Akron’s charming one-man debut nods to influences such as Delia Derbyshire and Joe Meek but cannot begin to approach the originality or spirit of experiment of those legends. The best of these pieces are odd exotic bleeping echoes which did transport me to other worlds, just perhaps not the ones intended.
Akron is a new name to me and there is enough charm in this album to ensure I’ll look out for future releases. If Voyage of Exploration is also disappointing, which I think it is, then perhaps it is because the title points to space travel, something which lost much of its luster a while back, rather than to a more natural terrain for this music. Progress in other scientific technology, such as the invention of the microscope and the digital circuit, have revealed inner worlds while igniting a revolution in art and spirituality every bit as inspiring as that which has resulted in space flights and, well, rocket science.
Beyond the obvious references to Meek, sci-fi, and lounge-exotica, Akron’s pieces are well suited to a miniature aesthetic as opposed to a macro one. Digital and cellular worlds come to mind, as in genome topography, video games, and popular culture - as in the film Fantastic Voyage, wherein a crew -including Raquel Welch shrunk to .1 microns, or 250,000 times smaller than her 5’6 stature -board a submarine designed at the C.M.D.F. (Combined Miniaturized Deterrent Forces) facility and are injected into a human patient with one hour to remove a life-threatening clot.
Certainly the album could use more variety. If these are supposed to be nine new worlds then after awhile they seem remarkably similar to 1970s episode of Dr Who in that these distant planets all start to resemble a couple of quarries just outside London. In fairness, I expect Akron’s budget is not much more than the BBC’s for those shows, but imagination costs nothing. I don’t want to travel to any planet depicted in such unimaginative titles as “Rabbits in Orbit” and “Frog War Chant.”
The aspect of exploration of a digital world made sense to me when playing the final track in my car while transporting some high school art students. I had already decided this mournful piece was my favorite, before I knew that it was called “Funeral for Euclid.” As we drove one of the students suddenly asked what it was and announced:
“It sounds like music from a video game in the middle of a quest when you've just defeated a mid-level boss of evil and you're walking out of town with lots of gifts and bonuses but it's bittersweet because one of your friends has been killed in a cut-out scene."
This is not a poor record, but after a few listens I began to feel I was in the title story from David Eagleman’s Sum: Forty Tales From The Afterlife. In that version, we all live our life over again but “all the moments that share a quality are grouped together. You spend two months driving the street in front of your house, seven months having sex. You sleep for thirty years without opening your eyes. For five months straight you flip through magazines while sitting on a toilet.” I’m not sure what activity is suggested by Voyage of Exploration, but it may be slicing bread or washing hair. Something mildly pleasant but not ecstatic or very exciting. And that figure for sex is depressing low now I look at it.
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Artist: Anni Hogan
Title: Mountain
Catalogue No: CSR132CD
Barcode: 8 2356650492 4
Format: CD/DVD DualDisc in jewelcase
Genre: Ambient / Soundscape
Shipping: 13th June
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'Mountain' is an artistic collaboration between musicians Anni Hogan, Robert Strachan and Itchy Ear, film maker Bob Wass and mountaineer Cathy O'Dowd.
Hogan and Itchy Ear originally worked on a series of piano pieces inspired by Rene Daumal's 'Mount Analogue' and the superior wisdom of mountains, using O'Dowds Himalayan conquests for particular authentic inspiration. Robert and Anni used these pieces and the Himalayan peaks as a template for painting a soundwave soundscape around the piano compositions.
Cathy has supplied all the photographs for the album sleeve, beautifully edited by Abby Helasdottir, and Cathy has performed a fascinating and revealing monologue over the piece 'Deathzone'.
The 'Mountain' film has been created by Bob Wass from Cathy's original film footage of her Everest expeditions. The film and soundtrack are an experimental 'journey' to explore sonically and visually the nature of 'journey and mountains'.
Tracks:
CD: 1. Strange Beauty | 2. Lost Intense | 3. Stark Reality | 4. Sunburst | 5. Altitude | 6. Cherished Blazing Moon | 7. First Light | 8. Pelydrau Haul Ar Dir Y Rynys. Yw Heddwch Pur Mewn Oes Llawn Brys. (Rynys Base Camp) | 9. Mother Goddess | 10. Transition Rendition | 11. Endurance | 12. Deathzone (with special commentary from Cathy O’Dowd) | 13. The Clearing Uncleared | 14. Frozen Eulogy
DVD: 1. Strange Beauty | 2. Lost Intense | 3. Sunburst | 4. Deathzone | 5. Mother Goddess
>>>>>>>WATCH THE 'MOUNTAIN' DVD TRAILER<<<<<<<
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Artist: Skullflower
Title: Fucked On A Pile Of Corpses
Catalogue No: CSR151CD
Barcode: 8 2356650612 6
Format: CD in jewelcase
Genre: Power Electronics / Noise
Shipping: 13th June
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The most remorseless, brutal Skullflower ever!
