For his latest sonic guided tour to the shadowy, primal places inside ourselves, techno-shaman Steve Roach elicits the help of didgeridoo guru/ambient craftsman Brian Parnham. Together they carve out a deep and surrounding tribal journey that carries on the legacy of Roach’s desert-ambient works and also takes the listener into Serpent’s Lair-style darkly meditative spaces. Roach has said recently that he and Byron Metcalf are working on a follow-up to Lair, echoes of which were heard in the grooves the two laid down at Soundquest Fest 2010; between that, his recent Nightbloom release with Mark Seelig and now this, it’s clear that Roach is stockpiling and refining his grooves in this direction, perfecting his role as lower-world explorer. Wherever this trip is taking us overall, The Desert Inbetween is a stunning stop along the way.

The Desert Inbetween is as much Parnham’s disc as it is Roach’s, his serpentine didg coils burrowing into your head to control your mind under cover of Roach’s swirling sounds. On the lead track, “Opening Sky,” the didg pairs up nicely with Roach’s ambient guitar, the crying chord-shimmer that puts me in mind of Streams & Currents. There is a strong sense of trading off here, each man leading the way for a stretch, then letting the other take the front. In this manner, The Desert Inbetween slides, glides and sighs its way through crossfades of feeling, power and subtlety, energy and quiet. Listen to the eerie muted radio voices haunting “Ancestral Passage” giving way to rolls of thunder and desert-wind pads. Listen to the space late in “Return to the Underground” where the tribal briefly yields to the technical, with pulsating wave forms dripping over edgy pads—something of a wake-up call to your tranced-out mind. Or fall into the driving, percussion-fed downward charge of “Serpent Gulch,” a prayer filled with power and potency culled from a rhythm built on analog-synth lines, clay pots, drums and Parnham’s curling, insistently chanting didg. Then, when it relents for its last few minutes, accept that you have no choice but to follow that flow, your exhilarated pulse and breathing coming in line with the vast space that the duo lay out before you. They do it again with the ritualistic rhythms of “Somewhere Between,” about the darkest track here, featuring the rich tones of a waterphone vying with sharp metallic clanks and clatters, the patterns coming out like a makeshift invocation, Parnham’s hypnotic drones stirring the mix, bringing you back up to the soft space of “Spirit Passage,” which has a fantastic callback with the reappearance of the ghostly voices.

Like many of Roach’s voyages, this one wends its way to end in a contemplative space, the trip completed and you left alone to feel the resonance gently fade. After dwelling inside this music literally for hours on end (and gladly so), what strikes me about The Desert Inbetween, outside of its depth of effect, is the depth of sound. It is a richly dimensional concatenation of purposeful sounds that ricochet in rhythm around each other to create the space as they go, every one  of them integral. Parnham’s contributions of didgeridoo, synth and percussion help fill out and solidify the thing while adding his own new hues to a fairly familiar palette.

Take this journey often. The Desert Inbetween is a Hypnagogue Highly Recommended CD.

Available from the Steve Roach web site.

Friends: It’s now easier than ever to get here to read reviews.

Bookmark http://hypnagogue.net

In the future I hope to have all things Hypnagogue-y under this one URL.

 

peace & power,

John

Interesting position to be in. On the one hand, I was a little daunted at the idea of tackling Ken Elkinson’s three-disc/six-volume monster compilation, Music for Commuting. I mean, how much can you say in one review about this much music? On the other hand, a funny thing kept happening as I shuffled around my iPod review queue. It seemed like any time I’d come across something catchy, nicely developed and interesting, it was one of Elkinson’s tracks. I finally took all three discs, 60 songs’ worth, shoved them into one playlist, loaded it onto the ‘pod and took a big running dive into nothing but Ken Elkinson’s music.

When you consider that Elkinson is better known for CDs of solo piano works that have found their way onto various “Best of” lists put out by places like Zone Music, New Age Reporter and New Age Voice, and that he just sort of decided on a whim to throw his hat into the ambient music ring, you might figure that the results would be hamfisted or  misguided. And you’d be wrong. He’s on the mark more often than not with each of his themed discs. What’s more, he does so without much evident straining or reaching.

