We have finally cleared out the backlog of great music and present some new episodes.
Episode 711 features music from The Jesus and Mary Chain, Zola Jesus, Duster, Sangre Nueva, Dialect, The Bug, Cleared, Mount Eerie, Mulatu Astatke & Hoodna Orchestra, Hayden Pedigo, Bistro Boy, and Ibukun Sunday.
Episode 712 has tunes by Mazza Vision, Waveskania, Black Pus, Sam Gendel, Benny Bock, and Hans Kjorstad, Katharina Grosse, Carina Khorkhordina, Tintin Patrone, Billy Roisz, and Stefan Schneider, His Name Is Alive, artificial memory trace, mclusky, Justin Walter, mastroKristo, Başak Günak, and William Basinski.
Episode 713 brings you sounds from Mouse On Mars, Leavs, Lawrence English, Mo Dotti, Wendy Eisenberg, Envy, Ben Lukas Boysen, Cindytalk, Mercury Rev, White Poppy, Anadol & Marie Klock, and Galaxie 500.
Skolavordustigur Street in Reykjavík photo by Jon (your Podcast DJ).
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I have been casually familiar with London-based guitarist Cam Deas for years through his many "post-Takoma" releases on Blackest Rainbow, but the Cam Deas of the past bears virtually no resemblance to the artist responsible for the visceral and deranged Time Exercises. Deas' campaign of radical reinvention appears to have begun sometime around 2011 with his Quadtych series and fully blossomed (or so I thought) with 2014's String Studies, in which his guitar became a mere trigger for squalls of atonal and spasmodic electronic chaos. With Time Exercises, Deas gamely ventures still further from his comfort zone, setting his guitar aside completely to focus on complex modular synth experiments. The album's prosaic/academic-sounding title is an amusingly huge and deceptive understatement though–a far more appropriate title would be "Nightmare Studies" or "Holy Fuck–What is This?!?," as Studies aesthetically resembles a cross between Rashad Becker's Notional Species and a seething pit of digitized snakes from a hellish alien dimension.
The five numbered "exercises" on Time Exercises feel very much like nearly interchangeable variations on a theme to human ears, so it is quite hard to differentiate them using any established/conventional musical vocabulary.That being the case, the opening "Exercise 1" lays down the template and effectively sets the album's hostile, undulating, and unsettlingly alien tone.The initial theme can be best described as "sputtering, incredibly dense synth tones shaken by seismic shudders from below and strafed by menacingly dissonant swoops from above."Very quickly, however, that motif is torn completely apart and the piece settles into a strangely lurching miasma of erratic percussion amidst massive, cacophonous snarls that feel like the very fabric of the universe is being brutally rended.It is the sort of scene that would have made HP Lovecraft weep in admiration, then probably stop writing forever, as mere words cannot come close to conveying the all-engulfing extra-dimensional horror that Deas unleashes.The following "Exercise 2" is comparatively understated, resembling a disjointed and deconstructed pile-up of primitive percussion that suggests an ancient tribal ceremony in a deep jungle that is conjuring forth menacing demonic shadows that block out the sun.That is just a mere prelude though, as the piece then erupts into a squirming smear of slithering, sickly, and grotesquely glimmering synths.To his everlasting credit, Deas then finds a way to get even darker, as that motif is disrupted by something that sounds like a massive appliance tumbling down an endless flight of stairs in extreme slow-motion with all of the resultant clanking and clattering warped nightmarishly.This album is so twisted that sound waves cannot even be trusted to travel through air predictably.
"Exercise 3" is yet another stunner, resembling a vast, squirming nest of impossibly massive, slime-coated serpents and perhaps a flock of hapless geese caught in their midst.Elsewhere, "Exercise 4" feels like a slowly building gale of howling winds, but then the skies suddenly clear…and the clouds open up to unleash a sky-obliterating swarm of massive, murderous hornets.I definitely did not see that twist coming.Unexpectedly, the closing "Exercise 5" betrays some rare hints of conventional musicality, as cosmic synth drones glimmer and streak across dark skies as the ruined earth shudders, smolders, and collapses beneath.It is a fitting end to a truly disturbing album, as it feels like I am getting one last glance from space at the final paroxysm of a world where hell has opened up to drag the living into its fiery depths.
