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This album documents a fascinating yet flawed live collaboration that occurred at a church in Toulouse, France in 2007 where Palestine's eerie and unpredictable pipe organ playing was processed in real-time by Montessuis and his laptop.  The result is a memorably bizarre piece that lies somewhere between complex, oscillating drone and a mad scientist blasting out cacophonous chords in his remote lair on a storm-ravaged precipice. At least, it does until Charlemagne makes the unfortunate decision to start singing.
The best thing about Charlemagne Palestine's well-known eccentricity is that I never know quite what to expect when he releases a new album, especially when other people are involved. Voxorgachitectronumputer still manages to stand out as an especially curious and counter-intuitive work, however, as I continued to have no idea what to expect up until its very last notes.
It begins somewhat unpromisingly with a sustained, quavering organ tone coupled with a shrill (almost insectoid) hum, over which Palestine starts to idly improvise.  At first, he does not stray much from the sort of stuff that would normally be played on a church organ, but his faux-sacred playing gradually becomes increasingly erratic and interrupted by jarring blurts and dissonant stabs that seem fairly random and unmusical.  Fortunately, Joachim stays quite busy, using the early part of the piece to add layers to the underlying drone, building both density and harmonic complexity.  His behind-the-scenes machinations aren't immediately obvious at first, but by the 15-minute mark, the low-end has grown deep and hollow and the oscillations have taken a tense, somewhat menacing tone.  It was around this point that I realized that I was completely sucked in and enjoying the piece enormously.
Once Joachim has enough constantly shifting layers weaved together, the piece takes on a queasily shimmering and throbbing life of its own and continues to unfold in an expected and compelling way (though Palestine nearly sabotages it a few times with unsubtle blats and noodlings).  The denser the piece grows, the more absorbing it becomes, as the drone becomes so huge and engulfing that Palestine's flurries no longer sound like harsh interruptions– they now sound like they are fighting through the roar to be heard.  Then, around the 45-minute mark, the duo pull off a neat dynamic feat: the bottom drops out, leaving the shivering nimbus of spectral, laptop-damaged microtones in the foreground.
Lamentably, however, the piece is then torpedoed by the aforementioned ghastly singing interlude: Palestine starts either loudly and nasally chanting in a foreign language or speaking in tongues and the piece is completely ruined for me. In an instant, Voxorgachitectronumputer degenerates from a bizarre drone masterwork to something approaching the worst kind of outsider art.  I realize that odd artistic decisions and puzzling behavior are part of Palestine's charm, but it almost feels like he spent the whole piece digging though his bag of tricks for the right tool to destroy it all, then narrowly managed to succeed mere moments before the end.  In reality, he was probably either caught up in the music or trying to inject some spirituality/catharsis/entropy/primal energy into the performance, but the effect is the ultimately the same whatever the intention: quite grating.
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Steve Roach's 1984 opus Structures from Silence has been a staple of my record collection for ages, but it has been about eight years since I last checked out anything new from him. Although he can sometimes be a bit too earthy for my taste, Destination Beyond shows that Steve has not yet abandoned the spacier side that produced The Magnificent Void, nor have his powers begun to ebb at all. I wish I had been paying more attention, as he seems to be in the midst of a rather fruitful creative period.
Destination Beyond consists of a single 71-minute track that is very much a kindred spirit to Brian Eno's Apollo, owing largely to its shimmering washes of warm synths and general spacious and shadowy atmosphere. Notably, there is not much else to it, merely a slow bass pulse, a burbling arpeggio, and some skittering percussion. Also, it does not unfold into multiple movements or sections: the drifting, spectral tones that open the piece remain central for its entire duration. Nevertheless, it all works extremely well due to Roach's clear mastery of the form. While nothing new ever appears, the song's sparse components subtly wax and wane in relation to one another throughout and it all flows seamlessly and organically, which is likely the result of Roach's insistence on playing in real-time and eschewing most contemporary computer-editing practices. It almost sounds like he is manipulating how each individual note dissolves and decays, which would require an almost inhuman degree of meticulousness (but probably would not surprise me).
Roach seems completely unconcerned with and uninfluenced by prevailing trends in drone and ambient music: there is nothing here that indicates that it could not have been released in the early '80s. While certainly indebted to Eno, Klaus Schulze, and Tangerine Dream for his original inspiration, Steve’s biggest influence always seems to be himself. I think that is probably an admirable trait, but it is an interesting contrast to the trajectory of his erstwhile collaborator Vidna Obmana (Dirk Serries), who has found a new generation of fans as Fear Falls Burning. Roach seems decidedly unlikely to deliver any such surprises himself, but the reward for his steadfastness seems to be a sophistication and elegance that is uniquely his own (the rewards here are greater for connoisseurs of the form, I believe).
