Despite not being a particularly religious person, I have a long-standing fascination with devotional music. I have a big soft spot for gospel; classical masses stir my soul, with a special place reserved for kyries (none more so than that from Haydn’s “Nelson Mass”); I went through a long stretch of  digging into medieval Christian polyphony. There is something about the spiritual potency that comes with wanting to make a pleasing noise unto the Lord that manages to resonate even within my heathen heart. Which may be part of why I enjoy Chris Russell’s Illuminoid. In his “journey into the realm of the spirit,” Russell mixes ambient textures with varying forms of vocal expressions of devotion and ritual, from Gregorian chant to prayer to throat singing. On my initial listen, I worried that this was going to come off heavy-handed, something of slowed-down revisitation of Chant and everything Enigma’s ever done. But no. Prior to this release, Russell specialized in extremely soft and deep flows, richly layered and calming. That feeling is most decidedly here as well, and he matches that by not overdoing to vocal drops. The Gregorian chant in the midst of “Benediction” slides in and out of the ambient haze like a recurring memory; now vivid, now distant, now gone. The plaintive voice in “Hildegard” rises high above an ambient wash; Russell has found an amazing, heart-piercing song to use here. It simply stops time, and he dials back the sounds around it to let it shine. And if you like the soul-shaking rasp of throat singing (as I do), “Sanctum” is just the thing. Surrounded my slightly eerie drones that bring up memories of Roach’s Spirit Dome, this guttural prayer heads straight into your primal spirit. It’s not just about the voices, however. As noted, Russell’s base structures are tone-perfect ambient drifts, quite capable of lifting your mind up and away. I also like the rich pipe-organ tones of “Cathedral.” Big and sanctified-sounding and hit with a perfect touch of reverb to replicate the spatial aspects of a church.

Illuminoid is a bit of a risk. It would have been entirely too easy to overload the vocal side of the equation here and fall a bit too far into gimmick territory–a gimmick that’s been done enough. Russell manages to find a superb balance, which lets the singing retain its spiritual energy. It’s not shoehorned into beats to be something new. Instead, Russell builds around it and in doing so creates a nicely meditative release with a little extra boost for your spiritual side. Let it loop.

Available from Relaxed Machinery and Void Music.

You have already heard Phillip Wilkerson’s Wondrous Encounters because it graciously pulls from and offers homage to the pure spirit of its spacemusic progenitors. As he puts it, this is “a collection of space music, atmospheres, and soundscapes suitable for stargazing, or cloud watching, or cruising around in a flying saucer.” Once this album launches, you’ll spend the next hour and 45 minutes (thank you, bonus tracks) drifting through Wilkerson’s classically vast cosmic vistas, guided by his always-soft hand on the controls. From the clear, shining tones of “First Glimpse of the Milky Way” to the densely layered stratosphere of “Low Gravity Field,” Wilkerson conjures memories of the genre’s pioneers–Stearns, Serrie, Demby et ux. And it’s wonderful. Put on the headphones, close your eyes, and just go. It’s a seamless ride that will take you out of yourself for a while. I have to call out “Range Safety Clear,” the first bonus track, for the way it revels in delicious retro appeal. When I say that the keyboard sound that fronts it is a little cheesy, I mean that in an absolutely adulatory way. There’s a beautifully tinny sound to it that simply drips with the essence of 70s electronic music. Perfect sequencer lines run beneath, and for 15 minutes I’m back discovering electronic music for the first time. This one is a must-hear for spacemusic fans, and it’s a great addition to Wilkerson’s already impressive catalog of superb ambient.

Available from Bandcamp.

Before it even begins, The Ancestor Circle has its own air of mystery. The source material comes from “cryptically marked tapes” Roach found in his studio in 2013. Turns out that these were recordings Roach made with Jorge Reyes in 2000, at the time of their collaboration Vine~Bark & Spore, prior to a concert in Tucson. The Ancestor Circle recaptures what may be my personal favorite collaborative chemistry in the Roach catalog, the deeply primitive, ritual-driven desert-ambient meditations. This is the sound-set that forms the basis of some of my go-to albums, including the superb Suspended Memories outings featuring Roach, Reyes, and guitarist Suso Saiz. So listening to this puts me, quite blissfully, in familiar territory. The depth of sound, as always, is stunning. Analog pulses with a cool rubbery consistency lay down the beat framework, incense-smoke pads whisper like wind in the background. Wordless chants pack shamanic potency, a call to open the space. There is a wonderful twilight darkness to it; not cloying and oppressive but the darkness of our own primal spirits, the one still connected to our animal self. Roach has taken the source material, fleshed it out and tied it together into a continuous flow that pulls the listener in and down and keeps them there. This is certainly a space in which to lose yourself–or, you see, to find a version of yourself. In terms of the years-long evolution of Roach’s tribal ambient and desert ambient styles, The Ancestor Circle represents a vital component that had gone missing, but now slots perfectly into the narrative and builds on what already existed. What’s more, it is a fitting tribute to the talent and voice of Jorge Reyes, who left far too early in 2009. A must-have for Steve Roach completists, and a must-hear for anyone into tribal.