Even that description feels tame though, which speaks volumes about the degree to which Deas has succeeded in crafting a visceral and disturbing horror of an album: Time Exercises definitely feels like hell has boiled up from the ground to consume the earth, but it does not even feel like our hell.Rather, it feels like some kind of incomprehensible extra-dimensional hell that I could not have previously imagined.Unsurprisingly, I am quite floored by that vision and the execution is quite stunning as well.I definitely did not expect anything like this to come from the mind of Cam Deas, nor would I have expected it from anyone else's (aside from perhaps Becker after a complete psychotic breakdown).That is probably the point though: these infernal and unhinged sounds likely were not Deas' explicit vision so much as they were the utterly unearthly fruits of an inspired attempt to leave established patterns behind through math and electronics.I would definitely say the exercise worked, as this does not sound like an album that came from our planet: Deas has ambitiously constructed a harrowing and vivid alternate world seemingly uninfluenced at all by humanity's accumulated wisdom regarding melody, harmony, and rhythm.In lesser hands, such a feat might feel like noise or sheer randomness, but that is not the case at all here.If Rashad Becker's Traditional Music of Notional Species felt like field recordings of jabbering and chirping animals in an alien rainforest, Time Exercises goes one step further and exquisitely imagines their nightmares.
I have made a few sincere attempts to appreciate this shifting German collective over the years, but Datashock have proven to be a very hard act to wrap my head around. At times, they have seemed like an indulgent, improv-heavy pastiche of various seminal krautrock artists, yet they also have moments where it feels like they are actually the rightful heirs to the throne vacated by folks like Amon Düül II and Can. In fact, I suspect the latter would especially appreciate the perverse post-modern genius of Datashock being an ethnographic forgery of their own cultural heritage. I know I certainly do. In any case, this is the first Datashock release that has truly clicked for me. It is still uneven and exasperating at times, but such missteps are a rare exception and the second half of the album catches fire beautifully. While Datashock remain deeply and unapologetically in the thrall of the past, the best moments on Kräuter are inventive and inspired enough to transcend and surpass most of the bands they are hell-bent on channeling.
That is a recurring and fundamental feature of Datashock's work that takes some getting used to, as the chameleonic ensemble is not interested in channeling one particular krautrock band–they are intent on channeling EVERY single one of them (sometimes more than one at once).At times, my more critical side dearly wishes that this band would pick a focused vision and stick with it, but their freewheeling unpredictability has a definite appeal that eclipses my misgivings when they pull a particularly surprising rabbit out of their hat.For example, "Spirituelle Enthaltsamkeit Im Sandwichverfahren" is a gorgeously woozy synth reverie that swirls with a ghostly fantasia of swooping and sliding strings. Elsewhere, "Halb-Halb, Wie Ein Guter Kloß" is another slow-burning gem, gradually transforming from a droning reverie into some kind of surreal desert-trance jam disorientingly engulfed by overlapping chants and distant sirens."Schönster Gurkenschwan" is yet another delightful surprise, unexpectedly evolving from a gorgeously sublime drone piece shivering and pulsing with chirping synths and whimpering strings into something resembling a chorus of malfunctioning pinball machines.The show does not end there, however, as the pinball machines prove to be merely a gateway into a churning, howling, and skwonking void of deep space cacophony.One of usual perils of improv-minded ensembles is a predictable arc that heads inexorably towards a crescendo of density and raw power, so it is refreshing that Datashock only take that path this one time.Since I was not expecting it, it made its intended cathartic impact.
