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This limited-edition CDR is an experiment in spontaneity, as it is the product of a five-day recording frenzy that occurred last winter.  That endeavor proves to be a mixed success, as Taos Hum offers lots of great ideas, but not much in the way of great songs.  That is about what I would expect, as the Dots' Achilles' heel has always been that their voluminous output precludes aggressive editing, a trait that can only be exacerbated by rigid time constraints.  This is still an intermittently impressive effort (the band has definitely been on a hot streak lately), but the best moments are probably too diluted or overlong to offer much appeal to more casual fans.  Which, of course, explains why this is only a CDR.
I should know by now that there is no way to predict where Edward Ka-Spel's muse will take him from album to album, but I was still taken aback by the Taos Hum's direction, as LPD's more limited and informal releases tend to be fairly abstract and improvisatory.  This one seems to be neither, as the bulk of these six pieces are coherent, structured songs with lyrics and hooks.  Also, rampant retro-industrial/goth touches make the album feel kind of like a time-capsule from the '80s or '90s (endearingly so, of course).  Such touches are most apparent on the opening "Salem," which is built upon a crunching drum machine beat and lush, minor key synthesizers.  Also, the central sequencer motif in "Divine Resignation" sounds like a close cousin to Severed Heads' "Dead Eyes Opened" (and probably a hundred other songs from that era as well).  Of course, the Dots are far too weird to offer up any such touches in a pedestrian or innocently referential manner. Taos Hum is anything but straight-forward.
Vocally and lyrically, Ka-Spel is in fairly fine form throughout the album, delivering his cryptic words with characteristically simmering intensity.  The songs that work best, unsurprisingly, tend to be the ones with strong hooks, such as the aforementioned "Divine Resignation," but some of the albums' "hooks" can be quite unconventional.  For example, "Ash and Sand" sounds like someone lazily and sloppily playing a banjo over a strangled, ghostly whine, while "The Piper" sounds like it was kitschily (and ingeniously) constructed from one of the preset rhythms on a cheap Casio keyboard.  Naturally, Ka-Spel and company can also sound quite compelling when they plunge into a nightmarishly abstract rabbit hole.  Unfortunately, they often decide to go in both directions within the same song, which is where things get quite dicey.
In fact, almost none of these songs are quite presented in their ideal format and both the album and the individual songs feel uneven and schizophrenic.  This makes Taos Hum feel like a prolonged cavalcade of exasperating misfires.  "The Piper" is probably the best single illustration of the problem, as it starts off as a very catchy and propulsive song that shows hints of fraying at the edges, but then dissolves into fractured free-form abstraction that seems to go on forever.  None of the other songs are quite sabotaged to that extreme, but they all have a maddening tendency to feel about twice as long as they need to be.  Also, the album's longest piece (the closing "Premonition 40") seems like complete filler, sounding like little more than a series of dissonant synth vignettes surrounded by dull dark ambiance.
Despite all of my grievances, I have a nagging suspicion that someone completely new to Legendary Pink Dots would find a lot to like on Taos Hum, as it is brimming with cool ideas and sounds as uniquely surreal and shadowy as anything else in the LPD catalog.  Unfortunately, after having heard so many other Dots' album, I cannot help but expect more from them than this.  That said, the Taos Hum sessions were still kind of a creative success, as the intense, compacted recording session demonstrably inspired a number of very promising, vibrant ideas.  I just wish the band had given themselves enough time afterward to sift through them all and get it right for the actual album.
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One fascinating aspect of the Legendary Pink Dots is that I never know where and when their simmering brilliance will fully manifest itself.  Case in point: this limited-edition solo effort by keyboardist Phil Knight was casually released on CDR on the same day as two other LPD-related albums with only the most cryptic and inscrutable of descriptions ("...aliens here to study mankind had taken control of the airwaves; spread confusion with fake weather reports..."), yet it contains a fluke quasi-noise/industrial collage that ranks among my favorite pieces in the Dots' entire discography.