Available from Steve Roach’s web site.

Less than two minutes into “Voices in the Vortex,” the first cut on Spiricom’s Songs for a Summer Séance, I reached over and nudged up the volume. It was something of an autonomic response; my brain wanted Mark Cody’s fuzzed-right-the-fuck-up guitar to punch me a little harder. That’s your point of entry on this sophomore release: a big, aggressive, fist-in-the-air post-rock piece, complete with driving drums from Steven K Smith, who also handles keyboards and synth guitar. Once your heart rate has been driven up, Cody and Smith dial it back a little for two tracks, focusing on the kind of spooky, mystical air the title suggest. “Identify the Moved Objects” has its own snarl as Cody trades licks with some big, bassy synth chords, but then fades into sighs and a quietly picked melody. “Watching the Spirits Leave” starts darkly, on growling drones and vocal samples. The sounds swirl into a hypnotic haze, with Cody laying bright repeating notes over the top. But you’re not getting away that easily. On the title track, which takes up just about half of the entire release, Cody’s guitar will come back to rip and flail and bring us back around to the kind of nasty power that kicked it all off. It opens in post-rock territory, establishing its verse, if you will. Around the three minute mark, the first wave of unleashed guitar hits–big and beautiful and brightly distorted. Cody and Smith drop things out to a calmer space for a while, constructed in background sounds and long, wavering chords. You know the phrase, right? The calm before the storm? Yeah, that. Listen to this piece build itself back up in intensity. The percussion takes on a touch of tribal, the flavor of ritual, as static-splased radio voices babble at us urgently. Then you’re locked in as it grinds upward into an absolute hurricane of sound, screaming in your ears as the guitar revels in thickly distorted rock joy.

I’d give Songs for a Summer Séance high marks based on the last track alone. The fact that it lands with such impact in just 30 minutes? Bonus points. Everything about it makes me want to listen to it just one more time. According to the Spiricom web site, this EP is a little musical layover while Cody and Smith finish up their next release. To that, I say: HURRY. UP.

Available at the Spiricom web site.

Here’s a nice way to spend half an hour. Smooth, melodic electronica from Northcape. No surprises or reinventing the wheel here, just a fresh round of laid-back environments and catchy melodies. Glossy around the edges, like we’re viewing the world through a soft focus and taking our sweet time about it. Alastair Brown’s go-to sound is soft and round, anchored with a solid low end. The beats here are less hectic than on a lot of its kin, which I like–too often in this genre the staccato assault of the glitchwork is front and center. Here it functions as a quiet rhythm section whose job is to just augment the soft tones. There’s a fair degree of sameness here, perhaps highlighted by the short running time, but when I’m in the middle of this and it’s working its bit of chillout magic, I mind less. This is one of those releases I’ll melt into a wind-down playlist and enjoy it that way. Brown closes out the EP in a more ambient style with “Green Waves,” letting warm pads stretch and just barely touching them with a tick-tock beat played out in quiet chimes. It’s got a pleasant lullaby-like quality to it that ends your time in this Glasshouse quite nicely. A good addition to your melodic electronica stash.

Available from Sun Sea Sky.

So there I was, eyes closed and smiling, just grooving along to the sweet guitar riffs in the middle of “The Sphere,” the second track on John Luttrell’s The Dream Exchange, and I thought, this is the kind of stuff that got me into New Age in the first place. Mind you, I don’t particularly care for the term “New Age,” but in Luttrell’s smooth, jazz-tinged style I could hear echoes of Kindler & Bell, Peter Maunu, Barry Cleveland–my cassette collection, circa 1987, when the genre’s name wasn’t in heavy debate. The Dream Exchange is a light and pleasant listen centered around Luttrell’s superb playing, but it’s also willing to take a step or two outside its own box. On the guitar-centric side, you can dip into “Interstellar Dust” where layers of overdubbed guitars create a sweet ensemble sound with just a hint of prog-rock structure. Harmonics ring and folksy lines are picked out in solos as this one eases along. The title track also has its share of close-your-eyes-and-enjoy guitar licks. There’s a classic semi-hollow sound at play here, a jazz classic, and it works fantastically against a backdrop of ambient pads and soft chords. “Dreamcast” is a gliding, lounge-infused tune that gets a little extra sexiness from slide guitar and shimmering. Luttrell’s leads here are like a lesson in smooth jazz, and I like the added touch of spiraling sequencer lines in the background. He pulls his piano up to share the front on “Away,” a beautiful ballad with a slightly stripped-down feel. I mean that as a good thing; there’s something about the very clear atmosphere here that accentuates the feeling of the song. The trade-off between piano and guitar is nicely balanced. Then there’s the point where Luttrell stretches for a bit more funk…”Ethereal Raga” is at once spacey and earthy, blending flutes, drums, a bit of chanting, and a few far-reaching chords liberally lifted from your favorite spacemusic tunes. In an album that hangs out more on the side of light jazz, this is a little bit of a risk–but it works. It has its own defining cool, and it breaks things up nicely without being too interruptive.