If I pick it apart song-by-song, I suppose Kräuter Der Provinz is only a half-great album, as Datashock are definitely prone to meandering jams and indulgent song lengths.Also, they are not at all shy about appearing derivative (they celebrate it, in fact).Taken as a whole, however, this album feels like something far greater than the sum of its songs: a deep, sustained, and gently hallucinatory plunge into a world where concepts like time and place become very fluid and blurry.Also, the various scenes that Datashock conjure into being (jungles, deserts, black holes opening up in a pinball arcade, etc.) are generally quite vividly realized and richly detailed, making this an excellent and wonderfully absorbing headphone album.Aside from that, I find Datashock to be a uniquely fascinating band in their own curious way, as they are akin to a galaxy of stars that unpredictably converge into radically different constellations every time they come together.I have no idea who is steering this ship at any given moment nor what their motivations might be and I genuinely enjoy that.In most ensembles, that would be a great recipe for an absolute mess, but Datashock's better moments make that approach feel vibrant and adventurous in all of the best ways.
This sprawling double CD of extended harmonium performances was my first real exposure to the solo work of Sylvester Anfang II's Glen Steenkiste and it is quite a curious introduction. The closest kindred spirits are probably La Monte Young's "The Second Dream of the High Tension Line" or Stars of the Lid at their most pastoral, as Steenkiste devotes his energies to crafting deep, meditative drones that strain towards lightness and transcendence. Hellvete's work is not nearly as harmonically adventurous as the just intonation/Pandit Pran Nath-inspired milieu, but Steenkiste compensates somewhat with an unusual feel for time and a willingness to blur together music, ritual, and chance intrusions from the natural world. The less inspired passages tend to feel like sustained and halcyon suspended animation to me, yet Droomharmonium occasionally transforms into an entrancing bit of magic and wonder when Steenkiste is joined by some curious birds or the harmonium disappears to make way for some eerily twinkling bells.
The opening "Droomharmonium V" starts the album in appealingly disorienting and unpredictable fashion, as a brief flourish of mass-like harmonium is quickly cut off to make room for a sublime passage of deep gong-like tones, chirping birds, and gently buzzing strings.It is quite a lovely interlude, establishing a very clear sense of place and striking a perfect organic balance between nature and art.In fact, tt does not feel like Steenkiste is performing so much as it feels like he is masterfully and quietly framing the contributions of his avian collaborators.Gradually, however, the harmonium reasserts its supremacy and blossoms into an improvisation that sounds simultaneously Middle Eastern and medieval.I am always a fan of temporal dislocation, so I enjoyed the ephemeral illusion of being transported to an ancient Persian palace.The Middle East is actually an extremely apt reference point for this album in general, as it is akin to a vast desert of sustained harmonium drones that occasionally blossoms into ephemeral mirages of something deeper and more vibrant.I specifically chose "mirage" rather than "oasis," as Droomharmonium's shifting sands only converge into more complex structures precariously and fleetingly–everything beautiful is damned to dissolve into a faint memory as the all-consuming thrum inevitably re-establishes its dominance.
That aesthetic perversely makes Droomharmonium an intriguingly challenging and ambiguous listening experience.In an uncharitable interpretation, it can be viewed as an overlong and indulgent release with lengthy lulls separating all the good parts.Alternately, Droomharmonium can be viewed as a meditative ritual that requires me to slow down my consciousness to meld with its glacial flow and languorously swaying pulse.When I am able to adapt to Steenkiste's slower-than-human timescale, I am rewarded with a deep sense of serenity punctuated by occasional glimpses of something more deeply beautiful and mysterious.Curiously, those sublime passages of something more compelling than radiant, gently undulating drones often tend to occur near the beginning of these four pieces rather than as any sort of culmination, which I suspect is necessitated by Glen's purist, overdub-free approach to these performances.He might set the scene with a gently hallucinatory dreamscape of twinkling bells ("Droomharmonium VII"), but once he gets serious about building up his sun-dappled mass of shifting harmonium tones, he is unable to focus on anything else (Steenkiste has a finite number of hands, sadly).That is unfortunate, as those ephemeral tastes of other instrumentation provide some welcome textural variety, though I suspect Steenkiste views their all-too-brief lifespans as a necessary casualty in his larger struggle to create something deeper and more profound than mere music.