Finisterre consists of a trio of lengthy and very dissimilar soundscapes.  The first, "Fitzroy Cromarty," is the most subtle and drone-like of the three, as it is built upon slow-moving and ominous synth swells beneath a robotic-sounding, ring-modulated voice that seems to be reciting a shipping forecast.  Not much overt evolution occurs over the course of its 19-minute duration, aside from the addition of a faint pulse and a gradual increase in both density and general hauntedness.  That is more than enough to make the piece work though, as its eerie, otherworldly mood is quite wonderful.  To my ears, its masterfully understated dread evokes images of a malfunctioning radio aboard an abandoned boat adrift on a particularly lonely and forgotten stretch of ocean, which is a niche that is all too rarely filled as far as I am concerned.
Unfortunately, the following "Oscar's Last Day" completely ruins the spell for me, as it sounds like an annoying, artificial-sounding bagpipe motif unfolding over a watery, dated-sounding synthesizer bed.  It initially reminded me unfavorably of something that would be playing during a science documentary from the '70s, but then it grew exponentially worse when the mutant Celtic elements start fading in.  While I have thankfully never had a nightmare about a St. Patrick's Day-themed Doctor Who episode, I am dead certain that such a thing would sound an awful lot like this.  I  have absolutely no idea what Knight was trying to accomplish or whether or not he succeeded, but I no doubt that "Oscar's Last Day" is a horrible, horrible piece of music regardless.
Consequently, I could not have been more surprised by the closing "Spring," which is an obsessive, paranoid masterpiece that calls to mind classic Genocide Organ or Maurizio Bianchi.  It starts off with woozy, disorienting swells that mimic the Doppler effect of cars whizzing by someone lying in the road with the life ebbing out of them, as there is an awesomely weird, hallucinatory detachment to the traffic sounds along with some distant, indecipherable shouting.  Somehow, however, the piece gets even better from there, as it gradually snowballs in intensity with menacing hums and an echo-heavy, inscrutable, and layered spoken-word loop that sounds like an ominous news transmission or excerpt from a revolutionary speech.  Then it all slowly fades away without ever making a false move or overstaying its welcome.  It could not possibly be improved.
Such a strong finish makes for a baffling album, as "Spring" is so perfectly sculpted that I fleetingly entertained the possibility that I might be wrong about the execrable "Oscar's Last Day."  After revisiting it, however, my original assessment was brutally reaffirmed: Finisterre consists of an unlistenably bad center book-ended by two truly wonderful and inspired pieces.  As perplexing and aggravating as that is, it still leaves almost 40 minutes of sustained greatness and one piece that I would deem absolutely essential, making the largely under-the-radar Finisterre one of the year's most pleasantly surprising releases to date (albeit one that arguably includes one of the year's worst surprises as well).
 
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While it definitely boasted some of the year's best cover art (I am a sucker for shadowy figures wielding curved blades), Implode's 2011 Kranky debut (Black Earth) occupied a fairly unappealing niche for me, offering up a lot of bleak, slow-motion shoegaze with too much processing and too few hooks.  Two years later, Recurring Dream offers more great cover art and more brooding effects pedal abuse, but the band have definitely grown quite a bit better at what they do.  It is still a bit of a slog to make it through the entire album, but the handful of highlights are great enough to make it worth the effort.
After deceptively opening with a brief bit of creepily Lynchian synth ambiance ("Wendy 2"), Implodes completely blindsided me with "Scattered in the Wind," which sounds as close to a hit single as this band will ever come.  All of the usual haze and sustain-heavy guitar soloing remain in place, as do Matt Jencik's  narcotized vocals, but it is greatly enlivened by a meaty bass riff and insistently pulsing guitarwork.  Also, the decision to double Jencik's vocals with bassist Emily Elhaj's gives the song a more compelling and distinctive dynamic than is usual.  Those seem like such a simple tweaks to the Implodes' sound, but they make such an enormous difference.  I am far more likely to put up with (or even enjoy) a band's indulgences if they are presented with at least one concretely gratifying thing to hold it all together (charisma, power, rhythm, a strong melody, whatever).  "Scattered in the Wind" boasts several such elements and totally kills as a result.
