I reviewed Colin Rayment’s album Continental Divide back when I was a young Hypnagogue. I quite liked it, and had been wondering where Mr Rayment had gotten off to. I can drop more than a few names of artists who hit me with one good album and then suddenly decided to go find other things to do, and I just figured he was one of those. Gladly, I was wrong. Abstract Dimensions is his fifth album (I promise not to hold it against him that I never got wind of the two between Continental and this…), and from the first few notes of the opening track, I was reminded what had struck me those several years ago. Rayment’s style is rooted in classic EM, boasting thick and bouncy low-end anchors holding it down for spacey melodies to play over, with some pretty sweet sequencer work thrown into the mix. It’s all quite large and energetic, and the robust pinging of my nostalgia centers is certainly worth a few points. The head bobbing and toe tapping starts right off with the jubilant “Skyward Euphoria.” Lead by a chugging sequencer line, it’s got a bit of a symphonic feel, quite grand and large and bright—call it a common theme here. Rayment floats in a high, flute-like melody to up the joy ante a bit. In my head, it’s like someone crossed the lines between Jarre and Oldfield, and I like what I hear. There are a couple of changes of tone to give new vistas along the journey—they work, for the most part, but I found myself feeling like I could have done with fewer shifts. “Monterosa in the Clouds” has a simple, insistent bear knocked out in bass drum, matched with soft angelic pads and arpeggiated harp notes. Quite New Age, really, and almost too light for me, but it’s a truly lovely piece with a sharp emotional through-line, and it keeps me engaged. Said engagement is almost lost at the outset of the following piece, ” Nautical Almanac,” as Rayment goes theme-heavy and challenges the ear a little at the outset with metallic squeals. If I had to guess, he’s trying to put us in mind of a rocking ship, but it’s a bit grating. The trick he pulls off, however, is to bring forward the softer, whispery elements in the back and turn the piece into a shinier, less grating, more hopeful piece with yet another chug-along line. The transition comes in on a deep bass line and a little touch of ’80s electro-pop influence. Rayment knocks it our of the park on the ebullient “Navigation of a Helix.” Opening on swirling notes and choral pads (a nice harmony of male and female voices), it slowly gathers energy and begins converting itself into a high-powered, kick-on-the-ramjets spacemusic joyride. Like a lot of similar pieces, it gets up to a good speed, then cuts the thrusters and coasts for a bit before cranking them back up for the big finish.
To enjoy Abstract Dimensions, it helps to start with a love of old-school styles, and it’s probably good to be okay with a bit of sameness. Rayment depends on that chugging sequencer on many of the tracks here, along with that spring-loaded bass tone that’s so familiar. For me, that’s part of the allure, but it’s also why I feel like I prefer the album a track or two at a time. Slap on the headphones, though, and take a good dive into the layers and skeins he runs through each track. There’s a whole lot going on, plenty of small elements holding hands to make large musical gestures. It’s all undeniably fun and likely to be played at high volume—but that’s what euphoria is all about, right?
Available at Bandcamp.
I like collaborative works. I am fascinated by their chemistry, the balance of styles and ideas, the way two approaches become singular. When such collaborations happen between two artists whose solo work I truly enjoy, it’s even better. Such is the case with Vague Traces from Phillip Wilkerson and Chris Russell. I have reviewed these two extensively in the past. I’d go so far as to say I’m a fan of both. Thus, I eagerly dove into this album and was immediately rewarded. Both of these gentlemen tend to put out broad, quiet work full of rich pad structures. Russell is more likely to veer toward darkness, so there’s some of that here as well. “Across the Sun” and the beginning of “Evening’s Empire,” which follow one another mid-album, take us in that direction. “Across the Sun” arrives after two quieter tracks and challenges us a little with near-dissonant pads and metallic rings. The tone is ominous but never threatening, even as coarse, windy rumbles pass over the proceedings. To a degree, the track feels a little static, its main elements not changing much, but the fact that said elements are in constant motion against one other keeps it all from getting old over its 10-minute run. “Evening’s Empire” begins in a similar vein, with that something’s coming tone, but quickly levels off into big, arching pads. That about does it for the slightly grimmer side of things. Everything else on Vague Traces shows us through well-made territory like sub-orbital space music. “Just A Shadow” is loaded with warm, slow-moving pads and touches of plucked strings. A glissando of harp later in the track threatens to jump a little too far into cliche New Age territory for my tastes, but it’s a momentary indulgence. The last 20 or so minutes of this album, the tracks “For Dreaming” and “Until Tomorrow,” create a very deep drift. I quite like the low end on “For Dreaming,” and there are points where it pulses and oscillates gently for a very interesting wave effect. “Until Tomorrow” opens like a classic ambient piece, stretched out and floating, then laces in a soft melody. It has a delicate, glassy feel and is quite quieting.