Having heard some of Hellvete's non-harmonium work on Nachtwacht, I can say with certainty that Steenkiste is a talented multi-instrumentalist with a gift for strong melody and a solid intuition for pacing, so Droomharmonium's improvisatory hyperminimalism is very much a deliberate and consciously experimental choice.As such, I would describe Droomharmonium as a mixed success that I have conflicting feelings about.On a purely gut level, these pieces are simply too one-dimensional to fully connect with me and I prefer Hellvete's more conventionally musical fare.Particularly nagging is the fact that most of the elements of a more compelling, multilayered work are present, but are unable to linger once the harmonium kicks in.On another level, however, I very much appreciate that Steenkiste had the ambition and vision to cast aside everything he knows and attempt to construct a monolithic temple of transcendent drone.That transcendence did not quite bridge the gulf between performer and listener for me, but such a grand, quixotic undertaking certainly got my attention and respect.For better or worse, this is a truly unique album.In fact, it is only an album in the most literal sense, as it would be far more accurate to describe Droomharmonium as a vicarious glimpse of one man's deep "om" as he dissolves his ego in slow-moving clouds of overtones.
Above All Dreams is Abul Mogard's beautifully absorbing new solo record for Ecstatic - his first since the Circular Forms and his popular Works [2016] compilation.
Counting six original pieces in its 66-minute wingspan, there's no mistaking that Above All Dreams is the most expansive solo release by Mogard to date. And taking into account the sets' intangible divinity and cinematic quality - the result of no less than three years diligent work - it is arguably elevated to the level of his master opus; presenting an essentially single malt modular distillation of Mogard's most intoxicating strain of hauntology.
Consistent with Mogard’s music since the sought-after VCO tapes c. 2012-2013, the allure of Above All Dreams lies in his ability to evoke and render feelings which are perhaps purposefully avoided in more academic echelons of drone music. Rather than a purist expression of physics thru maths and geometry, Mogard more complexly voices his soul, improvising on modular synth for hours, days, months and years in the same way a more conventional "band" develops group intuition.
While hands-on, the intuitive evolution of process locates a newfound freedom in his music that implies a recognition of the metaphysical or post-physical, while Mogard explicitly points to influence from the Brazilian music of Tom Zé, Antonio Carlos Jobim and Chico Buarque, whose approach to shape and density, or perceptions of light and delicacy, also go some way to explaining the ephemeral intangibility of Above All Dreams.
The results are thus best considered as the ephemera of non-verbal communications. From the gaseous bloom of "Quiet Dreams" to the opiated depth of "Where Not Even" to the starlit "Upon The Smallish Circulation," and thru the B-side’s keeling, 16 mins+ panoramas of "Above All Dreams" and "The Roof Falls," the power of Abul Mogard's dreams above all transcends sound, feeling and physics in a truly remarkable and intangible way that evades words or concrete notation. It's just incredibly special and poignant in a way that has resonated with a lot of listeners, and will continue to do so as long as people have ears and feelings.
Edition of 250 copies in tipped-on sleeves with Japanese obi, insert and postcard. Entirely handmade sleeve edition of Painted Screens – designed & assembled at Impression Lointaine.
In this album (originally released in 2014), newly remastered for this vinyl edition, Andrew Chalk plays musical arrangements along with Federico Durand, Daisuke & Naoko Suzuki, Francis Plagne & Timo Van Luijk.
Music box : intimate music with a large palette of instruments ; Voices and sounds, mixed feelings and mysteries…A window opened on travelling memories, half-awakened thoughts and shared moments – dreamed and nocturnal wandering atmospheres, with undulating rays sporadically lighting a subconscious painting.
