Let me put it to you this way: I was in the middle of another round of listening to Andrew Lahiff’s Inner Worlds Returning, and during the first track, almost like an involuntary reflex, I reached over to my speakers and turned it up. Later, I did it again. Because in the middle of this set of lush ambient flows I was stricken with the idea that I wanted to feel even more enveloped in the sound. I needed more of it, stat. This doesn’t happen often. Lahiff’s new release is loaded with big, layered ambient drifts backed with atmospheric sounds; this is the musical equivalent of laying in a wide open field at midnight and taking in the full arc of stars, the night sounds around you, and a sense of deep-reaching calm. Lahiff manages to give his music a broad scope while keeping the feel incredibly intimate. The sensations that the music pulls up are uniquely yours, but this is the sound of a vaster thing, a communal spiritual point. And, yes, this review borders on hyperbole, but there’s the effect. From the vast feeling and vistas evoked in the moving “Almost Dawn in the Valley” to hushed and meditative flow of “Echoes of the Harmonic Canyons,” this disc reaches down and finds something personal to stir, something very much you to awaken, and at the same time expresses something tribal, binding, bonding, to turn it into a shared experience. Lahiff keeps his pieces warm, touched with light tribal percussion in places that plays neatly off the various natural sounds lurking under the music. It’s a masterfully restrained blend; Lahiff can create a bit of narrative tension with a subtle change in tone, and relieve it just as simply, all without so much as rippling the sound-pool. This is a superb low-volume loop, the silken sounds melding effortlessly into the backdrop. It also, as I said, takes on a robust vitality when turned up. Headphone listening reaps superb awards. My only comment outside of praise is that some tracks cut off a bit roughly; I almost wish this had been worked into a seamless flow. This, however, is minor. Fact is, Inner Worlds Returning has been getting a lot of repeat play at Hypnagogue; I expect that will be the case for many listeners. If you haven’t discovered Andrew Lahiff yet, let me suggest you don’t know what you’ve been missing. Start here, then go deeper. There’s a lot to enjoy from this prolific artist.
Available from Relaxed Machinery.
Sound sculptor Joe Frawley turns his attentions to the story of Sleeping Beauty on his new release, A Hundred Years. Presented as a series of non-linear visions of the tale, the disc wanders its way through such diverse waypoints as a French opera from the early 1800s, a Japanese novella from the 1960s, and Dante Gabriel Rosetti’s long poem, “Jenny.” In Frawley’s fashion, even within their own moments these pieces are chopped, splayed, peppered with aural buckshot and rendered down into jump-cut dream-moments that may or may not actually exist. One of Frawley’s devices that I truly enjoy is his tendency to take a vocal snippet–of which there are many here–and cut it off at a point where a point feels like it’s about to be made. Between this and blowing up simple moments like a drawn breath or a single consonant in a way that imbues them with an almost uncomfortably voyeuristic sense of catching someone in an intimate moment, a great majority of the impact of the music here comes from the voices. Whispers, recitations, moments…all worked around a melancholic and, if you’ll pardon the pun, sleepy piano line. This piano is another Frawley signature; it has a wonderfully old sound, bordering on frail at points, that draws the ear. The composer suggests that A Hundred Years should be played on shuffle to allow the listener to create their own unique “mix” of the storyline. This is also an excellent way to genuinely listen to what Frawley is doing in the work because it allows you to come at it from different perspectives each time. Multiple straightforward listens would breed a familiarity that might have you missing elements–which would be a shame, considering how much is packed into each moment.
On the Bandcamp page for his new release, Steve Swartz calls Respire “a work that is delicate, intimate and, at times, visceral in nature.” I would agree, and to that add “frequently challenging.” The central idea is interesting. Swartz recorded himself and friends breathing in a quiet room. The sounds were then taken and processed and manipulated, always retaining the rise-and-fall rhythm of breath. Other instruments were added, and they too were played with that inhale/exhale motif in mind. The result is something of a mixed bag. When the idea works, it works magnificently. The second track, “Yours Mine Ours” is the textbook illustration. A bassline drone, sighing vocal samples and a sound like a harmonium (I assume it’s a guitar) rise and fall at different rates. In the back, lonely, plinking notes on a piano dot the flow. This is a warm and deep piece, comforting in its simplicity. The closer, “Breathe Out the Sea,” also balances the elements neatly, the breath sounds standing in for the hush of ocean waves as subtle drone-work pools around it. In spots, unfortunately, the breathing comes off sounding a little too much like someone’s on a respirator, a thick, Vader-esque hiss. For me, it’s distracting. And I feel it’s a problem that this is what makes up the majority of the opening track, “Butterfly Flaps Its Wings.” The endless rush of white sound is bound to be a barrier to listeners less in tune with very experimental concepts, or who simply lack musical patience. The tracks here are fairly long, with four out of five over ten minutes, so it can sometimes feel like a barrage. I like what Swatrz does in “Ocean Breath (313 Version),” with a percussive pulse and gritty guitar chords swimming against a strong undertow of noise, but its companion, “Ocean Breath,” is one of those breathing-machine pieces that tests the endurance. Respire is about 50/50 for me on the long tracks. I appreciate Swartz’s idea; I’ve just had trouble coming along for the full ride. Definitely worth checking out, moreso if you lean toward the experimental side.