Given that the following statement from Massergy’s Bandcamp page is true, A Novel Sense of Calm takes on a whole extra level of impressiveness: “Nocturnally improvised and recorded in an undisclosed nature preserve. All sounds are true to the original performances and have not been treated in a studio.” Which would mean that this almost-90-minute excursion of soft ambient landscapes and guitar streamed quietly from the artist’s soul and straight into his listeners. To that, add the knowledge that this album is a tribute to the artist’s deceased brother, and you’re listening to and taking in the essence of a catharsis—and it’s as beautiful as that might suggest. Massergy (aka Eric Jensen) skillfully mixes pad-based softness in tracks like “Dusk Affinity” with pieces infused with a quiet vibrancy (“Phenakistoscope”). So within this elegy-inspired album we get equal parts introspection and optimism. It’s a moving celebration and remembrance. “Reed Fields Eternal” is a deep track that opens with a slowly plucked acoustic guitar backed with bright synth swirls. Just as you’re settling into the mind-calming wash, Jensen adds light percussive taps for an understated rhythm, then laces in fresh instrumental sounds and broadens the scope of the piece. “Archaism” will find a place among your favorite spacemusic tracks. Listening to the crisp arpeggiated phrasing that takes center stage, you’d be surprised to know (as was I) that Jensen used no sequencers on this album. Choral pads round out the classic SM tone. “Guided by Sparrows” is another hushed drift filled with glittering tones and fantastic pad work. Well-placed, brief rises in tone and intensity add some dramatic weight—but never take over the flow. This is another track that makes a slight switch in identity partway through, and steps up ever so slightly in pace. Again, it nudges us gently out of reverie and introspection, and gives us a subtle ray of light that lets us know it’s all okay. It’s a balance, and it’s handled perfectly.
Here’s my thought: I think that Erik Nilsson has a slider. And this slider has two settings at either end: charming and challenging. And as he takes us through his album Hearing Things, he moves this slider back and forth. Sometimes it’s at one extreme or the other; most times it’s set precisely in a spot that’s just enough of one while letting the other come through as well. It’s a tricky little balancing act, and while my first few listens to Hearing Things may have left me a little unsteady in terms of opinion, repeat listens have largely won me over. Nilsson’s work lands in something of a sweet spot for me as a listener, taking approachable bases, things possessed of an easy, lilting beauty, and then working them through this filter or that concept, finding workable juxtapositions and pushing envelopes as he goes. The album opens strong with the bubbling, slightly tremolo’d guitar notes of “Ex Nihilo.” Nilsson scrubs at his strings for extra texture, nudging the piece into a mildly hypnotizing rhythm and a sense of everything being made of crystal. There are a couple moments where a sweet jazz riff lifts above the sound for a nice touch. “On and Onward” is one of those tracks that just hooked itself into me the moment I heard it. Opening with big, emotional piano chords over a twinkling of chimes, it immediately establishes itself as a heartfelt ballad—and quite different from the tracks preceding it. Nilsson laces in a bear on the bass drum to bring a little extra force, and to get it ready to ramp up a touch more. Listen again for textured sounds, stuff that’s roughened up and chopped, that seem like they should be interruptive, but which instead not only add something when they’re there. but which, when they’re dropped back out, seem to amplify the clean ballad sound. The track that I surprisingly took to—after a couple of tries—is the intriguing “Distance, Wind and Heat.” We’re talking about a track that features what sounds for all the world like the ear-grinding squeal of a rusty swingset in motion. Nilsson starts off back at the piano, another sad song loaded with lonely echo. Guitar folds in…and then in comes the squeal. Honestly, it’s a little tough to listen to at first, and Nilsson even drops everything else out at one point so that all you’ve got is this sound. But wait it out. He begins to build the song back up, and once the drums come in, just this big, angry kick on the bass like someone’s pounding on the door, it not only takes off, but the squeal is suddenly a harmonic element playing counter to everything else that’s going on. Is it still a bit grinding? Well, yes. But everything else around it is so huge, so bold and