The quartet unexpectedly out-do themselves yet again two songs later with the hallucinatory synth ambiance of "Zombie Regrets," which (to my ears) is probably the best piece they have ever recorded.  For one, it is short enough that it does not overstay its welcome.  More significantly, however, its dreamy idyll is brilliantly disrupted by thick, vibrato-heavy swells of melody.  In a way, "Zombie Regrets" is a microcosm that illustrates everything that is both wrong and right with Implodes, as it works so beautifully for three reasons: 1.) it offers an unexpected twist on something relatively familiar, 2.) its various components are both strong and clear, and 3.) it has immediacy and physicality.
Missing the third part is often Implodes' fatal flaw, as their guitars are generally so heavily processed that they feel floating and detached.  That is fine if there is something else to provide a song's heft (ie- Elhaj's bassline in "Scattered in the Wind"), but that does not occur as frequently as it needs to.  Also, a lot of Implodes songs lack a strong central motif, which makes them feel more like delivery systems for cool guitar solos than actual memorable songs.  Granted, the quartet have a real knack for creating an appealingly heavy and/or drugged mood, but the songs quickly blur together when there are not clear hooks to make them stand-out.
Fortunately, Implodes' talent for the unexpected resurfaces in a few other pieces to dazzling effect.  For example, the crescendo of "Necronomics" sounds like a time-stretched A Place to Bury Strangers getting sucked into a black hole, while "Wouldn't You Know It" features some awesomely evil-sounding vibrato over the top of its dirge-y chord progression.  Touches like that proved to be the tipping point for me: I definitely like this band now.
Recurring Dream is not necessarily a great album, but its best moments make it clear that Implodes are no ordinary band.  Rather, they seem to be a band with extraordinary vision struggling with uncharted territory (shoegaze meets cosmic horror and the cold enormity of space?).  That is a tall order.  In fact, I would not have thought such a thing were possible or desirable before hearing this album.  For now, Implodes have only captured fleeting glimpses of that elusive vision, but those glimpses are glorious.
 
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As half of the black metal influenced duo Menace Ruine, Geneviève Beaulieu gives the project its unique sound via her distinct, idiosyncratic voice that alternates between dramatic and understated. On the debut of her side project Preterite (with multi instrumentalist James Hamilton), the metal is scaled back and the more folk elements are pushed forward, but in a way that defies expectations based on that simple description.
In many circumstances, the combination of buzzing, accordion like tones and female vocals in a context such as this either does nothing for me or completely turns me away. Here, however, there is a distinct edge to this that makes it stand out, such as the more abrasive sounds underscored with tasteful strings on "Oath," and complimented by Beaulieu's powerful voice.There is a distinct medieval, neofolk influenced quality throughout, but sounding entirely unique.
"The Fourth Corner" makes use of those same pieces, but rearranges it into a more restrained sound, with the strings creating a warm, pleasant drone.The vocals are more restrained overall, which adds to the overall sense of the song.The complex mulitracking of voice and dissonant, ugly sounds at the end make for a drastic, but appreciated change.
The three remaining pieces drift more towards a sound that resembles Menace Ruine, integrating more electric guitar without ever crossing that threshold into metal.The drumless expanse and stop/start moments of "Trial of Strength" offset the effected guitar and the booming, sustained vocals definitely add a distinct color.The lengthy "Viriditas" is similar, with Beaulieu's dynamic vocals shifting from a declaration to a roar multiple times, ending the song (and album) in the grasps of a wall of dissonant noise, with the only identifiable sound being a pounding low-register piano amidst cavernous reverb.