L'etat intermediaire (the intermediate state) began amidst the ending points of A Paper Doll's Whisper of Spring (FP 022 : recorded 2012) and was further inspired by some live performances in Leuven and London using mostly acoustical instrumentation. L'etat intermediare collects 10 pieces recorded over four years and into a narrative of personal journeys using some collected sounds, clarinets, string and keyboard instruments.
“Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the sky, I heard a voice within the tavern cry, Awake, my little ones, and fill the cup Before Life's Liquor in its cup be dry”
Released to commemorate one year since legendary artist Mika Vainio’s passing, long time fan and collaborator Richard Chartier has created a fitting tribute to the artist, his legacy, and also his undeniable influence on Chartier’s own work. The final product is less of an overt tribute, at least in sound, and functions more as a knowing homage that synergizes the core elements of Vainio's lengthy body of art via Chartier's undeniably nuanced and complex aesthetic.
Chartier has stated that it was Vainio's work: solo, with Pan Sonic, and in the Ø and Philus guises, that reignited his career in experimental electronic music after a three year break some 20 years ago.The parallels in their art are distinctly different, but very much complementary.Vainio’s focus was often more rhythmic in nature, and sometimes challenging and harsh, but his use of clean, pure tones and electronic spaces can clearly be heard in Chartier's solo work, as well as via his Pinkcourtesyphone project.
The 40+ minute "Central" is subtle in its opening minutes:buzzing electronics, crackling static, and wide open spaces.White noise and wet distortion eventually are introduced, cutting through the digital fragments and otherwise fill the mix.Like Vainio's work, Chartier trades extensively in ultra high tinnitus-like frequencies that come and go, at times lying in the furthest reaches of human hearing.Unsurprisingly, this can be a bit unpleasant at times, but fitting since the result is not unlike some of Pan Sonic’s best work.
Eventually Chartier brings the mid-range up in more sustained passages, with a subtle bit of pulsation that could almost pass for a rhythm.He adjusts the diverging layers:tones, static, pulses, all things that appeared in Vainio’s work.Here, however, they are presented almost clinically, dissected out to study their most basic elements.Crackles of interference are melded into pseudo-rhythms as tightly compacted, sustained drones underscore the proceedings.After a lengthy section of shimmering, metallic electronics, the sound becomes hollower, almost mournful, as the piece comes to its quiet, sparse conclusion.
In comparison, the shorter "Unquiet" has a strong flow to it, but not the same extent of drastic shifts and evolution that can be heard in "Central".Chartier immediately creates a force to be reckoned with:cascading, stuttering electronics and stuttering noise surge out with more force than I am used to from his work.Here he clearly captures the more chaotic side of Vainio’s sound in the form of heavy fuzz and some low-end heavy rumbling layers.The essential components to "Unquiet" stay in place for most of the piece, so the sense of change is less prominent than it was on "Central", but within the confines of a seven minute composition this is no detriment at all.To mix things up, Chartier closes with a bit of interference and a lovely mournful bit of ambience that fits the intent of the album perfectly.
One of the reasons Richard Chartier excels with Central (for M. Vainio) is that he pays a fitting, reverential tribute to Mika Vainio and his enduring influence, but by emphasizing said influence more than an emulation or an unnecessary attempt direct interpretation.Themes from all of Vainio's body of work are here, but translated and interpreted through Chartier's understated, careful touch as a brilliant composer.There are some other moments that are not quite so subtle, especially throughout the aptly titled "Unquiet", but these act as a perfect synergy between Vainio’s more abrasive tendencies filtered through Chartier’s thoughtful deliberateness.The result is a loving tribute that illuminates the linkage between the two legendary sound artists as best as anything could.
Although has a lengthy career, Brooklyn's Bob Bellerue has sat comfortably in the fringes of a fragmented noise and experimental scene. His newest release, All In, is a nicely limited tape edition that captures two distinctly different performances, one from 2011 and the other from 2014, which features him emphasizing some notably different styles from his body of work, although the final product makes for an entirely cohesive release that feels as much as a conceptual album as it would a set of two live performances three years apart.