I have said it before: I am a Phillip Wilkerson fan. So when I get a disc wherein Mr. Wilkerson has once again given himself over to long ambient drifts, I content myself in knowing that I will be spending a good deal of time looping the work. And so it is with Highlands, a suite of three longform pieces (the shortest about 16 minutes) and one notably shorter (9 minutes) track that are in no hurry to go anywhere. This is classic relaxation music, carved out of far-reaching, soft synth pads, cloud-like and warm. Although the disc is parceled out in four tracks, it’s very easy to get so gently entwined in the flow that it really becomes one simple, soothing, hour-long meditation. (And, yes, this disc is perfect for that.) Wilkerson’s expressive drifts maintain an overarching feel of quiet hope. Wilkerson’s compositional voice only raises in “The Mirror of God,” where he hangs everything on a large, bold chunk of drone. Even here the optimistic feel prevails, the drone coursing in a higher register, an ethereal voice sustaining a brilliant note. Around it Wilkerson floats smaller bits of sound, like dust motes shining lazily in sunlight. Highlands is a superb low-volume listen, one of those discs that affects the atmosphere into which it’s introduced. Looping is mandatory, and headphones reveal a splendid depth. Wilkerson is in full control of his craft, and Highlands is one of his best drift-based works to date.
With a nod to “the spacier side of the Cocteau Twins,” Beth Brown and Jason Sloan launch into a set of “low-fi ambient” pieces under the moniker Amalaise. The Twinning Pools is a carefully curated stew of field recordings, processed vocals, murky ambient excursions and a somber, veiled atmosphere. What stands out about this release is the movement it makes from noise-oriented sound experiments to a less edgy, almost relaxing framework. Early on, the sound is muddy and a bit gloom-stricken, the thickness of the duo’s low-fidelity intentions rendering it a little bass-heavy; distorted voices and an industrial pallor dominate. The second track, “Like A Barn Dead Horse,” sloughs in with dragging feet, the sound quickly molded into a pulse that throbs under somber but lightweight chords. A chant-like vocal sample floats in and at this point comes the recognition that we’ve been lead into very interesting sonic territory and we need to pay attention–attention that is immediately reward by the jerky stitch-work of “Body Ladder.” Repeating vocal snippets, the churn of machinery, dense clatters of pure noise, and under it all a vague sense of cohesive rhythm keeping it from bursting at the seams. This is as deep into experiment territory as Amalaise choose to go, and it’s a definite barrier to casual listening. It’s work, and it’s worth it. At this stage, however, the tide turns. Beginning with the liquid gurgles of “Piscine,” The Twinning Pools softens up a touch and glides over toward the ambient side of the room. Even the muted voices of “What the Living Do” are accompanied by warm dronework. By the time you’re deep into the 10-minute-long title track, the work takes on a sort of mellowed post-rock glow without losing its freaky/funky sound pedigree. The percussion at the beginning lays down a sort of urban-tribal groove over sighing vocal pads and big synth washes. The motion from near-chaos to near-order throughout The Twinning Pools makes perfect and pleasant sense. There is a total journey going on here.
Here’s a recipe for guaranteed grimness: take two well-known names in dark ambient and throw in some inspiration courtesy of H.P. Lovecraft. The resultant neurotoxin would be The Nameless City from Rasalhague and Collapsar, recording together as Maculatum. This is a thematically perfect effort, a soundtrack for your late-night forays into Lovecraft’s work, or just for ensuring uneasy dreams. It is unsparingly heavy, weighted with thick layers of hissing pads and moaning drones. The atmosphere is dense with lusty expectation and heart-clenching worry. Thunderous drums fall in to break up the flow; when they’re paired with guttural, unnatural Lovecraftian chants, it creates the intended sense of unholy ritual that courses through the work. The duo manage to perfectly convey the feel of bearing unwanted witness to some profane mass meant to unleash the elder gods on an unsuspecting world. Dark ambient fans are going to devour The Nameless City with an unearthly hunger. Even casual dark listeners will find a lot to get lost in. In the midnight-hued density there is movement and sensation; there is a story at work, and it’s compelling. If, in fact, Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn, The Nameless City just might bring the Old Boy around.
Attention, luxury car makers. Please start including a copy of Erik Wøllo’s new release, Airborne, with every purchase. Because this disc is the musical equivalent of a fast, smooth and comfortable ride through lush vistas, motion bordering on flying, images bordering on dreamscapes. It’s got high velocity and it’s got cruise control in equal proportions. While tonally it is very much a signature Wøllo disc, replete with familiar phrase, tones and structures, nothing can detract from the upbeat, pleasant cruise of Airborne. As always, the artist finds a sweet spot that blends cinematic New Age with classic electronic-music elements. Straight out of the gate, however, you might also pick up a hint of Pink Floyd. The first track, “Spring Prelude (Equinox),” carries a little echo of “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” between its long-held pads and David-Gilmour-style guitar wails. Wøllo’s own guitar style takes over soon enough, a rich sound that’s somewhere between sighing and singing as he floats out his chords. This is a wonderfully varied disc; a thoughtful, guitar-based track like “Circle Lake” is balanced by a bouncing, lounge-tempo sequencer-driven ride like “North of the Mountain” or “Time River,” at the end of which Wøllo works in some quiet but effective guitar wails like a distant call, and everything’s offset by the occasional easy drift–“The Longest Day,” for example, where Wøllo builds a drone-like base of plucked guitar phrases and accents them with soaring, hawk-circle synthesizer pads. “Airborne 1” is one of the best moments here thanks to the round tones of a fretless bass trading the lead with piano. Hand percussion taps along underneath, and the whole piece is infused with a laid-back certainty. Throughout Airborne, Wøllo maintains the feel of watching the landscape pass beneath you and around you, a constant and comforting sense of motion, lulling you into an easy mindset while giving you plenty to see. This is a flight to take more than once.
Hypnagogue Music Reviews 