Destination Beyond is a very good album. It's hard for me completely fall in love with it, as it is a bit too calm and edgeless (despite some foreboding undertones) for my taste, but I am nonetheless extremely impressed with the virtuosity of Roach textural juggling act. Also, it is a pretty excellent and deserving addition to the space music canon, certainly holding its own against Roach’s revered precursors (who are also generally too calm and edgeless for my taste).
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Black to Comm's Marc Richter is an artist that perpetually seems to be on the verge of releasing an absolute masterwork, always creeping closer and closer but never quite nailing it. Alphabet 1968 does not quite buck that trend completely, but it is an oft-brilliant and unforgettable album nonetheless. Richter's impressive artistic evolution is showing no sign of slowing.
Marc Richter’s stated intention for this album was to realize a more “classic” and song-based aesthetic than he has shown before. To my ears, he seems to have been largely successful: Alphabet 1968 is filled with pianos, vintage synthesizers, strings, and an omnipresent patina of tape/radio hiss that evokes a vague and enigmatic past era. Also, the noisier and more industrial influences evident on previous Black to Comm albums has been markedly toned down and replaced by a sparser, more meditative vein of surreal darkness (though traces of the old harshness remain in “Houdini Rites”). His success at songcraft, on the other hand, is little more open for debate, though Marc has kept most of the pieces under four minutes and shows an unexpected talent for crafting melodic hooks.
There are strikingly beautiful moments strewn all over Alphabet 1968: “Jonathan”, "Rauschen”, “Forst”, and particularly “Musik For Alle” are all excellent and otherworldly. The piece that sticks in my mind the most, however, is the closer (“Hotel Freund”), which starts off deceptively with several shrill, clashing tones before abruptly launching into something that sounds like a bittersweet slow dance in a haunted ballroom. My other favorite moment is likely the melancholy and haunting organ and (possibly) theremin (or singing saw?) duet, “Traum GmbH,” but I keep finding new things to like about other pieces each time I listen to the album, so that may change tomorrow.
Interestingly, however, “Traum GmbH” is also the best example of how Alphabet 1968 falls just short of perfection: while achingly moving, it is over in under two minutes and never quite progresses beyond its opening motif. Marc is singularly adept at finding and layering the perfect sounds together, but shaping his strange and wonderful loops into actual songs still seems to elude him somewhat. Of course, Black to Comm’s prematurely abandoned soundscapes are usually much more creative and rewarding than much of what I’ve heard from other bands this year, so that seems like something of an unfair quibble. Unfortunately, great potential breeds high expectations.
That said, Richter remains a wizard at finding great samples, creating perfect blends of textures, inventively using found sounds, and borrowing the best elements from a wide range of influences. Alphabet 1968 is a crackling, mist-shrouded dream of an album, filled with backwards instruments, twinkling chimes and music boxes, beautifully sad melodies, and buried voices. In fact, this may very well be Black to Comm’s best album so far, but I would not be at all surprised to see it followed by an even better one.
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On his fourth release for the venerable label, Niblock has produced three large scale compositions, based entirely around the use of stringed instruments. In the process, he brings out the most subtle of harmonics and creates an unraveling tapestry of microscopic change in layers of sound. And a slight Band of Susans reunion.
Spread across two discs, the three compositions here were all conceived and recorded between 2007 and 2008, realized with a slew of different players. "Stosspeng," which comprises the entirely of the first disc, features Band of Susans founders Susan Stenger and Robert Poss working together on both guitar and ebow’d bass. Each were recorded in a specific channel and limited to specific pitch groups, Poss with E, Stenger with F#, and both shared F. The result is, unsurprisingly, a slow drift of guitar tone that is far more sparse or subtle than most guitar based minimalist compositions.
The piece continues to be a serpentine composition between Stenger’s higher register tones and Poss’ lower frequency approach. The two become locked a constant struggle between the lighter and darker tones, pushing the sound between ambient, spacey shimmers and more sinister, rumbling swells. The composition premiered at a show that also featured KTL and Throbbing Gristle, so the mood is fitting to be among those artists, though the sound is far more pure and meditative than would be expected from the aforementioned artists.