The first half of this tape, "Redglaer @ Port D’Or 02/19/11" is the more overtly noise oriented of the two performances.Right from the opening moments he makes this clear:an abstract mechanical clatter is soon shaped into a violent, distorted buzz that at least superficially sounds like the work of an entire tabletop of guitar pedals.Throughout this, Bellerue maintains the noise standard of overdriven crunchy bass frequencies and shrill, barely regulated feedback even as he changes things up.
While it is unrelenting, he clearly has some control over this seemingly chaotic mass of sound, shifting frequencies and densities the whole time keeping things fresh and dynamic throughout.Heavy white noise washes precede sputtering, dying airplane engines and, as the piece goes on, he seems to struggle as to if he cannot decide if he prefers to emphasize the pummeling low end scrape or the shrill, brittle static.By the end the latter seems to win out, with him concluding the piece (and performance) via piercing feedback and painful, grinding power saws.
On the other half of the tape, "Blessed Thistle @ Babycastles 07/05/14" is a different Bellerue, at least at first.The heavy noise is more of a seasoning than a main course, as the first few minutes are dedicated to an idiosyncratic vibraphone like rhythmic passage that extends for a while, demonstrating more calm and restraint than the other half.There is a greater sense of peace at this point, but it is obvious that the harsher stuff is looming just beneath the surface.
Of course, this soon explodes outward, and the full on ripping, pulsating distortion and noise explodes to the surface.Again, his performance is exceptionally dynamic, blending the sustained noise outbursts together and cutting them up into aggressive, harsh stammering patterns.As it goes on, he adds more and more elements, like what sounds like digitally mangled voices, immense warning sirens, and explosive blasts to a mix that becomes denser and heavier until collapsing under its own weight and ending the piece with a jarring abruptness.
All In captures two different sides of Bob Bellerue:the side that has a strong focus on complex sound art structures, and the side that relishes the result of cranking a gain knob up as high as it goes and appreciating the ugliness that results.I think that, given this is a pair of live performances, the latter half of his style ends up being the dominant one, but that is not to say it is not a well rounded release.Instead these two different disciplines meld together nicely and, with his ability to keep things dynamic and moving, pushes it beyond being just another noise cassette.
Recently given an much-needed reissue by Ecstatic, Circular Forms (2015) is Abul Mogard’s lone proper full-length album amidst a slow trickle of cassettes, splits, and compilation appearances. When I first heard it, I was admittedly a bit disappointed as it felt considerably less unique and revelatory than the earlier, more industrial-influenced pieces collected on Works. I have since warmed to it quite a bit, however, as "The Half-Light of Dawn" is an achingly beautiful masterpiece of simmering and haunted-sounding post-apocalyptic drone. Mogard also does a stellar job at channeling the cosmic dread of prime Tangerine Dream at one point. The rest of the album is quite enjoyable as well, but it sometimes has a bit of an uneven and transitional feel that reveals Mogard's influences and occupies more well-established aesthetic terrain than some of his iconoclastic earlier releases.
The album opens in somber and understated fashion with "Slate-Colored Storm," which is essentially just a murky and submerged-sounding melodic loop that languorously unfolds beneath a series of slow-motion washes of bleak synth chords.Naturally, that elegant simplicity suits the piece quite well, establishing a glacial momentum and darkly soulful foundation for Mogard's peripheral activities.In that regard, he proves to be an absolute sorcerer at controlling tension and ingeniously transforming textures, effectively erasing all trace of himself to create a vivid, powerful, and organically unfolding scene."Slate-Colored Storm" feels like time has slowed to an absolute crawl and a mournful and decayed tape loop is obsessively playing and re-playing the same broken melody as geysers of scorching lava erupt from the earth around it.There is nothing that feels like a man playing a synthesizer in that tableau at all, as everything feels ruined, corroded, decayed, and unreal in a profound way, as if the scene is playing out as a vision of the future that occurs long after Mogard has been reduced to dust.The following "Bound Universe," on the other hand, feels like a sincere homage to Tangerine Dream at their heaviest and most inhumanly futuristic, unfolding as a churning and dense synth juggernaut that surges relentlessly forward amidst a gnarled storm of rumbling drones and sizzling noise.Both pieces are legitimately wonderful.