There are places where this album gets a bit too light for me, a bit too textbook New Age. (Lookin’ at you, choral pads and whooshy wind sounds.) But they’re the exception on this excellent outing, and easy to overlook. A very good end-of-day disc, charming, well-made, and worthy of repeat listens. I will take a dose of John Luttrell’s guitar playing anytime I feel like I need just a little more soul.

Available from CD Baby.

Dustin Terry and Tim Risher, composing as Unearthly Red, offer up their soundtrack fragments for a nonexistent film on Purgatory. In 18 short tracks covering an hour, the work skews toward the dark and experimental. Atmospherically speaking, it’s spot on, rusted through with industrial clamor and the glitchy grind of faulty hardware. It gurgles at you in throaty, indecipherable tongues that leave you uneasy at having heard them. The pieces are short, so they hit, leave an impression, and run. The tone of the album overall is guided by its proto-cinematic viewpoint, ensuring that even though its components come in bursts, we don’t end up with a scattered musical mindset. As is often the case with Risher’s collaborations, Paragaté, for example, what you get here is two composers offering up their own pieces along with a few that where they’ve come together. The differences stand out, and help to make the album work. Risher’s tracks tend to be the floatier of the two, as with “Before the Storm,” which pairs long drones with jarring metallic clatter. Comparatively quiet compared to other tracks here, they’re still dark and shot through with a sense of being ill at ease, designed to leave you with a sense of dread. Well, in most spots. Late in the album, when the story is headed toward resolution, we get the almost oddly upbeat “Under the Skin.” I like this track, but it sounds like Risher held onto some of the techno-based rhythms from the last Paragaté release, Pattern of Light, and repurposed them here. Terry, who records as Void of Axis, is the more directly visceral of the duo, serving up deeply dark offerings like “Quiet Springs” and “In Sickness,” two pieces that use a somber minimalism to firmly ping your discomfort buttons. He also gives us the roll-the-credits piece, “Remorse.” Belying its title, it pulls in bright chords and a cool beat, providing the listener (and, ostensibly, the viewer of the non-existent horror film) a respite from the heavy darkness of the last hour. When the two come together, things can get grittier and more experimental. “Dissonance” should test your tolerance levels a bit, with its repetitious snarl of electronic noise. On early listens, I was ready to hit the Skip button on this. But give it a few minutes, because when the sound drops out, a thick wash of pure atmosphere will roll in, and it works.

Purgatory was not an easy album for me to get into. The heavy industrial wallop of the early tracks threatened to put me off, as they sometimes seemed a little gratuitous. (They’re not.) It was the rich environment, dark and unpleasant as it is, that kept bringing me back in to have another viewing of this imaginary film. You’ve got to like things a little on the creepy side, but it wouldn’t hurt you to spend some time in Purgatory.

Available from Bandcamp.

I am of two minds when it comes to Lil’s The Space Between, a mix of found sounds, processed vocals and electronic accents. One mind wants to classify this collection of sonic pastiches as an exercise in minimalism or something like it. Phrases repeat, elements recur, and a kind of running-in-place sense takes hold, which admittedly draws focus to the small details that composer Marcin Tomczak puts in place. The other mind gets tired of running in place. Tomczak’s collage style too often feels exceedingly random to me, like he’s making it up on the fly. Which can be fine–I have no problem with improvised music, although this is not what The Space Between is. But before too long, I start wishing for more of a sense of resolution. “Sputnik,” for example, uses a vocal sample of a singing woman, hitting the same series of notes over and over as the sounds around her change. And I wait for it to resolve out, which it doesn’t. It seems like the mindset is “let’s see what this sounds like with…this. And then…this.” And then it ends. Let me say that while I can’t describe what it is I’m waiting to hear, I can say that I get impatient waiting for it. “Amablis Insania” at least gives me an arc, rising from drones into a chugging steampunk sort of rhythm, then winding back down to quiet. Problem is, in the middle we hit that run-in-place feeling. Again, I am all for minimalism, but when it’s so stagnant that the lack of forward progression takes you out of the listening experience, that’s a problem. The title track is 24 minutes of changing scenery. It helps to bring an appreciation for experimental music to this one. Because I appreciate attention to detail, I’d have to give Tomczak high marks there. He juggles a lot of small sounds through the album, and especially on this track, and they work within the framework of what he’s doing. At issue for me as a listener is: I’m not sure what he’s doing, and so he loses me before the end of the album. Listeners more into higher-level musical thinking may hear it differently. Give it a try.