Menace Ruine is not a project that has been bogged down with genre conventions by any means, but I do appreciate Preterite's pushing of some of those elements into different, more abstract fields.The more folk infused pieces balance out the more guitar laden ones, meaning that neither sound dominates the album, nor do any of the pieces feel unfinished or fragmented as a failed experiment would be.It instead makes for a related, but distinct, but thematically connected side project.
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German artist Marsen Jules has been working in sparse, subtle worlds of ambient sound for over a decade, and this single song album follows that template. Living up to its title, throughout the 47 minutes there is a constant change of light and dark, hues and saturations that never stay still.
Based upon generative compositions sourced from a single phrase on an old jazz record, the result hardly resembles its source.Shimmering, powerful tones are utilized throughout, initially ebbing and flowing passages that seem as if the smallest sound has been expanded into these infinite swells.Never do they seem to be droning, because they are always on the move, becoming more forceful to then just pull back slightly.
Initially the results are mostly light, with buoyant, glistening passages hovering, but slowly things are led into more somber moods.The change is slow, to the point that it is almost unnoticeable, until a few minutes in where the entire mood has shifted dramatically.The higher register string-like drones alternate into more bass emphasizing infinite harmonium passages: sometimes gentle, sometimes bleak.
The major downside to this work is that because of the ascetic, minimal construction and slow, almost microscopic changes and developments, it does not stay entirely captivating throughout.While listening, I could not help but sometimes allow my attention to drift off to something else, and then noticing the difference in sound once I regained my focus.
Never did I feel the urge to completely tune the sound out, or even feel the need to stop listening, but it admittedly did not keep me at the edge of my proverbial seat for the full duration.I always feel particularly satisfied about ambient works that keep me focused and wanting to do nothing else, and The Endless Change of Colour does not manage to do that.It has a strong concept and made up of pleasant tones and textures, but ultimately ends up falling into the trap of not being overly distinct from so many other ambient albums out there.
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This single is a particularly divergent release in a career where divergence is rapidly becoming the norm, combining (arguably) the least Om-like song in their entire discography with Al Cisneros' recent fascination with dub reggae.  I expected the result to sound a lot like Al's solo dub debut from last year ("Dismas"), but this is something completely new altogether.  The reason for that is that Cisneros handed over the controls to seasoned British roots duo Alpha & Omega.  The piece is likable in its own way (once I got past reeling from my subverted expectations), but I suspect many Om fans will find that this detour is not for them.
The decision to enlist Alpha & Omega was certainly a bold and interesting one, as their influence is unquestionably a bit of a double-edged sword.  For better or worse, it shows that Al is now all-in when it comes to his love of dub reggae, seeking out actual, established reggae collaborators and releasing a real dubplate rather than working with electronic/experimental folks closer to his own scene.  While that could cynically (and hilariously) seem like just another entry crossed-off a stoner bucket list ("Write a concept album entirely about weed?  Check!  Embrace Indian instrumentation?  Check!  Make a real reggae album?  Almost there!"), it is also abundantly clear that Alpha & Omega are objectively very skilled at what they do and would be certain to produce something worthwhile (and I bet they probably know a lot of cool studio secrets that Al does not at this early stage of his dub phase).
Two things about "Ababa Dub" and its nearly indistinguishable flip-side immediately wrong-footed me though.  Firstly, Advaitic Songs' "Addis" sounded closer to Dead Can Dance than Om in its first incarnation and now its link to Om's sound is even more tenuous: the remix retains Kate Ramsey's vocals, the tabla, and the descending cello motif, but Al's bass is replaced and his vocals were never there to begin with.  Secondly, the languorous pulse of the original "Addis" seemed like the ideal raw material for smokey, sensuous dub heaven, but Alpha & Omega opted instead to speed-up the tempo to transform the piece into something unexpectedly tense, insistent, and tough.  I expected "sexy" or "hypnotic," but instead I got something that sounds like it should have someone toasting about revolution over the top of it.