The following "Half Light at Dawn" is the album's achingly gorgeous heart though, resembling a lush elegy for humanity composed by a heartbroken robot. I am truly awe-struck by the intensity of emotion that Mogard is able to wring out of circuits and wires, as "Dawn" is a moaning, whimpering, and undulating feast of bleary melodies and deep, sizzling washes of chords amidst an otherworldly haze of ghostly afterimages and flickering spectres.It is absolutely pitch-perfect in every way, slowly and wearily accumulating immense power through slow-burning repetition before quietly disappearing once more into silence.I would be hard-pressed to imagine anything that could satisfyingly follow such a sublime and crushingly beautiful piece, but Mogard gamely tries by closing the album with the epic "House on the River" (at nearly 17-minutes, it is roughly as long as everything that came before it combined).Lamentably, it is my least favorite piece on the album, yet Mogard is still operating on quite a high plane–even his less-inspired work offers some understated and singular delights.For the most part though, "House on the River" is merely a decent bit of slow-moving synth drone, as a succession of billowing chords steadily flows forward with minimal variation or evolution.Buried in the depths, however, lies a single nagging note that keeps endlessly (if faintly) pulsing beneath it all, imbuing an otherwise straightforward piece with the sense that it is merely a veil concealing something more elemental and mysterious.Sadly, that veil never lifts, but it is significant that even Mogard's rare forays into well-traveled territory hint at being something far more than that.
It would certainly be reasonable to describe Circular Forms as Mogard's ambient album, but it represents more of a shift and expansion in focus than a radical transformation.This vein has always run through Mogard's work, so the most significant advance was merely that he decided to release an entire album devoted to his more slow-moving and meditative side.At this stage in his career, however, Mogard's meditative side was still quite an eerily bleak and haunting place to be, evoking the Zen-like calm of the last human gazing sadly at a scorched and ravaged landscape (he has brightened his tone considerably since).There is a lonely beauty mingled with deep sadness here, yet the best moments of Circular Forms burrow deep enough to achieve something of a transcendent rapture.That latter part is crucial, as Mogard's work is not oppressively sad at all–the path to heaven just happens to be unexpectedly dark one.
For some reason, this long-running project from English guitarist Andy Cartwright has stayed largely under my radar until now, despite my occasional brushes with his work through various blogs and his splits with Dean McPhee and Loscil. This latest release, Seabuckthorn's ninth, is deeply influenced by Cartwright's rustic and mountainous new surroundings in the Southern Alps, yet his work has always had an earthy, widescreen grandeur. As I am only casually familiar with the rest of the Seabuckthorn oeuvre, I cannot confidently state that Cartwright's new environment or recent focus on textural experimentation have radically transformed his work, but A House With Too Much Fire definitely feels like an especially strong showing. Much like the aforementioned McPhee, Cartwright has carved out a sublime and alternately haunting and gorgeous niche all his own, far transcending my expectations of what a lone guitarist can achieve (though Cartwright certainly embraces a much more expansive palette than his peers).