Alternating between granular lo-fi primitive rock and granular lo-fi primitive Power Electronics, this taut disc is a chain mail glove of hate to any lazy minds who've tainted the air with describing Skullflower as 'psychedelic'. But that's not to say this is an all out total assault. There are also moments of tender acoustic balladry, its just that they don't exist.
The remorseless brutal sound is primitive, but as detailed and rich as a blood soaked medieval canvas, somewhere betwixt The Rita and Clandestine Blaze, but more brutal!
Long live the New Flesh! Kether is in Malkuth, Malkuth is in Kether, but in a different way...
Tracks: 1. Hanged Man's Seed | 2. Viper's Fang | 3. Defiling Their Temples With Bestial Lust | 4. Anubis Station | 5. Fairy Knife Hell | 6. Tantrik Ass Rape | 7. Sleipnir
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Artist: Emme Ya
Title: Atavistic Dreams & Phallic Totems
Catalogue No: CSR127CD
Barcode: 8 2356650522 8
Format: CD in jewelcase
Genre: Esoteric / Ritual / Dark Ambient
Shipping: 13th June
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40 minutes of dense astral emanations and magickal paradigms transmitted through the ritual mantras generated by Emme Ya.
Emme Ya’s ‘Atavistic Dreams & Phallic Totems’ is based on the mysterious African Dogon tribe and their secret oral tradition. In the 1930s two anthropologists gained their trust enough to be told these remarkable secrets.
The Dogon seemed to possess advanced astronomical knowledge beyond their means, without any instruments. They revealed that the star Sirius was orbited by the ‘smallest and heaviest of all stars’ and drew its elliptical orbit, which spans 18 years. This white dwarf (Sirius B) is so invisible that the first image was only obtained by scientists in 1970. But the Dogon also told of a third star in the system named Emme Ya (now Sirius C). This was only discovered in 1995 and only with the use of advanced infrared imaging.
The Dogon say that their information was given to their ancestors through contact with beings from the star system of Sirius, calling these beings Nommos or ‘the monitors of the universe'.
Tracks: 1. The Distant Black Sun | 2. The Backward Paths | 3. Per Vas Nefandum | 4. Translucid Dreaming (Phallic Scarlet Totems) | 5. Pre-Eval Atavisms (Gods Ov Shadows)
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This is the final chapter of this colorfully named and eternally shifting Seattle collective's Totem trilogy and it is confounding and inspired in equal doses.  Characteristically, the band still sounds like some kind of weird psychedelic cult, but the fictitious cult in question seems to shift in both disposition and temporal/geographic location a bit more dramatically than they have in the past, which makes for a rather strange and disorienting listening experience.  At least it is confusing for the right reasons though, as Totem 3's problems stem primarily from sheer over-ambition: there is literally no one on earth that could successfully and seamlessly combine influences as disparate as metaphysical philosophy, John Carpenter, Indian cinema, and Taureg blues.
Totem 3 begins with a piece entitled "Bardo Sidpa," which is a Tibetan Buddhist term that roughly translates into a rebirth into the world after reaching a transcendental state.  Such a return is apparently quite difficult and fraught with spiritual traps, so the piece is quite an ominous one, built around Randall Dunn's Tibetan throat singing and mournful brass.  One of the instruments used is actually a long trumpet called a Rag dun, which is traditionally used by Tibetan monks, further confirming that these guys are extremely serious about thematic consistency (for now).  The horn drones are further augmented by jangling chimes, slowly pulsing and discordant faux-accordion chords, and suicidally plunging synth tones.  It's a pretty sinister piece of ritualistic ambiance and a rather strong one too, but it then segues into the much lighter "In the Twilight of Kali Yuga."  After a briefly droning flute introduction, it transitions into a stomping and joyous acoustic guitar and tabla piece that sounds like some kind of fake Indian wedding dance.  This is where things begin to derail a bit, as it is simply too relentlessly cheery for me, despite its appealing enthusiasm and heft.
