I don’t normally do batch reviews. But I have been receiving quite a few submissions from Tympanik Audio recently, and the next three discs in my review queue cover an interesting spectrum of styles that fall under the “glitch” category to some degree, so I thought I’d take a look at them, side by side by side. The discs in question are Dirk Geiger’s Autumn Fields, Access to Arasaka’s void(); and Undermathic’s 10:10 pm.

Autumn Fields is the least successful of the three for me. It opens strong, with cracks of rolling thunder and melodic piano from guest artist Connum on the track “Gewitterregen,” but then starts to corrode under a batch of noise and overwhelming field recordings that too often feel directionless. The problem for me comes down to a lack of subtlety in these elements and how they’re used. It felt like a barrier keeping me from connecting to the work, so I just kept skipping tracks. I stuck around for most of “Minus 10,” where Geiger lets his IDM sensibilities outweigh his penchant for noisy glitch. But overall this is largely a miss.

Lest it seem as though I just don’t enjoy glitch and/or noise (and many of my past reviews would belie the idea anyway), I found Access to Arasaka’s void(); much more accessible, if occasionally a little too chaotic. Quick-stitched sound samples whisk by in rhythmic flurries, beats snapping together in fractions of a second. On this one, though, it’s the opener, “*strtok(),” that almost loses me by feeling close to wayward if not downright random–but the experience is saved as soon as the followup, “kill_recorder=$c1,” kicks in to show Access to Arasaka’s sense of high-speed beatcrafting. void(); is about a 60-40 good/meh mix for me. The pieces that feel more thoughtfully put together, tracks with a strong identity like “inc(tumbler),” “Switch(Pcap_Datalink)” and “Syslog_Ident,” hold my attention more than some of the other cuts here which simply seem to lose their way in the electro-muddle of glitch. (“Array[08191]” comes to mind.) Overall, though, I find more to like the more I listen to void();. Access to Arakasa’s style is growing on me.

And then there is Undermathic’s 10:10 pm, which charges out of the gates in a blended burst of post-rock melody, IDM beats and a decidedly narrative voice. Maciej Paszkiewicz instantly finds his sure footing in this middle ground and shows that he knows how to use his position to advantage. 10:10 pm is a solidly crafted piece of work, packed with a multitude of elements that do nothing but add to the ride, never impeding the flow or taking the listener out of the moment. I like the gear-switching intensity of “Searcher,” shifting perfectly between pounding drum-driven rhythms and a glistening, floating break; the calm story that unfolds in the closer, “Sea”; and “I Remember,” the highlight track for me, which manages to exhibit a robotic angularity and a romantic smoothness at the same time. 10:10 pm is a smooth ride on easy beats and a well-planned depth of sound. It’s a straight-through listen that will give your speakers a workout because you’ll want to turn this one up. Make space on your iPod. 10:10 pm is bound to be a keeper.

Available from Tympanik Audio.

There is a slight Catch-22 hiding in the act of writing a review for Kyle Bobby Dunn’s 2-disc work A Young Person’s Guide to… Problem being, trying to write a lot about the music seems to run counter to the conceptual idea behind a work that appears to comprise very little while at the same time doing quite a lot–but quietly. Picking up from Dunn’s formerly download-only work Fervency and then embossing it with newer work, A Young Person’s Guide to… is a set of slow-moving pieces that never raise their voices much above a whisper, but those voices blend to form a deep, delicate chorus track after track. Dunn had several musicians play traditional instruments, then took the sounds and stretched and slowed them into new, hushed forms. The resultant pieces are absolutely graceful and soothing, yet possessed of a discernible edge that pricks at your attention and appreciation. Calling the work “minimalist” would in a way detract from what Dunn has accomplished, because while in structure it all seems fairly simple and straightforward, the composer has infused it with movement–albeit subtle–and feeling. Certainly, played at low volume it’s textbook ambient, unobtrusive and patiently waiting for you to notice it. I slept with it playing on loop one night, got up and went about my business and only noticed, literally an hour later, that it was still going. To some, that could be perceived as a flaw or an inherent dullness. But it’s all by design, and listening to it closely (as you should) belies the idea of an ignorable simplicity. If the earmark of a good ambient disc is its ability to affect you even when you’re not immediately aware that it’s there, then A Young Person’s Guide to… is a good ambient disc. Dunn also makes an interesting choice of adding a couple of piano tracks amidst his misty flows. Surprisingly, given the tone of the rest of the disc, they’re not at all forced or interruptive–just a welcome checkpoint along a very enjoyable listening path.

Available from Low Point.

