sort of shifts across its 10-minute span but keeps itself quiet through the changes. “Crystalline” adds some extra dimension with the solidity of quiet piano that appears in the last minute or so, rising like crystal in the midst of another gauzy flow. The only mis-step for me on disc 1 comes in the middle of “Auric,” where Kelly wallops a stretch of calm with a gong. A big gong. I’m just warning you in case you’ve got a heart condition. It must be said, though, that “Auric” does build to that moment, with almost orchestral swells pushing through in points, and Kelly moves from there to a spiraling whirl before easing back, so some leeway has to be given from a thematic perspective. But oh, that gong… It’s the only disruptive moment in an otherwise delightfully meditative flow.

By comparison, disc 2 comes away almost as if Kelly wanted to give us more of what worked in disc 1, but then ground the whole thing with the earthy waypoints provided by his laid-back guitar style. It’s an evolution of the first disc that shows how one more element can change ambient. I like that Kelly doesn’t make this just an ambient disc with guitar overlay, however. The guitar picks its spots and only comes in where it’s needed, where it neatly augments the moment. Its first real appearance happens more than halfway through the first track, a light and high bit of phrasing with a touch of a folksy twang that drops into Kelly’s signature flow. The title track features flickerings of acoustic guitar, butterfly storms of notes scattered across its face. It’s truly a blend of ethereal and corporeal, the dreamy and the distinct, and Kelly meshes the two sides of the equation perfectly, again and again. Listen to “Spark,” where at points Kelly pulls everything back to a point of near-silence, absolute wisps of sound from both sides–his lightest drones, the gentlest touch on the strings–and makes stunning use of the resultant negative space. You find yourself holding your breath and waiting for the next moment to be created.

Lyra is not an easy disc to write about; like many excellent works, a simple listen will do more for your understanding than anything I can try to say here. What needs to be said is that Igneous Flame is continuing to advance and improve, challenging himself with every new disc while managing to maintain a signature feel to his music.

Kudos also go to Kati Astraeir for yet another stunning cover.

If you’re interested in Kelly’s process and/or gear used in making Lyra, he jotted it all down in blog form for you.

Available from Lumina Sounds.

The Time Traveler is Paulina Cassidy’s second CD, and my first introduction to her work. May I just say, I’m glad I caught up to her early because this is someone I think I’m going to want to listen to going forward. Although this disc skims by in under 35 minutes, the voyage holds time at bay, thanks to Cassidy’s otherworldly, wordless vocals and a blend of styles that range from neo-classical (“The Faceless Clock,” “The Here and Now”)  to the hauntingly abstract (“Dimensonal Shift” and the 56-second “Quantus”) and several points in between. I was honestly surprised to note how short the disc was. Then again, I’ve had it looping to take in the depth of Cassidy’s music. The changing styles, even on so short a piece, keep Time Traveler fresh and Cassidy is obviously at home with her musical shapeshifting. She curves the Enigma-esque title track  seductively around the listener, infusing it with a light Middle Eastern feel, a pulsing bass and her sensual whisper. She changes to a clean, crisp Windham Hill style for “The Here and Now,” a simple and lovely New Age instrumental on piano and strings. The opener, “The Facelss Clock,” is rife with drama and tension. Plucked strings leap over string sounds as Cassidy lays down a gorgeous caoine like a romantic ghost song. That same feel works through the closer, “Tea With the Dream Ghost.” Silky, echoing faerie chants spin through the background against long-drawn string pads and muted piano. There’s a beautiful fragility to the all vocal work here; it seems spun out in a very fragile, glassy thread, sound coming through like refracted light. The Time Traveler is a wonderfully dynamic set of pieces, and Cassidy is a genuine talent to be watched.

Available from Paulina Cassidy’s web site.