The first disc (Monday-Tuesday) is filled with soft-edged pads and tinkling electronics, a perfect wind-down flow. I think the lead track, “Unfolding” is the weakest piece, but after that it all evens out, quiets down and gets quite smooth rather quickly. Certain moments rise up: the glisten-and-shimmer twinkling in “Incandesence”; the vibrating, melodica-like whisper in “Soleri”; the sense of longing that haunts the movement of “Far Rockaway (Gulls).” This disc makes for a good repeat listen at the end of any day.

On his web site, Elkinson refers to the music on the mid-week pair (Wednesday-Thursday) as “upbeat 80s -inspired synth anthems.” I’m not sure that “upbeat” is the right word for most of this disc. These tracks feel somewhat lighter in tone than anything on disc 1, but are still laid back. It’s 13 tracks before a solid rhythm kicks in. Until then, though, he does float majestically swelling swaths of synth in tracks like “Stephanie Seymour,” “The Tapestry” and “Ascend,” so I’ll give him latitude on the anthem part.  When he does get around to something punchier, beginning with “John Hughes,” my old New Age ears pick up a memory of Ray Lynch gently percolating around the sound. It’s even stronger in the feel-nice track “Solitude.”

Thursday and Friday ostensibly offer Elkinson’s “futuristic” take on things–but again, coming out of the gates with the relaxed keyboard melody of “Changes from the Sea” and the mesmerizing New Age-guitar softness of “Locusts,” what you’ve got here is just more good electronic music in keeping with the flow that’s come before. (Hmm…maybe I was better off not referring to Elkinson’s web site!) Yes, there are sweeping washes of electronics mulling around in the background on some of the tracks, but the feel they impart is just good harmony, nothing bespeaking the future per se. That being said, I do like the whooshing spacemusic feel of “Flash Forward” and the robotic tapping at work behind the long pads of “Typewriter, Dentist.”

Elkinson’s pieces are all roughly pop-song length–three and half to four a half minutes on the whole. They’re quick hits of easily aurally digestible ambient goodness, but don’t write them off as musical snack food. These are solidly constructed pieces, whole and well-formed and a pleasure to dig into. It became clear, a couple of listens in, that he’s clearly paid attention to the way the music flows across the sets, lightening and shifting as it goes, picking up that touch of rhythmic texture. The week-long story becomes complete by the final track of the last disc. Whether you’re listening to one or all three, it comes off as an impressive first foray into ambient from a very talented artist–to which I say: welcome to the neighborhood, Ken. I hope you’ll stick around.

Available from Ken Elkinson’s web site.

There is not much silence on Juta Takahashi’s new release, Silence. There is, however, an abundance of reflective, slow-moving ambient music. In four long tracks, the shortest clocking in at 13 and a half minutes, Takahashi gently escorts the listener through his carefully developed visions. Each stands alone perfectly, particular elements in each providing a recognizable personality; together they create an inspiring, relaxing suite. The opener, “Ararat,” takes its character from the crisp strike of a sampled Turkish cimbalom (dulcimer), placing a traditional-music feel against long, tonally sharp pads. In “Wet Dream,” shimmering and burbling clusters of electronics are punctuated by intermittent piano notes, a brief gleam of sunlight on water. Now and then a rush of pads rises up like a breeze. “Continua Shift” is a warm current of soft sound going nowhere in particular and in no hurry to get there. Here, wide, amorphously undulating pads are gently offset by what sounds like a voice in the distance, singing in harmony. This is an easy piece to get completely lost in. “Silence” completes the journey with chords that come in slow succession, fading almost to the titular quietude before the next rises. Takahashi’s sense of the effect of a pause is flawless; each is like the moment between breaths, the space held to a point of perfection. Take the moments after the last note disappears to simply be aware. All in all, Silence is much like a wordless guided meditation.

The underlying quality in Takahashi’s work is a consistent patience. It often seems that he wants to see where a note will go if left to its own devices. He crafts these sounds, breathes life into them and then sets them on their way. The result is pure ambient bliss, beatless and engaging. Silence is yet another superb release from an artist who is rapidly becoming one of my favorites.

Available from CD Baby.