On his newest release, The Ancients, Darren Rogers weaves a musical tale of the “lost knowledge of Atlantis.” The story spills forth in four fairly long tracks, the shortest just shy of 10 minutes, for a little under an hour’s worth of calm, sighing, melodic music. Truth is, The Ancients doesn’t really need the ostensible theme to work. My first listens were made free of that context and I liked what I heard; no deeper sense or insight was gained through knowing Rogers’ narrative intent. The opener, “From the Stars,” is the longest track, a lush and graceful flow of soft chords with an undertone of approaching sadness. A very nice ambient work that stands on its own. Rogers appropriately layers some drama beneath his drifts on “Utopia Lost” and carries it easily into “Celestial Voices from the Heavens,” where the composer makes strong use of a vocal sample, coming like the voice of a lone Atlantean singing in prayer. To me, this track starts a bit uncertainly but levels off a few minutes in. Towards the end Rogers gives it a distinct spacemusic feel. I can’t decide if the closing/title track starts out with the sound of panicked voices–which would make sense if Rogers is ending his story with the ruin of Atlantis. It’s a little distracting but, like the track before, this one eventually smooths out on a bell-tone melody that gives way to starry, pensive pads.

All in all, The Ancients is a solid piece of work that hovers on the border between drifty ambient and deeper spacemusic. Well worth a listen.

Available from Imagineer Records.

Although the majority of my exposure to and appreciation of Tim Story’s music has come over the last five years, largely through his collaborations with Dwight Ashley, Deiter Moebius and Hans-Joachim Roedelius, his name has been in my head since I first heard his track on the 1990 Windham Hill compilation, Soul of the Machine. I probably couldn’t name you three other artists from that disc, but Tim Story’s sound always stuck with me. While in recent years his work as a chamber-ambient artist has been delineated largely by his subtle manipulations of sound in otherwise straightforward instrumentals, the fact is that what’s residing under it is exactly that–the straightforward and quite lovely instrumental work that hearkens back to his earliest recordings.

And now we have Collected, a suite of New Age compositions that first appeared on several Windham Hill compilation albums, along with a few previously unreleased tracks. This is Story unadorned, the elegance of his playing set center stage and allowed to fully take the spotlight. That classically clean Windham Hill sound is here, too, the acoustics sharp, clear and familiar. On his web site Story notes that working within the Windham Hill style made him focus less on his sense of ambiguity and shadow and more on melody and harmony–but you’d figure that out just from listening. Collected is an end-of-day disc filled with music you’ll gladly let wash over you, soft and melodic and loaded with lyrical imagery and well-placed hints of drama. I was pleased to hear “Asleep the Snow Came Flying” again, one of my favorite tracks from the Winter Solstice collection, the tune waking like a sleeping memory in my brain. And for pure heartache-worthy beauty it’s hard to top “When Comes December,” gliding along on melancholic cello from Martha Reikow and rich, willowy woodwinds from Kim Bryden. (In his notes, Story thanks Reikow and Bryden for lending their talents to many of these tracks. I would like to thank them, as well.)

Further testament to Story’s range and talent is provided by his handling of work by Fauré, Bach, Vivaldi and Satie. Each is approached with a love and respect that echoes through each note. Vivaldi’s Largo has never sounded more lush and romantic to my ears, and even Satie’s well-worn 1st Gymnopédie gains a touch of depth and emotion from a simple pizzicato backdrop and what feels like a more deliberate slowness, a dancer’s motion captured frame by frame.

I have enjoyed listening to Tim Story’s continued and continuing evolution as an artist. Collected is an excellent chance to look back at where and how that evolution began, a series of very descriptive and eminently enjoyable passages in Story’s story.

Available from Tim Story’s web site.

When an ambient artist notes that a work is “long form,” it usually means it’s one piece that takes up an entire CD–73 minutes or so. On his two latest releases, Ion and Orcus, Igneous Flame (aka Pete Kelly) set his sights higher. At 130 minutes and 95 minutes respectively, these offerings require DVD format to accommodate their heft. (Kelly wisely uses the ample disc space to offer both MP3 and WAV options.) Taken together, the two releases stand as contrasting meditations, one built on a dreamy lightness and the other on grim, often stultifying darkness.