forceful…you’ve got to dive into this one to understand. It works in a very weird way. Later, “Drawing/Dreaming” finds Nilsson alone with his guitar and lots of reverb. This is a sweet and simple piece with a load of soul. I’d take an album of just this, truth be told. Not everything works on Hearing Things. I could do without the stumbly minimalism of “Mood Swings,” and my vote is still out on the Reich-like “In One-Fifth of a Second.” Still, there have been many points during my numerous listens as I got ready to review this album where the emotional punch of Nilsson’s music just stops me in my tracks and I just need to take a moment to do nothing but listen. That’s effective stuff, and there’s plenty of effective stuff here. Do give this a listen.
In notes on his Bandcamp page, Cousin Silas says that he semi-jokingly referred to Through A Cobweb Strange as “the disco album.” I have referred to it on my Facebook page as “Wow.” We could also call it space funk or cosmic dub … it’s a lot of things, and will be different things to different listeners, but it will be, universally speaking, unspeakably cool. This is 15 tracks and 90 minutes of bliss, and any time I put it on I want to find a place that’s an hour and a half away and drive there listening to this. Variety is the spice of this album, and Cousin Silas (aka David Hughes) beautifully handles every shift, no matter how slight. You’ll go from revved-up to slowed-down without a bump between. On one end of the kinetic scale, you have tracks like “The Other Jezebel,” which wallops into the listener with an unrepentant fist of distorted guitar. Strong bass—of which there is much on this album—lays down a line packed with smooth attitude. Hughes lays in vocal drops of some sort of evangelical preacher (“Hold up your bibles.” “Say it like you mean it.”) to bolster ripping wails that conjure thoughts of Adrian Belew. I love the line that lands at the very end: “I may feel unqualified, but I’m gonna act like I’m willing.” You’ll get hit hard again on “A Day of No Return.” It captivates from the first crisp snap of the drum and the purposeful stroll of another rock-hard bass line. The guitar here is like a barely controlled beast, yelping and snarling. The rhythm section pays it no mind; just keeps on keepin’ on. When it takes a break, the underlying structure is just a cool groove placed on top of pads and you’re given time to dig on that. If you can avoid uttering “aw, yeah” at the start of “Funky Snatcher,” you’re doing better than I. It’s clear to me that this piece fell to earth out of a long-lost ’70s low-budget detective movie that I need to see immediately. It’s just all wah-wah and bass and gangster lean stride with yet another shades-of-IDM vocal drop. On the slower side of things, take in the shimmering jazz guitar and muted trumpet sounds of “Sunday Morning 5 AM.” Dreamy and thoughtful, it pulls on the emotive sound of a hollow-body guitar. Clearly, the last of last night’s whisky is close at hand, and maybe a photo of someone we’re better off forgetting. “Oceans” is a coasting-speed thing as well, all pads and smooth guitar lines over a simple 1/1-2 drum thump that’s as sure as tides. The guitar here absolutely glistens. This might have been my favorite track on the album if it didn’t happen to precede “Guitar 28—Raining Again.” It’s clear to me that Hughes tapped into my head and found someone or something or some point in time that means a lot to me and encoded it into song. Because from the very start, from the first soft chord, the first ping of a guitar note, from the first quiet tap of percussion, this track owns me outright. I can’t describe it beyond saying it is one of the most beautiful things I’ve heard in years, and something in here just nudges me to the verge of tears each and every time I listen to it. It’s like nine minutes of soul searching shaken, not stirred, into a snifter of potent memory. (And, tricky bastard, this is the piece he dumps out into “Funky Shaker” so you don’t have more time to dwell.) Oh, there’s so very much going on here. The hazy drift of the title track, slinking smoothly along on a laid-back beat that Hughes supports with long pads, then drips rivulets of guitar notes from between his fingers to coat it, then glazes everything with an angelic vocal sample that lilts and coos in a come-hither way. And there’s the mid-tempo stuff, like “Down the Waterfront.” It’s got a catchy beat and is loaded with delicious bass. Out of nowhere, some trumpet drops in to jazz up the place, ranging from sexy phrases to sudden wails that ripple the air—both packed heavy with echo. It’s a laid-back thing, but with lethal doses of cool.