The third piece, "Illuminating the Ten Directions," brings things back down to drone territory, but still fails to win me back, as the "desert nomad" flute noodling and chanted vocals sit somewhat clumsily with the low-end synth hum and occasional distorted electric guitar strums.  The collision of "organic and spiritual" with "contemporary and electrified" just isn’t seamless or logical enough to be convincing. The following "Prophecy of the White Camel/Namoutarre" gets back a little momentum though, approximating a darker, slower negative of "Kali Yuga" mixed with a bit of Sun City Girls-style psych (no coincidence, since Alan Bishop contributes guest vocals to both pieces).  There's a lot to like about it, as the percussion is pretty crushing and locks into a hypnotic, slow-motion groove and Timba Harris (viola/violin) and Milky (electric guitar) both keep things interesting and vibrant melodically.  Also, there is some boisterous ululating at the end, which I always enjoy.
The album draws to a finish with three very jarring curve balls in a row.  "6000 Years of Darkness" sounds like some sort of bizarre cross between a Leone/Morricone Western and medieval chamber music with nothing quasi-ethnic, heavy, or psychedelic included to link it thematically with anything around it.  Then "Reign of Quantity and the Signs of the Times" takes things about as far as they can go in the opposite direction, sounding like a space station computer going haywire right before it self-destructs. Then that is followed by the brief and weirdly anticlimactic John Carpenter soundtrack-worship of "Failed Future."  I dig Escape From New York and Assault on Precinct 13 as much as the next guy, but I don't understand why anyone would want to reproduce such a time- and context-specific sound on an India/Tibet-themed psych concept album in 2011.
I dearly wish I liked this album more than I do, as Totem 2 was amazing and it is disappointing to see the trilogy end on a lesser note. Most frustrating is that the individual songs (for the most part) are fairly imaginative and well-executed, but they don't make much sense in the context of the entire album.  The Master Musicians of Bukkake on Totem 3 simply do not at all sound like the same band from song to song, even though there was obviously a lot of thought involved in the album's construction and sequence (ie- the titles provide clues to a coherent thematic arc, the structure mirrors previous Totems, and the "Om ah ra pa ca na dhih" chant is repeated in three songs).  This album does not flow.  These guys are a consistently excellent band, but they are also a fairly chameleonic one, so the fact that Totem 3’s mission did not entirely succeed is not cause for much concern Chalk this one up as a flawed experiment.
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This CD reissue of an instantly sold-out LP on Poon Village from earlier this year is certainly eclectic, but is also unexpectedly intimate and straightforward as well.  More importantly, it offers one of the most inspired Beach Boys covers that I have ever heard, as well as some truly ambitious and creative album art.
One very noteworthy thing about this release that is not immediately apparent is that it is comprised almost entirely of covers, which goes a long way towards explaining its relative accessibility.  Alan Bishop, formerly of the Sun City Girls, attributes all of the songs to their original composers, of course, but he tends to do it in oblique and enigmatic ways.  For example, the sultry bossa nova opening piece listed as "The Dinner Party" by Maestro Padre Supremo is actually Ennio Morricone's "Metti una sera a cena."  Bishop's delivery is not quite as languidly sexy as Edda Dell'Orso's was in the original, but he certainly displays good taste.  Morricone dominates the album, actually, as there are five other songs attributed to said maestro (only one of which is at all Spaghetti Western-esque).  That proportion probably won't surprise anyone already familiar with Bishop's career though, as he has made no secret of his life-long Morricone fascination (he even curated a rarities retrospective on Ipecac).  Another famous soundtrack composer makes an appearance as well, as Alan improbably interprets the theme from You Only Live Twice.  I never thought I would hear anything James Bond-related from one of the Bishop brothers, but Alan is apparently a serious John Barry fan.
For the bulk of Baroque Primitiva, Bishop keeps things very simple and stripped-down, opting for just low-key, under-produced recordings of him and his acoustic guitar.  On three pieces, however, he is joined by accomplished multi-instrumentalist Eyvind Kang, who ably fills out the sound with drums, piano, and viola.  Kang shines brightest on the closing cover of The Beach Boys' "God Only Knows" (here attributed as Smiley Brian's "God Only Be Without You").  The piece starts off as a fairly loyal and reverent (if a bit loose and squelchy) rendition of the pop classic, but takes a pretty sharp detour around the halfway point.  Initially, it feels like the song is falling apart, as Kang's viola sounds slightly out of key and Alan's vocal tracks fall a bit out of synch.  It's all a clever feint though, as the next chorus commences an impressive escalation of density and passion: Bishop's vocals lock into a chant-like loop and Eyvind conjures up an Eastern-tinged droning roar with his frenzied bowing before it all subsides into a mournful-sounding outro of looped vocal snippets.