Of course, an unexpected artistic decision is not the same as a bad one: Alpha & Omega did not make the record I wanted, but they did a fine job making the record they wanted.  While the two remixes are a bit faster than is probably ideal, the duo otherwise deliver just about everything I would want from a dub single: spectrally dissipating vocals, artfully accented percussion, hazy textures, great use of space, and...uh...something that sounds like a car alarm.  There is certainly some deeper common ground between Om and this dubplate to be found, as the two aesthetics share a devotion to both bass and repetition, but Addis Dubplate ultimately feels a lot more like a likable dub piece that happens to contain some Om samples than a fresh twist on Om's sound.  Which, of course, is perfectly fine, but different....possibly even unique, as Drag City's next two Cisneros platters tread a bit closer to expected territory.
 
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In a very real sense, The Watchers is an endearing improbable album that captures a magical and ephemeral union between two like-minded virtuosos playing together for the first time.  The catch, unfortunately, is that the magic was something of a closed-loop: while the two musicians flowed together as seamlessly and intuitively as old friends, the end product basically sounds like a rough sketch for an unfinished James Blackshaw album (albeit one where Blackshaw himself is often perversely relegated to the background).
This is my first exposure to Melnyk's work, which surprises me, as he is quite a noteworthy fellow.  For one, he is the fastest piano player on the planet, a claim bolstered by the fact that he actually holds two world records for it.  More significantly, however, he has forged his own unique strand of minimalism that he calls "continuous music."  Rather than using his prodigious speed for blinding multi-octave runs, Lubomyr unleashes a vibrantly rippling sea of arpeggios and patterns that leaves a fog of overtones in its wake. A greatly modified version of that approach can be found in much of Blackshaw's recent work as well, which is no surprise, as Melnyk has been one of his influences for a while.
In fact, the two originally met when James bought some albums from Lubomyr at an Estonian music festival back in 2008.  While they immediately hit it off, it took almost four years for both of them to wind up anywhere near each other again, which occurred when Melnyk played his first London show in 2012.  He and Blackshaw convened the following day at the Vortex Jazz Cafe and improvised these four pieces over the course of six hours, allowing themselves a maximum of two takes for each one.
While neither musician is known for their improv skills, both seemed to handle the challenge ably, as they are clearly on the same wavelength from the first note.  Unfortunately, The Watchers is hamstrung by some issues that are far more fundamental.  For one, the man behind the idea of continuous music unsurprisingly plays continuously.  Secondly, pianos are significantly louder and more resonant than acoustic guitars.  That combination makes for a very strange outcome, as all four pieces (named after the Royal stars) sound very much like James Blackshaw pieces with very "James Blackshaw" chord progressions, but the intricacies of what Blackshaw is actually playing on his 12-string are sometimes very hard for human ears to hear (particularly when Lubomyr starts to open up).  Yet somehow James still seems to be the one leading, as Lubomyr's clearer and more melodic arpeggios seem to change with Blackshaw's tremelo-picked coloration.
Another problem is that of dynamics, as both musicians are playing continuously, which makes the entire album blur together a bit.  On some occasions, such as near the end of "Venant," Blackshaw finds the space to contribute an actual melody, but it is usually only his furiously tremelo-picked single notes and chords that are able to break through Melnyk's rippling cascade and its lingering haze of overtones. That is not necessarily a failure, but it is a bit unsatisfying, as it basically sounds like an incredibly dexterous classical pianist playing the chord progressions to a James Blackshaw album in an extremely maximalist minimalist way while James provides subtle color and texture through an uncomfortably enormous expenditure of energy.
For a one-time improv set from non-improv guys, I suppose that is not too shabby, but the beautiful transitions, melodies, and complexities that elevate Blackshaw's recorded work into something great are simply not present here.  Of course, Melnyk's aesthetic is diluted as well, but that is not quite as striking, as The Watchers does not sound at all like a Lubomyr Melnyk album.  Hopefully, James and Lubomyr will someday find time to actually compose and record in a studio together, as it seems a bit tragic that the sole documentation of their promising union is a spontaneous performance outside of either man's true area of expertise.
