Being thankful for an earful.
Brand new music by Marie Davidson, Niecy Blues (feat. Joy Guidry), CEL, Marisa Anderson and Luke Schneider, Stina Stjern, Carmen Villain, Murcof, A Lily, and Far Golden Pavilions, with music from the vaults by Tomaga, Ozzobia, Jan Jelinek.
Sushi photo by Lindsay.
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Arnold Dreyblatt has been called "the most rock 'n' roll of all the composers to emerge from New York's downtown scene in the 1970s." Dreyblatt founded the Orchestra Of Excited Strings in 1979, harnessing unusual tuning intervals to an exuberant performance style. Propellers In Love, the Orchestra's second album – originally released in 1986 on the Stasch imprint, in conjunction with the contemporary art space Künstlerhaus Bethanien – develops Dreyblatt's rhythmically exacting exploration of the glittering resonances and overtones generated by an ensemble of uniquely-altered stringed instruments and drums.
On Propellers In Love, simple song titles – "Odd & Even," "Harmonics," "Bowing" – belie intricate harmonic structures. Dreyblatt's modified instruments – a contrabass and miniature piano fitted with piano wire along with violin, all tuned in just intonation – undergo the Orchestra's rapid, staccato attacks. Sparkling timbres dance above interlocking rhythmic patterns moored by sparse yet propulsive percussion ("Pedal Tone Dance" and the title track). Throughout, the Orchestra's perpetual motion achieves a tremulous and exquisite density.
More information can be found here.
For his second album, Two Solo Pieces, Jon Gibson forgoes the dense, multi-layered timbres of Visitations in favor of simple textures and tone. While Two Solo Pieces serves up further evidence of Gibson's centrality to American minimalism – witness its inclusion in Alan Licht's famed Minimal Top Ten list – this profoundly intimate record also reveals the beauty of enclosed spaces and infinite harmonic vistas.
As its unadorned title suggests, Two Solo Pieces consists of a pair of side-long tracks featuring the composer alone. While "Cycles," an iridescent improvisation on organ, achieves a downright eerie sense of expansiveness, Gibson's captivating alto flute on "Untitled" draws the listener inside the instrument itself.
The photo on the album's back cover – a seated Gibson surrounded by cascading rows of organ pipes and the vaulted ceiling in Manhattan's Peace Church – offers a striking visual complement to these gorgeous recordings.
More information can be found here.
Brainwashed is proud to premiere "See Your Door", the first song from the new Circa Tapes album Love and Venom, due July 21st on Medical Records. Hear the song here, or in the most recent Brainwashed Podcast (Episode 351).
This is the third album by Adam Killing (the solo artist behind Circa Tapes), with previous releases on Ghostly International and DKA. "See Your Door" is the first song to be released from the album: a pensive, gloomy song of midtempo drum machine and analog synth pulse. The cold, robotic backing tracks contrast beautifully with haunting vocals and dour keyboard leads. It is the perfect teaser for the upcoming album, full of dark moods. The song is propelled by vintage synths and drum machines that nod toward a dance-tinged industrial past, but looks forward towards a distinctly modern and distinct future. Look for the full record, Love and Venom, coming July 21st, 2017 on Medical Records.
Since releasing two stellar albums in 2012, Aaron Dilloway has been comparatively quiet, contenting himself with a steady stream of cassettes, collaborations, and reissues.  Apparently, he also spent a bit of that time slowly assembling The Gag File, the long-awaited follow-up opus to Modern Jester.  Given that Dilloway has long been one of the most influential figures in the American noise scene, it is no surprise that The Gag File is a bizarre, aberrant, and fine album.  That said, some aspects were still deliciously wrong-headed enough to catch me off-guard (though the cover art should have been a fair warning).  At its best, The Gag File transcends mere noise entirely and ventures into realms that feel like a vivid kitschy nightmare or the infernal horror of an endless bad party.
The opening "Ghost" presents a somewhat muted introduction to Dilloway's haunted funhouse, as it is initially little more than a soundscape built from industrial-sounding drones and flanging washes of synthesizer.  There is certainly some low-level dissonance and menace right from the jump, but the bottom does not drop out until its drugged and lurching groove blossoms into a brief interlude of garbled and distorted vocals, like someone struggling (and failing) to be heard from the spirit world.  The following piece, "Karaoke With Cal," is where the album first catches fire.  Again, Dilloway returns to voices, this time using a pitch-shifted tape that sounds like an incoherent and upset elderly man delivering a halting monologue over a broken, locked-groove waltz (of sorts).  There is also a whistling interlude (also of sorts) that sometimes sounds more like a space-y Theremin solo.  All of the individual components are certainly great, but the genius of the piece lies in what Dilloway does with his warped palette, weaving a thoroughly disorienting spell with layering, obsessive repetition, shifts in tape speed, and a distorting patina of hiss and crackle.