The three Bishop-penned pieces, for their part, are a bit of a mixed bag, as "Humor Police" is kind of annoying, "3 Dead Girls" is charming but very brief, and "Well-Known Stranger" is a nice bit of depressive outsider country.  The album definitely shines brightest during its covers though.  "God Only Be Without You" is easily the most striking and instantly gratifying song on the album, but Alan's breezy and spacious Morricone covers are pretty unfailingly enjoyable in their own right (I especially liked the lonely organ in "Funny Thing is...").
Baroque Primitiva is essentially a naked and sincere tribute to the songs that Bishop loves and it succeeds quite admirably in that regard.  In keeping with that theme of nakedness, it should also be mentioned that Kristen Anderson's accompanying art is amazing and makes this an object well-worth owning.  The mandala of nude women on the front cover is certainly striking, but it is not nearly as impressive as the booklet of heavily stylized blown-up details inside, which approximate something resembling Expressionism mingled with sacred cave art.
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Considering that both sides of this brief single are sourced from recordings of cymbals, I couldn't help but feel a bit of parallel with early Organum, at least in concept. The actual music though is something entirely unique, and is two different takes on the same source.
"A" shows its sonic roots the most clearly, with shimmering cymbals that are pulled into something far more expansive than they are, occasionally met with a deep bass roar never overshadows the otherwise ebullient metallic ringing.There’s such a sense of grandiose flourish to be heard that it almost sounds like a symphony of cymbals rattling together in dramatic fashion.
On the flip side, "P" begins much more pensive, with quiet and subtle sounds that are initially soft, but stretch into looped, oppressive tones that are more drone oriented and just overall convey a darker vibe in comparison.Compared to "A" there is a more notable sense of restraint at the introduction and closing moments, and a greater embrace of drone in the middle.
Both of the equal-length pieces on here sound completely different from each other, but they also demonstrate Krakowiak's careful attention to detail and compositions that strike a delicate balance between chaotic and structured.The sparse titles and artwork just add an extra layer of mystery that strengthens the entire package.
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As a sporadic consumer of López's work, this album had a decidedly different feel than what I was expecting. I usually associate his name with cold, sterile digital sounds that occasionally veer into difficult territory, but always are worth the effort. Here, the work is much more organic and natural feeling, unsurprising given that it's based on field recordings of rivers in Argentina and Paraguay.
Throughout this single piece's 55 minute duration, the sound constantly mutates and evolves, never settling into a stagnant pattern.Instead, there feels like a shift every five minutes or so, not a drastic jump from one segment to another, but enough to keep things fresh. At various times, the untreated sounds of nature from the source recordings pop up, such as dripping water reverberated into a percussive expanse or what sounds like a woodpecker looped into a long pastiche.Recordings of rain are multitracked over one another to become a brutal symphony.
Other moments feel like the smallest elements of sound expanded to become oppressive:more than a few passages sound like recordings of silence amplified into infinity, the most subtle of low level sounds pushed into the red.Various forms of hissing and crackling exist mostly throughout the entire piece, never the same but always feel unified.
For me, the strongest facets of this work are the multiple, highly diverse crunchy textures that arise in different forms throughout.Early they take the form of crackling, clinking sounds, then expansive, hollow reverberations and granulated clicks.Other unidentifiable, but fascinating fragments of sound are there to be heard the whole time.
It's only into the final third or so that the various layers become congested, piling up onto one another to reach near painful levels:hissing, ultrasonic frequencies almost become an endurance test. This quickly falls apart, leaving almost near silence and the must subtle of sonic activity to close out the piece, fascinating little microcosmic textures that echo away into infinity.
While López's art is never "easy" listening, the organic, nature-sourced underpinnings of this album make it a more inviting work compared to the clinical dissections of sound he is most known for.The variety of sounds, alongside the constant flow of the piece make for a mesmerizing experience.
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Even though its wrapped in a brightly colored, almost prog rock album cover of nymphs and mermaids, the music is the polar opposite: ritualistic improvised rhythms, clanging metal and tons of effects, all of which conveys an odd mix of sleaze and evil.