Ion is the lighter of the two. Here, Kelly sets aside the processed guitars that have formed the bulk of his past few albums and instead calls all of his floating forms from keyboards. The feel here is classic ambient: cloud-motion drifts in airy, angelic-choir pads and soft bass exhalations that lazily nudge each other along for two hours. In that regard there’s nothing groundbreaking happening here; it’s just that it’s all done extremely well. Ion is one of those listens that creates moments where you suddenly realize that your breathing has sympathetically slowed to match the music and that you’ve allowed yourself to wander off somewhere, mentally. Sometimes you’re brought around by a Kelly shimmer or a shift in tone (as at the beginning of “Earth Metal”) that tugs at your attention, but soon enough you’ve returned to that quiet section of headspace Ion has been gently hollowing out for you. Obviously, this disc truly comes into its own when it’s looped quietly, as the artist intends. Kelly’s meditative, time-stretched imaginings will simply curl around the space and make themselves at home.

By stark contrast, Orcus grabs hold of all the right dark ambient memes and proceeds to hammer them into shape. Kelly’s web site notes that the sounds and sonic images herein are meant to call to mind “the current corrosive energies unleashed into the world,” and they do. Metallic sounds grate and rasp against one another. Static spatters the soundscape. A sense of unrest pollutes the space–by design. Kelly effectively varies the work from overloaded sonic detritus to sparse nuclear-winter stretches of near-nothingness. There is loneliness and there is noise. I’ve been listening to Igneous Flame for several years now, and this is absolutely the densest and darkest he’s ever gone. It’s to his credit that there’s no sense of pretension here or the feel of an artist overstepping his bounds. Kelly is clearly comfortable making listeners uncomfortable. Given its length, Orcus isn’t something I’m likely to put on often for a full listen–I have a hard enough time getting through dark ambient CDs of normal length. But it will certainly stay in iPod rotation for those times when I need a little blackness and despair.

Kudos also go to Kati Astraeir for her stunningly detailed cover art on these discs–particularly the swirling, Necronomicon-ish depths of Orcus.

Ion and Orcus are both excellent discs that showcase the breadth of Pete Kelly’s talent. Whether you’re in the mood for light sounds or gripping darkness, Igneous Flame has what you need–and plenty of it.

Available from LuminaSounds.

For almost thirty-five minutes, fogbank drones course through Sloum’s self-titled debut EP, a washed-through barrier of sound that parts in places to offer glimpses of the stark landscape behind it. Although on the short side, this disc is packed with interesting work, most relying on the play between mesmeric guitar drones and snips from field recordings that just border on being too out of place. But, skirting that line, the occasional rasp, clatter or scrape that appears suddenly out of the misty wash defines Sloum’s style and moves the disc away from being just a drone work. Helfpul, too, are the few moments where the guitar is a guitar, as in the hushed song that appears late in “Locked Tides.” (And, to give the instruments their due, the sad, slow piano that leads “Tin, On the Savannah” makes a simple and solid statement in its too-short three-minute appearance.)

The drones here are very well done, deep and undulating almost to the point of being a brain massage (check out “Nowhere Is A Cloud in the Distance”), but tempered with intermittent doses of edge to bring you to the surface again. What I like most about this disc is that, played quietly it’s one sort of work, fuzzy at the edges, almost meditatively soft and quite pleasant as a space-enhancing loop; but listened to in headphones or just more attentively, it’s a wholly different thing, built on minute sounds and well-placed sonic touches that show an understanding of the use of found sound and field recordings as elements.  It’s a very good debut. Keep an ear on Sloum.

Available from Drift Theory.

There may come a moment as you listen to Bob Ohrum’s Elevated where the irony of the title hits you. Elevated? This set of lonely, somber, near-cold, pensive drone-based drifts is called Elevated? But then you’ll set that aside and gladly resume your quiet walk through Ohrum’s grey and ghostly creations. Built largely on processed bass guitar drones, keys and field recordings, Elevated possesses a beautiful density and fullness of sound that offsets the sometimes cloying darkness that runs through it. The balance at work is intriguing–there’s no denying that Elevated skirts the border of dark ambient, but the skilled layering and, for lack of a better word, softness of his underlying drones brings a quality that manages to soothe your mind even as the edginess of it all keeps you listening closely. The combination of “While They Slept” and “Everytime I Close My Eyes” (which makes great use of a field recording of a train passing by) is about the best 20 minutes of ambient I’ve heard in a while–enveloping, interesting and likely to take you out of your body.

Minimal at its core but packed with solid emotional content, Elevated is a must-hear for fans of drone. Let it loop.

Available from relaxedMachinery.