In a blackly funny bit of sequencing magic, "Cal" segues into the sounds of sirens and a screaming, fleeing crowd in "Inhuman Form Reflected."  After the initial hysteria, "Inhuman Form" settles into a rhythm that sounds like a room full of wheezing, buzzing antique machines…before unexpectedly erupting into an amusing final act of gibbering monster howls…followed by yet another final act that sounds like a man having a complete psychotic breakdown in an empty room.  Dilloway is quite a wizard at riding the line between black humor and catharsis, seeming to delight in freezing the smile on listeners' faces, a trait I find very endearing.  The album's first side then winds to a close with a simmering and rumbling loop pile-up ("Born in a Maze") that resembles an earthquake that gradually transforms into a distorted locked-groove snippet of a prog rock song.
The album's second half begins in sublimely creepy fashion with "It’s Not Alright," an obsessive and hallucinatory loop of soulful overlapping voices repeating the mantra of "It's Alright" over a simmering bed of hiss and a slowly swelling pulse that sounds like a macabre parade.  In yet another feat of sequencing brilliance, that piece seamlessly blurs into "No Eye Sockets (For Otto and Cindy)," which sounds like a gently tweaked field recording of a bunch of laughing office workers chatting inanely and enjoying happy hour as funky blues rock plays in the background. Near the end, the music seems to start again from the beginning and the laughter becomes a bit more sinister and echoing.  I definitely expected the existentialist hell to pointedly and mischievously continue for much longer, but Dilloway abruptly bulldozes the whole scene with the manic, blown-out Latin-dance-party-meets-industrial-machinery-and-an-erratic-tape-player confusion of "Switch."  Eventually that nerve-jangling cacophony grinds to a halt, but Dilloway replaces it with the similarly discordant "Shot Nerves," which drags the momentum down to a sickly crawl.  Initially, it is one of the weaker pieces on the album, as it just sounds like someone playing a meandering one-finger non-melody on a sizzling and overdriven synth in hopes of making the ugliest possible harmonies.  Heroically, however, Dilloway rouses himself for one final (if brief) fanfare of chopped, jabbering voices and annoying buzzes and the album ends on a solid note.
Willfully annoying bits aside, The Gag File is quite a wonderfully disorienting, bleakly amusing, and ambitiously experimental album.  In fact, it feels a lot like I am experiencing the final flickering impressions in the mind of a dying vaudeville comedian or birthday party magician in the thrall of acid psychosis.  Admittedly, not every song achieves such a transcendent illusion (in fact, only a handful do), but it is remarkable that any do at all.  Granted, Dilloway's former bandmates in Wolf Eyes share a similar passion for celebrating the sickly and the broken, but Dilloway is on much darker, stranger trip all his own.  In fact, I never get the feeling that Dilloway shares the same concerns as other noise/experimental musicians at all, nor that he is particularly interested in making cool sounds (though they sometimes happen anyway).  Rather, Dilloway seems like an artist that has ingeniously found a way to use ravaged tapes and cultural detritus as a means of burrowing deep into his subconconscious to exhume a rotting mound of buried dread and anxiety.  Certainly other artists have had similar ambitions over the years, but rarely are the fruits this undiluted by artifice.  More significantly, it is even rarer still for that horror to be transformed into the darkest and most perverse of comedies.
 
Brainwashed is proud to premiere "See Your Door", the first song from the new Circa Tapes album Love and Venom, due July 21st on Medical Records. Hear the song here, or in the most recent Brainwashed Podcast (Episode 351).
This is the third album by Adam Killing (the solo artist behind Circa Tapes), with previous releases on Ghostly International and DKA. "See Your Door" is the first song to be released from the album: a pensive, gloomy song of midtempo drum machine and analog synth pulse. The cold, robotic backing tracks contrast beautifully with haunting vocals and dour keyboard leads. It is the perfect teaser for the upcoming album, full of dark moods. The song is propelled by vintage synths and drum machines that nod toward a dance-tinged industrial past, but looks forward towards a distinctly modern and distinct future. Look for the full record, Love and Venom, coming July 21st, 2017 on Medical Records.
Ten Years Alive On The Infinite Plain is the quintessential work of artist/filmmaker/composer Tony Conrad. Comprised of both film installation and minimalist score for amplified strings, Ten Years leaps across genre and medium to connect his revolutionary structural filmmaking with the experiments in long-duration sound that Conrad had begun in the 1960s as part of the Theatre of Eternal Music.
"Ten Years began with image before sound," writes Andrew Lampert, "a row of quadruple projections arranged side-by-side, all the shuffling stripes cascading into each other. Over the next two hours the music throbbed and the projectors incrementally shifted inwards, their beams gradually uniting to form one pulsating, overlapping picture."
For its 1972 premiere at New York's The Kitchen, "Ten Years" included Conrad on violin as well as Rhys Chatham and Laurie Spiegel performing on instruments of the composer's own making. Chatham played the Long String Drone – a 6-foot long strip of wood with bass strings, electric pickup, tuning keys, tape, rubber band and metal hardware – while Spiegel carried out an arrhythmic bass pulse throughout.