The album seems to be split conceptually into two different halves, with the first half focusing on percussive, occasionally rhythmic pieces, and the second half pushing more into harsher and violent territory."The Inbetween Sleep," on the first half focuses around an echoing bass guitar, a single note throb that becomes louder and more intense as it goes on, bringing in a variety of distant, echoing clicks and random rattles.There's an understated, but notable ritualistic vibe running through."Belly Trapped" has an even looser concept of rhythm driving it, mostly generated via random, found sounds that sound like ordinary household items gone awry.More dominant is a slew of grinding passages, none of which are very loud, but still abrasive, and reverb by the bucketload.
The second half goes more for the harsh, aggressive sounds and even darker moods."The Transformation of Love-Honey for the Queen" layers looped chants, echoing voices, and percussion into something that sounds more suited for accompanying ancient fertility rites.That is, until the effects come in and electronic chaos and screamed voices go somewhere else entirely, but retaining a sense of crazed, manic energy.
The accompanying piece, "The Transformation of Love-Victory of the White Snake," focuses more on inhuman sounds:crunchy, tactile loops and echoing clicks expand forever.The really shrill sine waves that show up, however, are a detriment more than anything else, enshrouding everything in a tinnitus haze that is too distracting. This is one of a few flaws that hamper this album.Another is the constant looped recording of a spoken "Kristus Kut" that appears with the same frequency throughout the well over 20 minute duration of "Vagina Libertatis."That track is a nice stew of bass guitar squall, power electronics vocals and spastic percussion, but the loop reminded me of one of those annoying pop-up ads that plague television these days.I know who I'm listening to, I don't need to be told every 5 seconds.
These, and a few other moments, are a blight on an otherwise strong work.There's a certain joyful disregard of any sort of musical conventions that is really notable throughout Butterfly King, which is a plus in my book.Unfortunately, with that comes the cost of having annoying bits that detract from the disc, but never render it awful or unlistenable.
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This album somehow earned a reputation for being one of Christina Carter's best despite being limited to a cassette-only edition of just 200 copies. Released during a fertile 2008 that also saw the release of Original Darkness on Kranky, and initially mistitled Texas Working Blues, this Blackest Rainbow re-release shines the spotlight on one of Christina's most direct, layered, and memorable albums.
Take a look at the album descriptions that Christina has posted at her Many Breaths website. She describes her music in terms of concepts, exorcisms, words, realms, and memories, and only rarely uses the word "song" in a traditional way. When I wrote about Carter's Lace Heart back in September 2009, I said, "For Christina, songwriting is obviously more important than anything else," but after listening to more of her discography, I've discovered that's actually the exception, not the rule. More often than not, Christina prefers ideas to songwriting, and therefore gladly sacrifices accessibility to the bigger picture. I think that's one reason Electrice was so misunderstood, and it goes a long way in explaining why Texas Blues Working is so loved.
Christina's songwriting is exceptionally strong on this album. At first glance she appears to have abandoned her conceptual work for something a little more conventional. Unlike Masque Femine or A Blossom Fell, Texas is populated with familiar structures and strategies. There are chorus-like repetitions, strongly stated lyrics, virtuosic guitar solos, and big, muscular chords that echo with rhythmic urgency. These conventions make the music sound more communal and create a feeling of intimacy with Carter; instead of being driven by opaque personal references and conceptual schematics, Texas Blues Working moves under the impetus of familiar song-craft and plainly stated feelings.
Her songwriting is far from typical, of course. Carter prefers long, raga-like passages to simple chord progressions, and she's more likely to solo for five or six minutes than strum a simple three-chord melody, but she refrains from total improvisation, preferring a middle ground where hummable melodies are repeated with slight variations. "The Outer Planet" is a superb example of this strategy, but it's put to good use on "Bird's Nest" as well. In both cases, Carter layers an extended solo over a quiet bed of repeated chords, but close listening reveals that those solos are actually constantly evolving arabesques built from the melodic statement that opens each song. As these statements shift and transform, they sometimes merge with Christina's vocals, so that there's always a familiar melody playing even if there aren't very many pure repetitions happening.
Carter doesn't sever her connection to the realm of ideas entirely, however. It's probably no accident that the best song on Texas happens to be the one that brings her conceptual side most into the light. "Preserve Our Face" makes explicit what the other songs stated only implicitly: that, on this record, Christina is preoccupied with the ideas of repetition and authenticity just as much as she is with writing great songs. She sings,
"There are infinite people to be
infinite combinations of emotions to sing
and I don’t only want to be myself
but I only want to be myself
and I want to use my voice for good
however small the voice
however small the good in this world of foolish dream."