I am not quite sure what I expected from this album, but I am absolutely certain that whatever vague expectations I had were either transcended or outright wrong.This is quite a curious and fascinating album to try to wrap my head around, as Cartwright seems to be equal parts visionary and chameleon.It is easy to see how Seabuckthorn acquired such a devoted cult following over the years though, as Cartwright's inspiration burns quite brightly during the album's best moments, occasionally calling to mind the timeless, elemental power of prime Richard Skelton.More often, however, Cartwright feels like a kindred spirit to iconoclastic American composer and Lost Tribe label mate William Ryan Fritch, as the two artists channel very similar strains of melancholy and cinematic Americana (though Fritch is considerably more eclectic these days).Along with Aaron Martin and Western Skies Motel, the two seem like the incipient vanguard of an unnamed movement that I will tentatively dub The Haunted West which inventively blurs the lines between folk, modern composition, and atmospheric post-rock a la Mogwai and Explosions In The Sky.The finest example of that vein on A House With Too Much Fire is probably "It Was Aglow," which unfolds as a mournful cascade of banjo arpeggios that casts off a spark-like spray of spectral, delay-heavy ripples."What The Shepherds Call Ghosts" is similarly dazzling, as Cartwright unleashes a roiling web of rapidly picked arpeggios as a gently plucked melody winds its way through a rattling and moaning gauntlet of tormented strings.If the whole album had expanded that aesthetic into a focused vision, A House With Too Much Fire would likely be a stone-cold masterpiece.The rest of the album occasionally does delve further into that theme beautifully (the title piece, "Sent in by the Cold," etc.), yet Cartwright's mercurial muse led him in some other interesting directions as well, resulting in a bit more of a complicated and shifting affair.
In some cases, Cartwright's divergence from the expected path pays off beautifully, as the slowly churning string elegy of "Somewhat Like Vision" burrows even deeper into the past to evoke a deep, primeval sadness that predates anything resembling America.Elsewhere, "Disentangled" is a foray into languorous and lyrical Eastern-tinged desert blues."Figure Afar" is yet another departure of sorts, as Cartwright sets aside his guitar and banjo for a churning reverie of mournful bowed strings.Unfortunately, there is also one perplexing misstep that continues to mystify me: "Inner."It is not necessarily a bad piece, though it admittedly errs on the side of meandering and improvisatory-sounding.The more significant issue is the strange decision to include a gently burbling and plodding synth backdrop, which transforms an otherwise unmemorable interlude into something that breaks the album's timeless and hallucinatory spell and unceremoniously drops me back in the present.Thankfully, Cartwright's rare dubious decisions are completely eclipsed by everything that he does exactly right, as my appreciation for House deepens with each fresh listen.In particular, I am struck the sheer craftsmanship and intuitive genius for texture and dynamics displayed on pieces like "Somewhat Like Vision," as Cartwright has the nuance and lightness of touch to weave a dreamlike state, yet also grasps exactly when to allow a crucial note to viscerally carve through the mist.He also brings a deep soul and quiet intensity to his vision, as these pieces do not just evoke desolate prairies and forgotten towns like a soundtrack composer might–Cartwright instead conjures imagined places that feel pregnant with enough mystery and hidden meaning to linger in my mind long after the album has ended.
A House With Too Much Fire is quietly beguiling in deeper, more abstract ways as well.For example, Cartwright has reached a Zen-like plane of casual virtuosity in which the desire to compose something beautiful supplants any ego-driven need to showcase his playing (a feat that is all too rare among technically proficient musicians).When a piece calls for it, Cartwright is certainly game to unleash a dazzling and intricate flurry of notes, but he is just as content to craft a slow-moving and impressionistic scene from ghostly smears of harmonics, feedback, and string drones ("Blackout").On a larger scale, I am also quite impressed with Cartwright's vision in general, as he deftly avoids crossing the blurry line that would make House feel like at all like a soundtrack (though "Submerged Past" errs on that side).For the most part, however, A House With Too Much Fire never feels like an imagined accompaniment to a film in Cartwright's mind.Rather, it feels like it is that film.The difference is subtle, I suppose, but it has massive implications when it comes to how much I love an album and I mostly love this one.It is not quite a perfect whole, yet the highlights are legitimately amazing: pieces like "It was Aglow" and "Somewhat Like Vision" masterfully weave vividly realized worlds that swirl with beauty, mystery, and ineffable sadness.