 
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The second solo single from Sleep/Om’s Al Cisneros continues from where its predecessor left off. Unfortunately, this means there has been little progression in this new creative approach for Cisneros. With any luck, these tracks will eventually turn into fully-fledged works as the music is nice but, for now at least, it is of curiosity value rather than an essential work from a man who has made an awful lot of essential records.
Sinai Records
"Teresa of Avila" consists of a spacious groove with some minimal percussion over the top. Where "Dismas" from the first 7" felt like a new angle for Cisneros, "Teresa of Avila" feels more like a sketch for a new Om track. It is hard not to mentally fill in the blanks with Cisneros’s vocals and the elaborate embellishments like tambura and flute that made Om’s last couple of albums so engaging. Yet here, the music just repeats without any sort of anchor to make it stand out.
The B-side, "Levitation Dub," is more of the same riff but this time there is a bit more going on. It still feels like a sketch but one that is further along than the A-side. There is a greater energy to it and, as its title would imply, it lifts me off the floor for its duration. However, I still keep imagining Cisneros’s vocals coming at some point and the rest of Om sparking off an immense blast of musical bliss like the brilliant intro and release of "Sinai" from Advaitic Songs. As pleasant as this music is, it is this sense of incompleteness that makes it a frustrating experience.
 
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The follow-up to last year's Rupture sees Steven Stapleton and Graham Bowers exploring the inner reaches of the psyche. Parade is due for release soon on the interdisciplinary arts group/record label Red Wharf.
Parade: The second studio album release by Nurse With Wound and Graham Bowers delves into the multiple manifestations of the human form and psyche. The music is an audio sketch-pad, capturing a Commedia dell’Arte type procession of the extremes and banalities of what we are, and what we do, on this bizarre and indefinable one-way trip to oblivion.
A continuous and thematic piece of music divided into eight tracks:
OFF TO HELL ON A HANDCART
APES AND PEACOCKS
THE BELLS OF HELL GO TING A’LING A’LING
RING A’RING O’ROSES
A TISSUE OF DECEIT
RATS, CATS AND DOGS
BEYOND THE PALISADE
THE BITTER END
The CD features original artworks by Babs Santini and Graham Bowers, and a special double vinyl limited edition album is scheduled for release in the Autumn.
Sound samples are available on the Red Wharf website.
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I think it is finally safe to say that I do not understand Dominick Fernow at all, as I am completely mystified as to: 1.) why this was released as a Prurient album, and 2.) how it somehow managed to avoid release for two long years (given Fernow's singularly relentless release schedule). Although it was recorded at the same time as 2011's  excellent (but polarizing) Bermuda Drain, Through the Window dispenses with noise almost entirely to indulge a somewhat misguided fascination with house techno.  The result is undeniably more accessible than everything else recorded under the Prurient banner, but accessibility is not what I am generally hoping for with Prurient and these songs are significantly less compelling than Fernow's other dance flirtations with Cold Cave and Vatican Shadow.
I am quite curious about why this album languished in the vault for so long, as it seems entirely possible that it was delayed because Fernow thought the noise world just was not ready for a release like this.  As amusing as that hypothetical thought-process sounds, it is not actually all that far-fetched, as the much harsher Bermuda Drain already raised quite a few noise-purist hackles when it was released–dropping some house beats back then as Prurient probably would have gotten Dominick absolutely pilloried.  Now, of course, the appropriation of dance beats by noise artists is quite commonplace, so no one really cares all that much.  Unfortunately, the rapid evolution of the form that has occurred in the meantime has also served to render Fernow's forward-thinking experiment somewhat dull by comparison.  Or maybe it is actually fundamentally dull, regardless of context.  I am not sure, as my intense loathing of house beats tends to cloud my objectivity.
