A three-part suite of long-form techno-industrial pieces inspired by Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time series? Yes, please. On Madoc, Disparition (aka Jon Bernstein) uses the repetitive structures of minimalism and the driving beats of techno/trance music to wrap the listener in a heavy density of sound. Which would be pretty good in and of itself, but instead of stopping there, Bernstein sets your head spinning with his hypno-spirals, then laces in some surprising turns. For example, there’s an acoustic guitar, with a delicious Spanish flair, that pops up after a steady storm of drone in “Charles Wallace.” In the 40-minute epic “Echthroi,” a rush of piano sparkles in the flow for a few minutes, a hustling minimalism that sounds like what would happen if Phillip Glass felt it was time for a little jazz-flecked house music. The title track begins and ends with ambient structures that are comparatively calm–though still edgy, particularly at the end. They roll on, hushed and floating and whispering their way to the finish. Throughout, Madoc is driven along by a thick, techno-style beat that, it seems to my ears, doesn’t change tempo that much, if at all. And this is a good thing. It comes and goes, sometimes altering its identity slightly in terms of what it sounds like, but the pace of it remains steady. When it drops or fades out you continue to feel its influence for a bit, and when it resurfaces, it’s like picking up where you left off. This really comes across in “Echthroi,” where Bernstein has plenty of time to shift and re-shift, to pull us in and out of mutations of the concept. However he morphs the general structure, from those raspy drones to bass-drum-loaded pulses to one great stretch that speeds along on vibraphone-like chimes, the beat comes back as the constant. It’s this, combined with the come-and-go from acoustic elements as identifiable anchors in the swirl of drone, that has allowed Madoc to absolutely hypnotize me on quite a few repeat listens. I keep coming back to it because I’m sure that the inevitable mental haze it induces, I’m probably missing something–and I want to hear it all. You will, too.

Available from the Disparition web site.

I’m sure it’s not uncommon in the instrumental-music world these days, but Siddhartha Barnhoorn’s Antichamber is the first game soundtrack I’ve ever been asked to review. Based on the award-winning video game of the same name, Antichamber offers up 90 minutes of music that ranges from straightforward ambient drifts to electro-acoustic blends. Barnhoorn notes that “Inside the game itself the music is made up of layers which cross-fade into each other, creating an evolving piece of ambient music which never has the same elements / layers on top of each other.” I have to assume that sounds quite interesting, since these nine pieces are very engaging on their own. To sort of simulate the concept, I have listened to the disc straight through and on shuffle, and also played with having the music open in both Winamp and iTunes, working myself through admittedly clumsy cross-fades. The cross-fading was an excellent exercise, as it pointed up how Barnhoorn keeps most of these pieces tonally similar to enhance the flow regardless of how they’re heard, while still providing them their own identity. The result is a multifaceted piece that can redefine itself with each listen. Both sides of Barnhoorn’s musical equation works. “Antichamber Suite I” and “The Final Puzzle” are the showcase pieces for the softer side, perfect ambient constructs content to glide through the space, shifting tone carefully across time. “The Final Puzzle” is the more melodic of the two, with Barnhoorn pulling a melody out to develop at a graceful, dreamy pace. The electro-acoustic side is exemplified by the centerpiece of the release, “Antichamber Suite II,” a 22-minute work that eases in and out of a hushed tribal tint. As he guides the piece through its several passages, Barnhoorn underscores his drifts with hand percussion that comes and goes, and floats in flute and piano. It creates distinction between moments, and each transition is smooth and simple. “Black Tile” picks up the echoes of that long piece and pumps along on a delicious overload of percussion. The sharp rap of the tabla carry the high end against throbbing bass lows. To close out, “Dying World” is as dark as the title suggests. growling its way along on heavy industrial pads that crunch down until the closing, post-death-quiet pads. I must say I could do without the bonus track, “The Garden,” that’s tacked on after this. Here, Barnhoorn plays with a chop-up scheme that comes off sounding less like a planned effect and more like my download went horribly wrong and I’m missing data. It’s the only thing that takes me out of the pure, shifting flow that comes before it. Antichamber overall is a deeply engaging work from a very skilled composer who understands how to cull feelings from sound.

Available from Bandcamp.

Six quick hits clocking in at under a half-hour total make up the pleasant and catchy jaunt that is Ian Morris’ Parking Lot Manuscripts. This is pop electronica, accessible and (for the most part) upbeat. “A Functioning Hemingway” packs a nostalgic punch, the whistling synth lead feeling quite like an old New Romantic song. (Anyone else remember Classix Nouveaux?) A whump-thump beat on bass drum gets the toes tapping. Probably the best piece here for me, and although I like the way it dovetails perfectly into “Policy on Submissions,” the two feel almost too close in style–I had to check to see if I’d moved on to the next track. The issue may be that Morris is apparently fond of a trilling run on piano, which he either speeds up or slows down; which is fine until it appears in three songs in a row (I catch a glimpse of it in “I Like the Way We Whisper Even When No One is Around”) and suggests less of a unifying thematic device than “Oh, you’re doing that again.” By way of departure, the closing track, “Van Gogh’s Dangerous Gamble,” brings us a quiet and thoughtful melody on acoustic guitars. Morris works a nice depth of sound through the guitars’ resonance, and it amplifies the track’s raw honesty. Morris notes on his Bandcamp page that the release is intended as a “multimedia experience,” with each song paired with a poem and a photograph. I’m not comfortable commenting on those aspects, but it makes for an interesting addition to the music. There’s quite a but to enjoy here, least of which is the potential for more good music from Ian Morris.

Available from Bandcamp.

 

As with 2011’s double-disc release, Silent Currents 1 & 2, Erik Wøllo’s new digital-only release comes from a live performance. But whereas the first two parts were just archival presentations of a live set, Silent Currents 3 differs in that Wøllo took the material back to his studio to edit and remix it. While I could not tell you what’s been added here or how, I can say this release is an hour’s worth of signature Wøllo flows and formations. While this results in some familiarity of sound, the journey is still deep, smooth, and nicely modulated. Wøllo shifts the listener easily from quiet drifts at the edge of space into bubbling, sequencer-fronted passages, and passes briefly through some darker, uncertain zones. And, as always, there is that wonderful, sighing and crying guitar rising up out of the mists of sound. What makes this set stand out is how is highlights Wøllo’s ability to make unobtrusive transitions from one space to the next. He might immerse the listener in one of those smooth, lightly energetic sequencer-and-guitar passages, then ease his way out of it and melt the tone into something built on soft pads. The cool thing, for me, is that I’m usually a minute or two into the new space before I register the shift, and it feels like I’ve been in the current vibe the whole time. The sections, for lack of a better word, are fairly brief, keeping the piece dynamic and engaging. I particularly like one beautiful stretch near the middle where a shadowy, abstract drone and a mechanical beat unfold into a sparkle of sequencer notes. These rapid, glistening runs are given the spotlight for a few moments as Wøllo strips back the other sounds. A shift of scene then takes the tone out into spacemusic territory and onward.

If you haven’t listened to Erik Wøllo before, Silent Currents 3 makes for a very good introduction, as it does run through his signature styles. His incredible touch on guitar, the way a melody and emotion slowly ooze off the strings, is worth the listen alone. For those who are familiar with his work, this is another good example of how well he pulls together a piece in real time, and also turns a bit of light on his studio skills. All in all, an hour well spent with an ambient master.

Available from Projekt.