In brief, Three Days of Darkness equals 57 minutes of snarling, standard-issue dark ambient. It hisses, it grinds, it’s densely layered and it sounds evil and isolationist. And, all in all, it leaves me shrugging in indifference. I’ll be the first to admit that I may not be the best judge of dark ambient, but dark CDs that I’ve gotten into (see my reviews of Pang, Wolfskin and Phaenon) have some quality that sets them apart–a stronger sense of movement, direction or purpose that Three Days of Darkness feels like it lacks.

As always, I recommend readers go to the label’s web site to check out samples. This offering from Innfallen may be for some. It’s not for me.

Available from First Fallen Star.

Don’t let the first clarion-call notes on Formantine scare you. It’s just Emmalee Crane establishing her territory–in this case, the realm of organic drones culled from horns, oboes, and clarinets, worked into new forms by electronics and set side-by-side along neo-classical overtones and soft post-rock forms. After those first couple of sounds on “Crasher,” Crane tempers the drones and evolves Formantine through a vareity of identities. “Gight Vaulting” is a rolling tide of atmospheric swells, its sense of drama heightened and haunted by vocal samples. “In Sense and Sign” has a similar feel, less the samples, a classic drone-based piece with big, arcing waveforms rising and falling in easy rhythms. “We Came from Monsters” and “I Never Expect You to Stay” tap into the post-rock side and showcase Crane’s excellent piano work. Both pieces have a heartbroken quality to them–“Monsters” feeling angrier as heavy chords are thrown down against the drones before slumping with resignation and exhaustion against the wall; “I Never Expect…” has more of that forehead-against-the-window, stare-into-the-rain melancholy, the tinge of something heartfelt, unsaid and unresolved. “Inerosion” takes Crane’s deep-breath drones and bolsters them with big distorted guitar chords that slide across the sound. All the elements–breathy drones, soft piano and samples–are neatly pulled together for the last/title track.

Formantine packs a lot into its short 44-minute ride, and is consistently enjoyable, track to track. Crane’s diverse approach keeps things moving and interesting, and she’s skilled enough to pull off her changes without a bump. Expect to give this one a lot of repeat listens.

Available from Emmalee Crane’s web site.

This review will be brief for two reasons. First, it won’t take many words to encapsulate what Greg Taw has laid forth here. The Hummingbird Dream is a short, two-part disc that begins with a 24-minute immersive swirl of ambient guitar textures laid over rich organ drones and field recordings, a glistening fog of sound pulled to both horizons and set in gentle motion. In trying to capture a sense of sadness, Taw infuses his drifts with a tactile ache of the soul, a sense of shrugging resignation, the heartbroken art of watching moments pass through half-open eyes. He rounds off the disc with another 6 minutes of shoegaze-derived post-rock melancholy. (First time I heard the shimmering guitar I thought my iPod had shuffled me over to a Slow Dancing Society CD–which is a very strong compliment.) Vocals from Jessyca Hutchins and Rebecca Orchard fill the space like a distant half-memory that’s fading slowly.

The second reason this review is brief is simply because you need to stop reading now and go listen. The work speaks for itself, and you will listen to it over and over.

Available from Hellosquare Recordings.

Grit your teeth, press play and hang on. Sky Burial’s Kiehtan is a 41-minute plummet through thick, shifting clouds of drone, a hypnotic and inescapable ride through spaces that range from near-calm to industrially threatening. Michael Page starts the voyage on rising pads that emerge from a bramble of electronic noise, but soon enough the skies turn dark, a sense of uncertainty creeps in, and Kiehtan begins the first of its many metamorphoses. It’s those changes that really make Kiehtan stand out. Page constantly nudges his drones into new forms like a sculptor working clay on a wheel. Nothing too abrupt, just the slow introduction of some new element, like the pressure of one finger on the moving, wet clay, that re-sculpts the sound and the feeling into something different, a new space being opened and explored. Each new direction feels like it’s been birthed organically, growing to follow Page’s sense of logical progression. The piece is filled with sections where time gets lost in the black-hole density of the flow, points where you realize you’re responding physically to the music–usually with held breath or a tight jaw–and long stretches where you and your conscious mind just part ways for a while. (There’s a three-minute movement starting around the 22-minute mark where a sort of metallic percussion taps out a beat that just completely mesmerizes me. It gives way, perfectly, to one of Page’s quieter moments. Superb.)