The common ground between this and other Prurient releases is minimal and tenuous at best, the strongest link being the inexplicable inclusion of 4-minute interlude of piston-like machine rhythm, hissing white noise, and murky spoken-word ("Terracotta Spine") between the album's more dance-oriented bookmarks.  Otherwise, the only real relation to the Prurient of yore is that Fernow occasionally adds some whispered spoken vocals to his coldly alienating, one-man dance party.  The overarching problem is not with the aesthetic though–it is with the execution.
The two substantial pieces that essentially make up the entire album seem to be striving for a shadowy, propulsive "midnight drive" kind of feel, which is just fine by me.  Unfortunately, Fernow's cold, pristine, and ultra-minimal vision badly overreaches the somewhat pedestrian and predictable motifs his songs are built upon.  Both "Through the Window" and "You Show Great Spirit" are essentially just simple minor key synth riffs that are endlessly repeated with a thumping beat for 10 or 20 minutes.  Admittedly, both are quite propulsive, but they are also fairly bombastic and overly repetitive.
It will not surprise me at all if this goes on to become Prurient's most popular release to date (albeit one with a very different audience), but it just feels clumsy, dated, and dilettantish to me: Fernow definitely needs to cultivate a lighter touch if he wants to make dance music this straightforward.  The most frustrating part of it all is that I know Fernow is capable of making great beat-driven music.  In fact, I even like how he gradually builds and morphs the insistent kick drum pulse on these songs.  Unfortunately, Dominick's songwriting and melodic talents are lagging too far behind his rhythmic and textural abilities for this stab at dance music to truly catch fire.  There is still a nagging part of me that suspects that I may just not have found the perfect context in which to experience this album yet (barreling down the Autobahn at 4am in a melancholy mood with a dead prostitute in my trunk?), but my tentative assessment is that Through the Window is merely a well-meaning and unexpectedly listenable misfire.
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Benoit Pioulard's latest release makes a subdued, melancholy journey through watery pop. Peerless at his best moments, Hymnal is very nearly nothing but, showcasing a keenness for murky left-field songwriting that ought to go nowhere. Yet it all feels very direct and focused, very familial. Thomas Meluch probes discomfort, harmony, and unique production techniques to assemble music which flows naturally even if it takes no easy path to be heard.
The last few seconds of "Mercy," the first song on Hymnal, ring out with tape-damaged beauty, heralding a vague but pleasant finale to an album which has just started. This is the way Meluch carves into the first moments of a new release. Hymnal digs deep into a hole and stays there; "Mercy" plays like a breath of air before a long dive, with "Hawkeye" and "Excave" drifting in and out of subsonic echoes and through slow waves of longing. Thomas Meluch captures a space in folk music (in its augmented present form) that almost resembles electronica, where everything is sustained and overt repetition earns more than single gestures.
The difference is this is purely bucolic, and rhythmic but soft, and laced with long drones, many of which serve as intermediaries between the more structured songs. "Gospel" is a gorgeous slow cycle of metallic chords that never aim for sublimity despite the name, etching the short range of notes into stone over five minutes. In excluding the indulgence that such a deep, endless pool of sound should spur him to, Meluch lets the audience fill in those gaps. It's very simple, but very clever, and it plays perfectly to his already well-established preference for muddled obscurity and shrouded purpose. "Litiya" holds on a strange chord in its final moments, an unwelcome oddity that melts into the bleary catharsis of "Knell." Each ambient part follows after poppier songs not as a counterpoint but a complement; it's almost as if Meluch's contemplation begs to be intoned vocally and instrumentally as well.
After releasing a number of sparse drone pieces back in 2011, it's not hard to see Hymnal as a way of capitalizing on those stems, treating them as a base inspiration for some further sound experiments. In this case, Hymnal is a plunge into the ocean, a demonstration of how tranquility can lead to ennui, or passion for something unknown. Drone and folk intertwine in mellifluous, unique ways, but never stagnate, because Hymnal shows that not using space is not necessarily wasting it.
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