Wes Willenbring, you depress me. And I love you for that. When I head into one of your albums, I prep myself for weighty shrouds of emotion and the sense of something being slowly drawn out of some poorly lighted corner of my soul. When I talk about your work I try to avoid sounding pretentious by comparing it to Pärt or Górecki, but those are my frames of reference for the kind of effect it has on me. Of course, neither of them (to my knowledge) worked with huge swaths of distorted guitar like you have in “Something Essential.” The way it’s played off against a light choral vocal, a sweet voice chanting a la la la song softly, makes for gorgeous contrast. And it seems so simple in its make-up, just big drops of chords hit and held and taking dominance. Drone plays a large part in your work here, too, like the unyielding field of sound that is “Juarez Dirge.” It feels static, but there’s a constant shifting and readjusting. Hypnotic in its straight-line sensibility. What makes it work even more is how it empties out into silken strings and angelic vocal pads that open “Voices from the Desert.” This is where I find my strongest connotations of Pärt, the meditative oasis in the midst of harder sounds. It is a thing of simple, undemanding grace and beauty. You catch me in a different way on “Toward Sovereignty”; I go all theater-of-the-mind on myself through its dark ceremony, its pomp grim and understated but still forceful. It feels like the slow coronation walk of an unloved king, the ascension of the oppressor. And outside of having an award-winning title, “An Oasis of Horror in a Desert of Boredom” is a brilliant way to go out, a big and unforgiving crush of raw distortion, building and building in my ears. Its hissing edge, its pulsing proto-rhythm built out of the oscillation of waves, the subtlety of its chord structure—I may just as well close my eyes every time it comes on and just give over the five minutes. It’s where I want to be. And the sudden end, the last fading seconds, they leave an ache, a physical disconnect, that is fully tactile.
Articulation grabs me at its outset by forcibly stuffing edge-of-noise textures, a loungey tone, and just a touch of trip-hop into one piece. So as I settle in for more of that, it naturally switches gears and becomes a thing reminiscent of 90s downtempo (complete with that thing we used to dig where the sound gets smothered for a few beats like it needed to be suffocated). Beat Still Noise Us is drummer and electronic musician Sébastien Tillous and Articulation is his nine-track offering of catchy, trippy vignettes. Sounding just slightly aged in places (the smother thing, for example) it’s otherwise a fun listen. Tillous’ drumming keeps things sharp and in the pocket between jazzy and smooth downtempo. There’s a surprise or two. “Revelation” ditches the drums and instead becomes a classic-sounding analog synth piece with sequencer and a floaty melodic line. “Découverte Matinale” is a daydream of a thing, warbling pads sleepily stumbling along in the company of glittering notes. It overstays its welcome just slightly, but shows again Tillous’ hand at pieces that aren’t beat-based.