Disc two opens with "Poure," the 23 minute piece for cello (played by Arne Deforce). Rather than a single session, the track is the total of 32 different layers of playing, all in the notes of A and D, but of varying octaves, and just slightly off on tuning. With only subtle adjustments via Protools, a world of instrumentation can be heard just from the harmonics produced from the layering of tracks. Sounds of trumpets, bagpipes, and church organ all appear from the strings of the cello.
The final piece, "One Large Rose," expands the instrumental repertoire to include piano, violin, and acoustic bass guitar, to weave a more complex and multifaceted, yet consistently minimalist composition. The performers of this track, the Nelly Boyd Ensemble, played 4 takes of 46 minutes each, the results of which were layered together, but otherwise unedited.
Again, more sounds than are actually present can be heard in this wall of drone, resembling didgeridoo and other strings that as a whole feels similar to "Poure," but with a heavier sonic palette. The most obvious addition is the lower register piano, but the piece overall has a more sinister quality to it, introducing dark, gutteral passages and bassy flatulent sounds to the otherwise gliding strings. As "Stosspeng" recalled a struggle between light and dark, "One Large Rose" is a contrast between chaos and order, oscillating between drifts of sound that are relatively peaceful, and hellish choruses of unadulterated noise.
Touch Strings is an excellent example for anyone who thinks "drone" is simply repetition. While conceptually there are intentional limitations put both on the performers and the composition, the interplay of the instruments produces sounds that rival the most complex pieces out there.
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As a format, singles accommodate brevity better than wistfulness. As Pumice, New Zealand’s Stefan Neville takes a different path. In Persevere, he performs as if he had an entire afternoon to burn. His drowsy style is charming, but it is Neville’s economy as a musician that really holds this record together.
As soon as the needle drops, Persevere begins its steady but insistent evolution. Side A, “The Dawn Chorus of Kina,” gushes forth in a churning stew of wobbly bass tones and distorted strumming. It sloshes around for a minute or two then disintegrates into a series of stuttering, atonal guitar chords. Neville shifts the mood yet again, ending the piece with muted tom-tom thuds and clean-toned picking.
Neville mellows out on the flip-side. The two songs are covers, the first from folk-singer Michael Hurley, the other from the NZ punk band The Axmen. Both are built around a spindly acoustic guitar and Neville’s sonorous voice. He sings slowly and without much inflection, as if he was just awakened from an all-night cough syrup binge. The songs accommodate his style well. The closer, “Pacific Ocean” exudes beach-town ennui but still ends the record in a vibrant mood. As the song burns away, resonant organs and multi-tracked vocals merge into a final burst of dynamism.
What is most striking is how little movement is apparent in these songs. Neville’s shambolic style masks their internal progression. Only when they end is it obvious that change has actually happened. Preserve sneaks into the brain. It is easy to mistake it for a batch of run-of-the-mill bedroom recordings, but there is plenty to mull over beneath its blasé exterior.
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I found this CD in a small shop full of musty vinyl, fanzines, crates of tapes, and neatly arranged homemade and self released CDRs on a recent trip to Portland, Maine. I had no idea what kind of music I would find on the disc, but liking the cover, I took a stab at it. I did remain skeptical knowing next to nothing about what I had just purchased. What I found was a very humble and unassuming album of non-pretentious lo-fi folk meanderings. On listening my attitude of skepticism quickly relaxed under the pastoral melodies Jeremy Pisani coaxed from his acoustic guitar.
Spirit of Orr (CDR) / Streamline (LP)
The mark of a true artist, whatever genre they are working in, musical or otherwise, is whether or not their creativity blossoms within the boundaries they have set for themselves. It is easy to be limited by the trappings of any given style, and yet a trope can also be twisted and made gnarly, giving its fans the pleasure of hearing a new take on it. Pisani uses his acoustic guitar, his submerged and warbling voice, deeply buried in the mix, along with other elements of the newly weird as a focal point for crafting his song meditations. No fly by night kind of guy, it was an album he took his time with, ensuring the highest quality, recording these songs between 1996 and 2003. Listening, I get the feeling that he played with these recordings a lot, tweaking, listening, and readjusting, rerecording. I can see him in my imagination: in a bedroom or a basement, with a handful of cassettes and a four-track trying to get the sound just right. (I have no clue as to his actual recording methods, but I do find the image of a lone musician with a four-track a romantic one.) The final result is more than the sum of its parts.