Available from Spectropol.

Palancar invites you to dwell in a state of quiet contemplation and “reminiscent reflection” on his latest drone-based release, Counting Raindrops. That being said, there are different kinds of contemplation and reflection, but don’t worry–Palancar (aka Darrell Burgan) will walk you through them over the course of an hour. You can go very, very deep inside yourself in the misty whispers of “Headwaters.” This is Counting Raindrops at its quietest point, gorgeously ethereal and soothing, yet kept in constant motion by small shifts of sound and detail. Here, a little sequencer line briefly cuts in a sense of beat; here, a strong pad rises up for a moment, just to fade back into the fog; here, the quiet patter of rain–or is that just a soft electronic crackle?–catches your attention. Perhaps your contemplation is a bit darker. Then you’ll be at home in “The Rain is Full of Ghosts Tonight,” with its crack of thunder, theremin-like wails and pall of a moonless night. Burgan leans on the intensity late in the track, building a big wall of aggressive sound that just–stops. Interesting choice. I admit to had to grow on me, but now I like it. “The Child Ephemeral” also churns its way into a grim rawness with edgy drones tearing into soft pads over and over. That should suit your sullen mood, too. On the other end, there’s the title track, washed in the sound of a light rain and finding its way to a quiet piano melody, the descant notes falling perfectly. This is the track I’ll be sitting on the porch with some evening, getting lost in thought. It’s the balance of ambient gentleness and more forceful, twilight-dark drones, that make this album work so well. That, and the great degree of detail, which has always been a Palancar hallmark. Sounds shift and roll, step forward and ease back, and it all creates a richer sense of dimension. His use of field recordings is nicely understated, with the exception of the drumming spatters that kick off the title track. They hit a bit hard, and pull me out of my reverie for a moment, but soon enough they become a quieter element in a bigger flow. The rain sounds at the end and beginning of the album create a simple dovetail for long looping, which really is the recommended mode of play for this release.

The great backstory to this disc, by the way, is that it was submitted to the earthMantra label anonymously. Burgan is the original founder of the label, but he had stepped away from it. Geoff Small of Relaxed Machinery took up the mantle in 2014 and began releasing new material. Burgan didn’t want his album judged on the basis of who he was in relation to earthMantra, so he had someone else submit it “for a friend.” Small liked what he heard, gave it the yes, and was then thrilled to discover whose work it actually was. Something to contemplate as you enjoy your many listens to Counting Raindrops.

Available from earthMantra.

I have to admit: you caught me by surprise, Larry. My prior experiences with Larry Kucharz’s music have mostly been about quiet, droning electronic structures, with the occasional foray into beats. And while the title Smphncs should have been a giveaway, the appasionato storm of piano notes whirling through the opening of “Elevator Phantasy Waltz” was (to my experience) so unlike Kucharz, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to follow along. But this piece, and the album in general, levels off into a showcase of Kucharz as a classically influenced composer, working his way through adagios and larghissimos and bringing his electronic viewpoint to each structure. I don’t know that I would rank it highly among my preferred works of his, but there’s much to listen to here. When he shifts more toward the quieter side of things, I find Smphncs more to my liking. “Largo 43 (92 No.03A)” is a lush, droning piece, dreamy and warm. “Scherzo 43” uses light chords to tell its story, a soft touch bringing a string ensemble feel. The 21-minute closing track, “Tremolo 43 (1977 No.07A),” is Kucharz as I like him best, finding a middle ground between a classical structure and an electronic aesthetic. Slow-motion dynamics meet with thick pipe-organ chords, creating peaks and valleys of sound. The quiet moments are pastoral; the passages where the chords take the forefront are stirring. Kucharz masterfully modulates the two sides of that equation, giving the listener a deep place in which to dwell for a while.

Again, Smphncs is not my favorite bit of Kucharz, but it is filled with passages that remind me what I like about his work. He’s been at this a long time, and he’s never been afraid to mix things up a bit. A solid and slightly surprising release from this fine composer.

Available from International Audiochrome.