Electronic music, world influences, and C.S. Lewis’ Narnia stories come together on Dawn Treader, the latest offering from Chronotope Project and his first as a member of the Spotted Peccary lineup. I mention that last bit as SP has built a reputation around offering big, cinematic music with a strong emotional undercurrent, and Chronotope Project’s sound and style are a perfect fit. (In the title track, which kicks off the album, I pick up a bit of phrasing that instantly triggers thoughts of Helpling and Jenkins.) The worlds we are shown here are diverse and engaging, most working off a very effective framework of repeated motifs. “Canticle for the Stars” is a great example, utilizing the sharp repetition of sequencer to lay down the pattern, then washing over it with classic spacemusic pads. A pleasantly familiar piece. “Basho’s Journey” uses the crisp snap of koto for both its framework and its flavor. Initially I felt that said flavor may have been laid on a bit thickly, but since I always find myself lost in the track and thinking thoughts of 80s New Age artist Azuma, I’ve come to let it go. Quiet flute courses through the track as well, like an expressive, slowly moving dancer. Allen goes fantastically deep on “Ocean of Subtle Flames,” with more rich flute lines for an organic edge, whisper-soft drones forming the background, and a very quietly burbling sequencer line. Another familiar piece that, when I’m not totally adrift in it, leaves me trying to figure out what it reminds me of. But, again, better to just let go and go with it.
This is fun. On When, AeTopus (Bryan Tewell Hughes) finds a spot for world music, traditional folk, tribal, and classic EM—often all at once. Whether it’s the slowed-down Renaissance dance feel of “Sage” or the rich Middle Eastern flavors of “Metanoia,” When‘s reach is pleasantly global. And when the earthy acoustics are set aside for the out-there-somewhere drift of “Quietus Est,” it’s just as effective and engaging. Hughes goes heavy on the percussion on this release, and it’s part of what makes me enjoy it so much. Almost everything is beat-driven, so there’s rarely a need to stop the toe-tapping and head-bobbing. Cool touches abound. “Neverwheel” kicks off like a madrigal on guitar, adds light finger-tap drumming and beautiful string sounds, and laces it through with smooth electronics. It’s a great old-world-meets-new-world piece. The strolling jazz bass line that kicks off “Gather” is a great surprise, which just gets better as Hughes develops his sounds around it. It’s got a serpentine feel and, like many tracks here, a touch of exotic flavor—an incense smoke kind of thing, if you will. “Hindsight Axiom” blends acoustic guitar with a strong spacey feel. The start has a nice tenuous/minimal feel, which Hughes breaks with a sudden burst of chord and some dense low end. Familiar synth runs, that kind of “music of the future” glissando, arc like comet trails in places. Hughes plays with the shimmering sound of the chords late in the track; they sound wonderfully large.
Whichever point in the day you choose to listen to Medard Fischer’s Four Songs for the City of New York will simply be the most beautiful 18 minutes of your day. Moving neo-classical tinted with the soft light of ambient, these are graceful and gorgeous comments that, though brief, come through with strong, human resonance. This is one of those times when words won’t suffice. Fischer’s piano holds the lead on these songs, but it’s supported by an airy ensemble of sounds with a cinematic quality to them. The release opens with the delicate tones of “The Imaginary City,” said tones getting nearly drowned in a rising wash and distorted vocal drops. “Five Years Almost to the Day” comes in hesitant and perhaps a little sad, but brightens as it has its say. “Monument” has a soft, sequenced feel, a comforting pulse over long string pads. It ends on a note that is held like a mix of longing and expectation. “A Light That Doesn’t Go Out” took hold of my heart from the moment I heard it. For reasons I cannot explain, of the four tracks this one comes off the most like a love note to the city. In my head I see a montage of shots of empty city streets, the canyons between Manhattan skyscrapers, just after dawn, the city only thinking of waking. It is sunlight on high windows, a sparkle on the Hudson, the city glimpsed through the railings of a bridge as you reluctantly leave.
Hypnagogue Music Reviews 