There is not a bad song on the album. This is as it should be considering the amount of time spent on making it. “Green Hill Beach” is one of the high points. Starting off with a field recording of the ocean surf, it moves from gentle picking and humming into more deranged territory with a vibrato laden and reverb saturated electric guitar that sounds like a birds death cry, before fading out with blissfully plucked chords full of warm tremolo. “Flight,” which follows, is also a favorite. Here the full-bodied keyboard and airy flute takes precedence while the stocattoed-guitar adds the accent marks. Pisani is not averse to using samples and found elements either, as he does halfway through “Agrippina”, seamlessly blending in a national anthem or marching band tune to great effect.
Red Favorite’s debut is a very solid effort, and hopefully not his last. The limited run of 300 CDs from Spirit of Orr in 2007 is now out of stock but Streamline via Drag City released the album as an LP in 2008, the form for which Pisani originally conceived the album.
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Spilling over with trembling strings and thunderous crescendos, "Coward" foreshadows the electric energy that is to be found throughout Vic Chesnutt's newest record. With members of Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Silver Mt. Zion, and Fugazi once again contributing, At the Cut is populated by giant melodies, quiet meditations, and intense studies on mortality and memory. But, for all its bombast, At the Cut is probably most notable for Chesnutt's unwavering honesty and cathartic power. Because of these qualities it has quickly become one of my favorite and most played records this year.
 
Reviews and presss releases of At the Cut like to concentrate on the various references Chesnutt makes throughout the record. There are, admittedly, a lot of them and on the cover of the album Vic himself appears resigned among numerous paintings, as though he were an exhibit at a museum. Some writers have been quick to point out that he references no less than W.H. Auden, Frank Norris, Philip Guston, Victor Hugo, Franz Kafka, and William Shakespeare, and that's in just one or two songs. Impressive as that may be, Vic's literary and artistic interests aren't what make his record great. In fact, with the exception of Auden, his songwriting and lyrics are unlike anything produced by any one of those artists. If the album cover suggests anything about the music at all, it's that Chesnutt's personal life is the subject of this record, not the influences that might've helped foster it.
The places where At the Cut is most unadorned are the places where it is most powerful and affecting. Whether blithely describing his history with death ("Flirted With You All My Life") or an encounter with his grandmother in the kitchen ("Granny"), Chesnutt impresses the most when he lets mundane images and ideas into his music. Those are the images that have stuck with me the most and they remind me how talented someone must be to sing about them without sounding either trite or banal. The final lines of the album could've been delivered in so many shrill and unappealing ways, but when Vic sings, "She said / 'You are the light of my life / and the beat of my heart,'" there isn't a doubt in my mind that he feels those words as deeply as anyone can. And he wants his listeners to feel them, too, without cringing or second-guessing the motives.
But, Chesnutt writes in myriad ways, so for every mention of dentures and friendship there are at least one or two psycho-analytic lines of poetry and an equal number of vague symbols or potentially mystifying scenes. In response, Vic's band dances their way through various styles of music, matching his twists and turns with jazz-like funeral dirges, the kind of rock 'n' roll expected from Bob Dylan in the mid '60s, and orchestrated blues. On first listen, Chesnutt's electric songs are the real show-stealers. Both "Chinaberry Tree" and "Philip Guston," along with the opening "Coward," put the electric guitar in the spotlight. In "Chinaberry Tree" the guitar rips across Chesnutt’s vocals like a lightning strike, and in "Philip Guston" it chugs and totters like it belongs in an Einstürzende Neubauten song. But, the more quietly intense songs like "Chain" and "We Hovered with Short Wings" have their own gravity, which is concocted with a combination of atmosphere and patient development. Although not as immediate, repeat listens reveal them to be of equal potency. Vic and company weave their way through these approaches with an even hand, favoring neither, but obviously seeking to inject every one of them with intensity and cathartic energy.
That cathartic energy plays a role equal with to Chesnutt's narrative and lyrical honesty. I cannot listen to At the Cut and passively digest it; the record forces us to feel the record along with Vic, so that when he sings about his mother dying or about deseperation and rejecting empty ritual, associated memories, emotions, and ideas simultaneously emerge without anyone having to mention them. There are a few musicians that aim for and achieve this effect. It is among the greatest and highest accomplishments any songwriter and lyricist can achieve in popular music. Vic Chesnutt reaches such heights on At the Cut and he does it almost effortlessly, as if that was what he was born to do. This is easily one of Vic Chesnutt's best records, and a standout album in a year filled with superb music.
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Pelican's latest proves that you don't need a crooner to rock, and that you don't have to ramble on for a quarter of an hour just because your band doesn't have a singer, either. This is an album full of gritty, muscular songs that makes the case for hard rock bands releasing instrumental versions of their albums.