Inspired by winter, Chris Russell offers up Frozen, a suite of rich, beatless pieces that capture seasonal sensations, from the glitter of light on crisp new snow to the rasp and crack of ice underfoot. There’s a very pleasing completeness at work here, a circular journey from smooth ambient sounds and relaxing pads to edgier sonic swatches and textures and then back again, that makes the disc absolutely ideal for long-term looping. Russell opens the disc with “Aurora,” the first note of which is a long-held pad that appropriately rises and shimmers. It is, simply, a stunning way to start. The softer section of Frozen continues through the next three tracks, with “Tundra” showing the first real signs of a change in feel. The glimmer is still there, but the shift, subtle as it is, can be felt as well as heard, frost coming in at the edges of the sound. From there Russell enters intriguing territory, beginning with “Numb,” the atmosphere turning relentlessly cold and starkly experimental as he culls groans, crackles and snarls from his gear, effectively cutting the listener off from the earlier, lighter touch of the disc. In spots, particularly during the title track, Russell conjures up strong isolationist sensations. The trick here, of course, is to make it all seem like part of the continuous whole and not some errant, interruptive offshoot. Russell pulls it off neatly, then rewards the listener with the clean, graceful “Slowly Drifting” to bring warmth back out of the iciness, and to end the journey by connecting, flawlessly, with the start. There’s a meditative quality at work here, even in the grittier sections, which pays compliment to the quality of and thoughtfulness behind Russell’s compositions. I like this disc more with every listen. Frozen is a Hypnagogue Highly Recommended CD.

Available from relaxedMachinery.

Llewellyn is a million-selling New Age artist with a strong following in the healing-music world and a pretty impressive back catalog. Walking with Merlyn is my first exposure to his music, and while it’s lighter fare than I usually prefer, after journeying through it a few times I certainly understand the allure. What’s offered here is graceful, full-on symphonic New Age music that’s unabashedly romantic–swelling strings, glistening harps, arcing pan flutes, hand drums and more dance their way through seven tracks here. Throughout the disc the mood is light, with hints of carefully placed drama, and the tempo hovers nicely between upbeat and cool downtempo. Where I had expected perhaps theme-heavy posing and bombast, I got instead a CD that has something to say, and says it in a practiced storyteller’s voice. It’s easy to get lost in a piece like “The Sacred Box – Symbols of Mastery,” carried along on lush, sweeping chords and gently plucked strings.  “Gateway to the Otherworld” is a favorite for me, with flutes sliding over warm pads and an almost tribal drumline. It packs a slight worldmusic feel without losing sight of Llewellyn’s story. And “Songspells” finishes off the disc with a galloping rhythm, heavy drums and a cinematic verve.

The melodies here are lyrical, the instruments deftly swapping off the role of lead singer, apparently knowing just when to step back. Llewellyn gives himself space to tell each of these stories; most of the tracks clock in at around 8 pleasant, image-loaded minutes, but there’s no sense of drag or repetition. Just a set of stories nicely told.

Obviously, Walking with Merlyn is aimed at those listeners who prefer beats, structure and the overall acceptable lightness of being that in part defines New Age music. It proudly wears its crystals-and-herbs pedigree on its sleeve, and rightly so. Within that framework Walking with Merlyn is a quite enjoyable CD,  excellently constructed, and I’m glad to have finally met the music of Llewellyn.

Available from Paradise Music.

Part of me wonders if I would get more out of the pieces on this CD if I could see the virtual works of art they were created to accompany, or to experience them in their intended setting. The concept behind the CD interests me, because I’m intrigued by the symbiosis that occurs when music is made to accompany art and vice-versa. The work on Musical Sculptures was originally meant to be heard in tandem with viewing works of virtual art in the online game/community Second Life. Loops and silence were set in motion in varying forms by Tim Risher and Claus Gahrn, the elements crafted to evolve and reshape as they moved forward. As with any stroll through a museum, within the diversity of styles there’s a mix of interesting, less interesting and huh? (For me, that would be the abstract tangle that is “Windhorse.”) Luckily, most works here don’t fall into the huh? category, although my own level of interest varied greatly. I found myself truly paying attention first to the glimmering, Structures From Silence-like movement of “Silver Mist,” a delicate piece that floats in a high register.  “Scrap Metal I” belies its industrial-strength name by offering an enveloping blend of wayward noises, a melody stretched and twisted through a wormhole and malleable drones that carry a warm feel. Dark, never quite alienating, but absolutely commanding attention. And listening to “Autumn Atmospheres” is like watching water bubbles rise in slow motion, amorphous, dancing blobs of sound that warble and wobble in endless succession. The remainder moved through my headspace largely at the periphery of attention–not engaging enough to make me listen closely, but also not so far afield or off-kilter that I hurried to push the “next” button. All in all, Musical Sculptures is definitely worth a listen, as the variation in style is bound to please many listeners. For me, some tracks are just notably stronger than others. Check out the samples and take your own tour of Risher & Gahrn’s sonic gallery.

Available from Auraltone; samples at CD Baby.