Kiehtan finishes with a second, 6-minute track, “Himmelblau-starren,” that, while an interesting exercise using the source materials, comes away like more of a shrug after the potent experience of the main piece.

Kiehtan is a long-form piece that has had me hitting the “Repeat” button more than once. A standout work from Sky Burial.

Available from Lens Records.

It’s just the thing to do these days–taking advantage of improved technology to dig out and dust up old work to make it suitable for a digital age. Joe Evans, aka Runningonair, takes this route with two discs’ worth of stuff going back almost to pre-Internet times. Divided into “Selected” and “unSelected” pieces, the sixteen tracks showcase Evans’ frenetic Philip-Glass-on-speed constructs, crafty sound manipulations/distortions and downright cool jazz meanderings. Like many of these back-of-the-closet retrospectives, not every track succeeds 100%, but Evans is spot-on more often than not. His quirky energy infuses the music to keep it lively and moving–even in moments where it gets a little odd. Take, for example, “Seven (Civil War on Drugs),” where you may find yourself dropping into a smooth piano-and-bass riff while Evans folds in soundbites taken from some report on the effects of the war on drugs. Things like, “Toward the end of the month we’ll have what I guess you can call retaliatory shootings…payback.” Or perhaps you’re in the middle of “Is This Me?,” with the piano line that calls a bit of Donald Fagen/Steely Dan to mind, when you’re caught off-guard by Evans briefly adding a little Paris-sidewalk-cafe-flavored ocarina tune–which fades back to let the piano pick up the idea before the electronics take over. I quite like this sort of identity-switching stunt Evans pulls on a regular basis. Never forced, just always there to make you rethink what you’re hearing. He hits it again on “In Search of W,” shifting gears up, down and up as sequencer runs pop against plush chords and high-range melodies.

The UnSelected disc offers a somewhat less segmented and chopped Runningonair, an approach that comes from somewhere along the jazz/New Age border. It’s an interesting look at the stepping-off point for Evans’ experimental work. You can hear his signature structure peeking out from behind calm Sunday-morning stride of “Resolution 2,” the burst of toccatta-esque flair, pipe-organ sound and all, in the middle of “Zen Lunch”  and the changing face of “West to East,” which would slide neatly into a fusion-jazz jacket if you had to categorize it.

While I find myself gravitating more toward the edgier sensibilities of the Selected disc, this double helping of Runningonair highlights Evans’ superb musicianship overall. A great way to introduce yourself to a truly intriguing artist.

Available from the Runningonair web site.

Don’t be surprised if you listen to this disc and mistake it early on for a Tangerine Dream tribute CD. Fact is, Steve Humphries, recording as Create, proudly wears his influence on his sleeve and makes a workable Berlin-style go of it on We Live by the Machines. Ripe with familiarity, the six tracks here stomp along in their analog-based boots, sticking to well-trodden EM paths. We Live… is something of a hit-and-miss affair for me. Create starts fairly strong with the 23-minute “Portal,” but could have shaved off a good half of that to keep the piece from becoming repetitious. The essence is there–bedrock-firm sequencer lines holding up Humphries’ free-form playing–but there’s a lack of dynamic movement in it that grows a little wearisome. It’s not that I’m expecting seismic shifts, but in two listens either I became quite inattentive, or I never detected even a subtle tempo change or any perceptible alteration in the backdrop and he lost me. I find myself getting cut equally adrift during the other 20-minute-plus affair, “Search and Rescue”–which again starts quite strong but never feels like it aspires to more. Between the two are pieces that call older electronic music to mind without entirely capturing its potency. Humphries hits it dead-on, however, with the atmospheric and grim “Somewhere in the Distance.” Forgoing the TD vibe and instead curling edgy sounds up out of his gear, he melts together the most engaging voyage here–and it may be saying something that it’s also the shortest.

Analog fans may want to give this one a listen, but We Live by the Machines is more intent than execution.

Available from Groove Unlimited.