A few years ago when indie hip hop was getting attention from indie rock labels, there was a somewhat disturbing trend where labels would release instrumental versions of albums that were recorded with vocals. Sometimes if I just didn't like a particular MC, I would pick up the instrumental disc so that I could at least appreciate the production, and that worked for me. But the whole thing seemed to reek of a way to sell hip hop records to folks who thought it was cool to listen to hip hop but who couldn't be bothered with all of those rappers. With Pelican's newest record, their first full length for Southern Lord, the notion of the instrumental album makes a little more sense to me.
Unlike most of the bands making heavy, instrumental rock records, Pelican aren't out to write epics. The songs on What We All Come To Need are never longer than about seven minutes and they are always designed with verses and choruses and bridges and hooks—the standard trappings of rock music. Pelican stands out in this respect, because these songs could very easily be written around a voice, but thankfully they are not. Every time I put this record on, I'm reminded of how it could so easily be spoiled by dumb lyrics or a voice that draws every ounce of attention to itself. I'm also reminded that I don't listen to a lot of heavy rock music precisely because so much of it is rendered useless by singers that don't do anything for me.
What We All Come To Need is full of driving rhythms and logical changes. It doesn't veer into noodly prog territory but it doesn't take a single chord and just make it louder for 12 minutes either. There's enough in each of these songs to pay attention to, enough moments for the players to shine and for the songwriting to take center stage. The songs don't wallow or whine—they are meaty and aggressive when they need to be, but the band isn't afraid to air things out either. In doing so, they create some magical moments where the tension of all of that grinding testosterone is released by wide open chords and beautiful beds of fuzzy guitar tones.
The album closes with a song that swims against the instrumental grain by including a voice. After demonstrating the virtues of instrumental rock, I was afraid that the band would blow it at the end with a singer but Pelican have wisely chosen a voice that kind of drones and melts into the music perfectly. I love this record because it fills a void. This is quality heavy music that isn't overly maudlin or fixated on embarrassing themes. It doesn't meander or take itself deadly seriously—it's just a great rock record by a band who clearly know what they are doing.
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Ka-Spel's follow up to last year's excellent Part One is similarly organized, but features vastly different results. More disjointed and even jarring at times, this album mines new emotional territory. Uncertainty and dread give rise to paranoiac self-effacement on this melancholic gaze into the underworld.
Themes of flight from things both geographic and psychic occur throughout Dream Logik Part Two, starting with the lyrics about running and fleeing on "As a Bird/A Missing Piece." The use of screeching tires, horns honking, and passing trains on "Going My Way?" and Ka-Spel's line, "Don't talk about me when I'm gone" from "My Wandering Star/As a Bird (Part 2)" add to this theme. There's even a sense of Kafka-esque escape throughout the first-person narration of "The Modest Ambitions of Cedric the Centipede." On "Darkness O" he hints that this desire to flee comes in part from a fear of the future when he says, "Nothing can be forecast/nothing is clear except the water we tread/and our endless capacity for fear of what comes next." He also hints at a sense of disillusionment with himself when he says, "I am the accident waiting to happen" on "Going My Way?"
Yet, not everything on Part Two is so bleak. "As a Bird/A Missing Piece" opens with the sound of deep-sleep breathing that's interrupted by whimsical jazz and a tapping at the window, perhaps by one of the many Alices who appear lost in the reflecting corridors of Ka-Spel's own dream wonderland. The album's centerpiece, "Cedric the Centipede," uses simple, playful synth melodies to illustrate the story. Later, this mood is reinforced with the repetition of a child-like chorus. Things end on a gentle note with the aquatic sounds, light chants, and bird-like electronic chirps of "My Wandering Star/As a Bird (Part 2)."
The lack of anything so bold as "Harvester" from Part One and an increased reliance on collage techniques makes Part Two a somewhat lackadaisical affair, and this patient pacing combined with such dark lyrics give it an intensity that's more emotional than musical. Even so, Ka-Spel's nightmarish visions make it a successfully fascinating and, at times, chilling successor.
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It's hard to imagine a better guide to vintage European prog/psych than The Bevis Frond's Nick Saloman. Here he curates another compilation of quality obscurities from the late '60s and early '70s, this time originating primarily in Belgium, Holland, Germany, Ireland, and Britain. While not every selection is a lost classic, this collection is thoroughly entertaining.