As she struggles with intentions and the temptation to indulge different personalities, she squeezes a taut, absolutely electrifying solo from her guitar, successfully manifesting the tension of her lyrics in the dusty hum of her strings. It's a superbly crafted song that marries two of her many sides in an almost perfect union.
On "Dinner Plate of Dust," which originally closed the album, Christina achieves a more intense anxiety by rending her melodies apart and disguising her rhythms with more spacious sounds and plenty of reverb. There's also a writhing guitar solo squirming around in the background the entire time; it's unsettling to say the least, and all the more uncomfortable because it comes at the end of such a pretty record. I suppose that an album titled Texas Blues Working could not end with Ms. Carter coming out of the blues happily, and if the record were to end here it would be a superb, if pessimistic, conclusion. Unfortunately, it was decided that an additional song, titled "Lady Friend," should be tacked onto the end as a bonus. Besides being the weakest song of the lot, "Lady Friend" sounds completely out of place. It's not even from the same sessions that spawned Texas Blues Working, but thankfully its sequestered to side D, where it stands alone. Anyone listening to the record can simply refrain from turning it over if they want to avoid hearing it.
Texas Blues Working is almost completely out of print at this point. A few distributors list it as in-stock, but it'll probably cost American readers close to $40 after shipping. Of course, the music is well worth it, but for those who don't want to spend the money, Blackest Rainbow is issuing a CD version sometime very soon.
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Liturgy's music is a full-on sensory assault, at once controlled and chaotic, meditative and brutal, that demands you immerse yourself fully and pay attention. This is not background listening of any sort, nor easy listening—just an hour of damn good metal.
Liturgy are a polarizing band. They play a brand of self-described "transcendental black metal," complete with an accompanying manifesto and philosophy, that may find them stuck between audiences—too self-righteous for devoted metalheads, too extreme for run-of-the-mill indie music fans. A glance around Internet forums finds that the band inspires a surprising amount of hatred (e.g., "They're a bunch of posers who just mindlessly regurgitate any philosophical bullshit they can find about black metal") for four regular guys immersed in their craft. So blindingly intense is their live presence that, when I saw them launch furiously into "High Gold" at a hole-in-the-wall bar at Austin's South by Southwest music festival a couple months ago, several folks walked out within seconds, perhaps overwhelmed by the density of sound.
All of which is to say that Aesthethica, Liturgy's second full-length, is a modern metal classic of the best sort: an album so blazingly artistic, recorded by a band so outspoken in its ideals, that it isolates many potential listeners before they've even heard a note. Aesthethica is full of contradictions: primal rock 'n' roll music that is rooted in black metal and hardcore, but isn't contained by the boundaries of either genre. Originally a solo project of cherub-faced frontman Hunter Hunt-Hendrix, Liturgy's membership now runs four deep—the antithesis of some depressed bum in corpsepaint—and Aesthethica sounds like a collaborative project that couldn't have been made by fewer people. Its songs are complex, sweeping, elaborately arranged, played by technically gifted musicians, energetic but never flashy.
So, Aesthethica draws from black metal: there are howling vocals, blastbeats and blindingly fast tremolo picking all over the album. The influence of hardcore music is also apparent in the intensity of these songs. Compositionally, though, Liturgy take a left turn into minimalist, avant-garde territory reminiscent of Glenn Branca's '70s experiments with droning repetition. The drumming flirts with cascading, jazzy fills that bounce off the walls of guitars, like a prism dispersing light. All sorts of interludes are present, too; the ritualistic, a capella chanting of "True Will" and "Glass Earth" are standouts. Most abrasive is "Helix Skull," a barrage of dissonant harmonics that opens the album's second half, serving as a break from the trance-inducing assault that dominates the album. At its best, Aesthethica is beautifully uplifting, a tidal wave of energy and repetition that, played at length, becomes hypnotic, romantic... even transcendental.
Great musicians know to end great albums on a strong note, and Liturgy save their best tune for last. After parting the heavens with "Glass Earth," dropping the listener's guard, "Harmonia" rains down a final, concentrated blast of ecstatic self-exorcism. Heard as a unified whole, Aesthethica is shockingly good, among my favorite albums this year. If it doesn't connect with every person that gives it a spin, it is perhaps all the sweeter for it—consider me converted.
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