Larry Kucharz is a minimalist composer perhaps best known for his “Ambient Washes” series, where a tonal “color” is explored in a stripped-down way that focuses the music on what he calls the “uncluttered melodic or rhythmic structures.” But Kucharz also dabbles in the dancier side of things, playing in the fields of techno and EDM. This is where we find him on his 2011 release, Unit IA42, and the offerings here are a bit of a mixed bag. I have to say that, having listened to a fair amount of Kucharz’s work, I find the washes more to my liking. But there are definitely ear-catching pieces on Unit IA42, and the strongest of them are the initial four pieces, his “Binary Suite,” offered as an example of his symphonic electronica. In fact, there’s a distinct switch that comes after this quartet of movements; the latter pieces feel somehow less sophisticated, or perhaps just thinner in content. The first four tracks align with the chill side of things, soft at the edges but laced through with sharp sequencer lines. “Life IA42″ shifts from a slow-breath meter to a hurried walk measured in low notes. The suite closes nicely with  “Binary Funeral IA42,” my favorite track here. A low end like a pizzicato cello anchors sweetly singing string sounds. Wave-washes of whitish noise rise intermittently and a simple clicking rhythm marks time. It’s laid back and yet fairly deep. I have said I have issues with the latter part of the disc, but it’s not without its own moments. “U302 Remix 42″ carries a surprising amount of impact, given its very sparse elements. It has an early electronic feel, with an insistent–make that unchanging–bass-drum meter and grumbling, repeating four-note low end. Snaps of early analog percussion form the remainder of the sounds, moving in absolute, circular structure. Despite what seems like a recipe for static music, there’s a definite dynamic and Kucharz’s equation keeps you held there. I was surprised to look at my iPod mid-song and realize that it’s almost 10 minutes long. Welcome to your trance state, Mr. Hypnagogue. He catches me again with the frantic jazz piano feel that drives “Juke It 42,” although it could do without the processed voice chanting “Juke it!” “Ambient Dance 42″ offers up a catchy mix of drum rushes punctuating sparse club-like electronic phrases. My only problem with Unit IA42 is that it feels like it grows too thin toward the end of the disc, with the last two cuts coming in to somewhat save it. It may just be that the ultra-repetitive, heard-it-before mathematics of techno wear out their welcome for me. I often feel the same way with glitch-based electronica. It’s a weighted scale, really. Looking at it as experiments with the forms and standards of electronic dance music, I get Unit IA42. As a listener, however, I find myself accepting about half and hurrying past the other half. Going back to what I said before, Kucharz’s Washes CDs are a better point of entry into this superb composer’s musical mindset.

Available from CD Baby.

In his first solo release since 2007, Brian Parnham puts forth an array of visions that, while tending more toward sources dark and tribal, also work their way into classic electronic-music forms to make for a very complete whole. See None, Hear None, Speak None comes off as a well-modulated tour through Parnham’s musical headspaces. The movement, from the drum-driven openers through wider ambient vistas and back, flows smoothly. Kicking off with the title track, Parnham first hits the listener with an almost downbeat feel. Ringing metallic notes meet string pads and round-toned percussion in a cool blend. But any thoughts of this being that sort of listen (which, considering the quality of the track, would not be a bad thing at all) get tribally drummed out at the start of “Head in the Sand.” This track and its followup, “Suspended Plumes,” are the most heavily tribal pieces here, and they make for a mind-bending stretch. “Head…” is energetic and forceful, a very potent calling fueled by absolutely thundering percussion. A sound like ringing glass and distant snarls of didgeridoo scrape across the backdrop, all underscored by a fast sequenced line. “Suspended Plumes” drops the pace and curls immediately into a thick, humid and slightly menacing space reminiscent of Roach and Metcalf’s Serpent’s Lair. Considering Parnham’s past working associations with Roach, the influence is not at all unexpected–it’s merely a continuation of chemistry. The drums are even more central here, and Parnham plays with their sound, curving and warping the shapes. He deftly melts this track into “Eroding Shore” which, as he mentions on his site, he sees as something of a reprise to a track from Roach’s Magnificent Void. The homage is right there in the big, bold pads that rumble on the  low end and a sense of spacey vastness. This is the first beatless track on the disc and it leaves no question that Parnham can handle this type of flow, too. There’s an interesting stretch that begins with the track “Half Full.” This and the two tracks that follow are very short; the longest is a shade over two minutes. They come off like vignettes of dense, building sound, brief experiments forming a tenuous bridge to the latter half of the disc. “Half Full” coils up a coarse, rippling pad that squelches into the insectile, analog tangles and slightly more open space of “Tipping Point,” and then “Half Empty” roars in, sounding for all the world like big sonic buzzsaw tearing open the flimsy fabric of reality. This is just a big, savage, gut-check rip of sound at the edge of noise, and I love it. What makes this passage even more effective is the way Parnham uses them, along with a few cracks of electro-thunder, to guide us into “Business As Usual,” which has not only a lighter tone, but surprises with the appearance of a guitar. There’s an old-school familiarity about the tone of it that evokes the feel of a blend of Nine Inch Nails and Jarre. The low end is very Reznor; the high side is pure European electronica; the whole thing is three minutes that grabs and holds the attention. The retro grooves continue in the big and bouncy “While We’re Here,” which is simply a sequencer-lover’s joyride. (Need more? Forward to “Enjoy the Ride.” Which I guarantee you will.) From there Parnham works back down into darker abstract spaces with the centerpiece of the disc, “1111.” Fluid pads ebb through as didgeridoo lines rasp and slither across the space. This is a very deep track, energized by low-key percussion pulses and more of that skittering analog. One of the best standalone tracks I’ve heard in a while for pure immersion. Didge lovers (like myself) get their payoff in “Earth Mourning,” as the breathy primal tones curl around metallic clatters and an atmosphere of distinct unease. This is a very claustrophobic track, constantly and uncomfortably closing in until Parnham nudges it open with upward-moving pads. This is perhaps the most narrative track here, and Parnham plays equally well in the dark and the light. See None winds it way to the quiet finality of “Last Breath.” A meditative flow marked with a heartbeat pulses that, without a hint of morbidity, slow over time. It brings this superbly made ride to a calm close. If you like Brian Parnham, See None, Hear None, Speak None is a disc well worth the five-year wait. If you haven’t been familiar with him until now, this is an amazing place to start.