The blues are very much an influence on these tracks, showing up in things like the staunch staccato verses of Bismarck's "Shotgun Express," on the lead in Ginger Ale's "Get Off My Life Woman" or in the swagger of the Tenderfoot Kids' "Man in Black." A couple of the songs sound eerily similar to songs by Led Zeppelin, like the "Whole Lotta Love"-aping intro to Carriage in Company's "In Your Room" or Silence's equivalent of "Communication Breakdown" called "Devil Woman." Still, there are few straight rock songs to be found. The forward-pounding "Old Songs New Songs" by Big Wheel breaks up the action with a slowed, harmony-heavy, organ-drenched chorus. CWT's "Widow Woman" has a reggae rhythm, horns, and a proto-metal riff. Even on something a little more typical, like Kingdom's "All I Need," the attacking guitar and ferocious drums are blanketed in abnormally monstrous reverb.
For many of these tracks, there's no escaping the time period in which they were created. Lyrics like those from The Tower's "In Your Life" emphasize this: "Looking back through a crystal of colors/at the good things gone by in your life." There is a similar line on Distant Jim's title track: "I taste vision/I see sound/I like trees in the ground." Although these are cringe-inducing lines with dated New Age aspirations, many of the lyrics in these songs aren't quite so bad. What makes even the blemished songs so enjoyable is that there's always some other redeeming quality, and the musicianship is of a high quality. With this many tracks, that there aren't any duds to be found is a testament to Saloman's ear for this material.
Cosmarama's pleasurable mix of the foreign and familiar makes for a heady aural concoction. It's unlikely that this compilation will recruit new fans to this type of music, but for existing fans, it's an ear-opening thrill.
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Juana Molina's music is a child-like and eruptive force of nature. On her fifth album she has refined her musical vocabulary and crafted a work that rejoices in playfulness and unrestrained dynamism.
Molina's songs have always been a congregation of electronic and acoustic sounds that bounce off one another in messy and sensuous ways. Ever since hearing Segundo, I've been captivated by the way her instruments interact to synthesize environments of sound. Although her music is always bound by strong melodies and persistent rhythms, Molina's arrangements create a sense of unity that emphasizes a totality rather than a particular part. On Un Dia, Molina has taken that approach further into the abstract and sewn together an album that thrives on connectivity and harmony.
The opening and title track begins everything with the roar of Molina's voice. With the trumpeting of her throat, a parade of rhythmic vocal dubs flow from the speakers and a wave of various instruments follow suit. In the past, Molina's voice has sometimes been a soft and airy addition to her music, but on "Un Dia" it is the focus. Even as hordes of percussive and harmonic additions work their way into the mix, it is Molina's persistent voice that takes center stage. Throughout much of the album her voice is the entity holding everything together and she imitates her utterances across a myriad of tones and timbres, finding parallels in rumbling pianos, buzzing electronics, and kitchen-sink percussion. The result are songs with recognizable hooks and distinct parts that nonetheless solidify into an organic mass. The whole is greater than its parts, but Molina's voice is the conductor.
Nothing that follows "Un Dia" is quite as bombastic. "Vive Solo" begins with a softly plucked guitar and Molina's reverb-thick voice. It sucks up and employs tribal rhythms and atmospherics over time, gradually increasing in intensity as additional elements begin to surface. Yet, it never reaches a fevered pitch. Molina takes joy in finding a place for new textures and approaches in every song; she's capable of writing an entire record's worth of ideas into one five minute space without sacrificing continuity. Dissonance, chaos, organization, ugliness, and beauty sit side by side on songs like "Los Hongos de Marosa" and "Dar (Qué Difícil)." Without flinching, Molina blends snappy, dance-like rhythms with detuned guitars, haunting moans, half-muffled electronic bass, and disheveled effects. The final product is not, amazingly, a muddy soup of sound, but a lush stream of music.
It seems there's no end to what Molina is willing to toss into the mix. It is as though someone threw her into a room filled with musical toys and she found a way to use every last one of them on her record. Her songs have always been full of random noise and her music has always been a synthesis of musical approaches. What makes Un Dia stand out in her catalog is the depth of her production and the quality of her writing. On past albums some of her chaotic playfulness could be a bit distracting, but here it is an essential element. Every single bit of sound is necessary for the success of the whole. This album is filled to the brim with exotic sounds and unexpected twists, some of which fly by the first few times because of the album's dynamic character. Molina has outdone herself with Un Dia and expanded upon her song-writing formula. She is still firmly writing within the realm of pop music, but she's stretching its conventions to their extremes.
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