Available from Brian Parnham’s web site.

Edge-of-dusk drones built out of samples from old vinyl records and loops from mellotron, piano and more skulk their way through the bleak landscape of Gramophone Transmissions, the second release from Canadian artist Broken Harbour (aka Blake Gibson). The inside cover notes that “headphones and closed eyes provide the ideal listening environment for this recording.” I’d have to agree. As Gibson moves from slightly melodic–or perhaps melody-assisted is the right word–to sparse, near-isolationist drone-spaces, you’ll want to take in as much as you can. Atmosphere and sonic texture are in full force here, dragging visceral reactions from you. In the opening track, “Drift,” mournful string sounds rasp a funereal cadence  as light piano notes sprinkle across the frame. It’s about as light as the disc gets before Gibson starts to spiral down to bleaker zones. The two parts of the “The Ballad of Dave Bowman” make sure you understand that we’re done with anything but drone. The first is a stripped-down soundfield crackling with the static of a wayward transmission; the second builds off a drone with a pipe-organ feel, a steady, mildly swirling wash of sound that seems to pick up intensity as it curls around you. They’re both chock full of activity compared to “Titan.” This  is probably the starkest track on the disc. It reaches a very minimal point where the pads thin out and weaken and stretches of near-silence, where just a vinyl crackle fills the space, take over. The emptiness of it is quite affecting. Here, like nowhere else on the disc, Gibson conveys the sense that you are quite alone in this place. In “Dark Clouds Gathering in the West” Gibson hangs a pall of sound, a wavering expanse of pure grey, then layers it with eerie vocal wails. This track just gets more unsettling as it moves along–and there’s 12 minutes of it to get through. Gibson moves firmly into dark ambient territory with “Maelstrom (The Descent).” Here he just industrially grinds his way into your skull for over 15 minutes, overwhelming you with the sheer density of sound. It’s actually a fairly dynamic piece; for all its skull-corroding abrasiveness, it’s also got a fair degree of motion, albeit tectonic in speed. The disc closes with “Unforeseen Consequences,” where Gibson switches back to less edgy pads and drones. The tone is still shadowy and uncertain, but the feel is somewhat calmer. By disc’s end you haven’t left Gibson’s desolate musical homeland; you’ve just crossed it, ready, perhaps to go again. Gramophone Transmissions will definitely appeal to the dark ambient crowd and will likely work well for those who appreciate drone–but anyone into beatless, atmospheric wanderings should have a go as well. An excellent new release from a strong dark talent.

Available from the Broken Harbour web site.