Superior Viaduct is honored to present this previously unreleased recording of the project's breathtaking premier performance. As Chatham recounts in the liner notes, "When I first listened to this recording after not hearing it for over 40 years, it transported me back to the early Kitchen and the heyday of early minimalism, played outside the Dream Syndicate."
More information can be found here.
The transcontinental collaboration of Arcata shoegaze abstractionist Brian Pyle and spectral Russian songstress Galya Chikiss began in Berlin (where the former was on tour and crashing with the latter) then finished in Northern California. Despite such distance, the duo's debut feels symbiotic and seductive, shimmering nocturnal mirages of devotional drone and processional dub. Named after the site of certain of Chikiss’ formative teenage experiences ("trashy rooms with old anonymous TV sets and video recorders, a zone of freedom and new information"), Video Salon conjure a ghostly, glassy-eyed mood, low-lidded metronomes layered in haze, whispers, and dazed fluorescent static. Sung in Russian, the lyrics cast an ominous spell: "I turn around and see the door / the lock moves in my hand like a cold grey snake / your sharp talons tear apart my shadow." An eerie and entrancing suite of electronic incantations by a complementary pair of exploratory expressionists.
More information can be found here.
Given the current social climate across the world, it is not surprising at all that Paul Thomsen Kirk, the Scottish artist (by way of Hiroshima, Japan) has not lightened the mood on his latest work as Akatombo. Short Fuse is a direct follow-up to the 2015 release Sometime, Never, and continues his penchant for memorable rhythms paired with often abrasive electronics and obscure samples, coming together familiar and timeless at the same time his first vinyl release.
Kirk has always been a stickler for presentation, and this one is no different.Short Fuse is his first vinyl release as Akatombo, and still includes his normal handmade personal accents to the packaging, as well as a CD with the entire album plus three additional pieces that would not fit on the record.Like his previous work, the music contained recklessly plows through various subgenres of electronic while never settling into one:it is too loud to be downtempo, but the production is too nuanced to be made for crashing the dance floor, and so on.The beats are always strong, however, and the complex production is not easily dissected.
On some parts of the album, the touchstones are a bit more overt.With the pulsating synthesizer loops and processed drums, there is a distinctly 1980s industrial feel throughout "Project FEAR," exacerbated by his liberal (but appropriate) use of reverb.For "Tensile Strength," he throws in some excellently distorted, grinding bass synth layers and a multitude of voice samples, resulting in what could be a lost Wax Trax release circa 1989.Things are a bit different on "Haarp! The Herald," where a somewhat relaxed Middle Eastern ambience permeates into what could be a more chilled out version of Muslimgauze, without losing the unique Akatombo sound.
Many of the songs that are not as easily categorized feature the same level of dissonance and an overall bleak mood."The Incarceration of Habit," for example, is all a mass of dense, serrated metallic layers and grinding rhythms.Kirk piles on the instrumentation and effects, but it is exactly due to that heavy dissonance and multitracked beats that the piece stands out strongly.For "Tilt, Turn, Defenestrate," which is the CD-only closer to the album, he piles the layers on even more, for a mass of sound peppered with vocal samples that nudges into more traditionally noise territories.
Much of Short Fuse is aggressive and beat heavy, but Kirk knows how to keep things varied and dynamic."George Kaplan" is fragmented and deconstructed in its construction, putting more of the focus on the grimy textures and the intentionally overcast, foggy sounding production."Solitude in Numbers" is also a somewhat ambient work, with much of the thick mixing spread out to create an excellent sense of space and depth.Never dull, but Kirk’s choice to slowly drift passages in and out, rather than throw them all together, gives it a unique edge on an otherwise oppressive sounding record.
Previous Akatombo work has been exclusively in the digital format, but the analog sound benefits Short Fuse quite well, helping to bring out the subtleties to the production.The textures seem to have a greater depth, and the beats hit even harder.The album sounds fine on CD as well, and the extra bonus songs are appreciated, although I think Paul Thomsen Kirk made the right decision as far as what to include on the record and what would be considered ancillary material.Format philosophizing aside, however, what it really boils down to is that the new Akatombo record continues Kirk’s streak in the realm of dissonant, at times ugly, but always memorable rhythm heavy electronic music.It is a marvelous sounding and compelling form of oppression though, and quite possibly the best record he has made to date.
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Félicia Atkinson's radical artistic transformation over the last several years has been quite an interesting one, as each new release seems to distance her further and further from her excellent work as Je Suis Le Petit Chevalier and into much stranger and more challenging territory.  With her last major statement, 2015's A Readymade Ceremony, Atkinson shifted the focus away from music towards a strong emphasis on whispered spoken-word performance of repurposed found texts mingled with George Bataille and her own poetry.  Hand in Hand goes still further in that direction, often reducing the accompanying music to an absolute minimum to focus almost entirely on an eclectic and evocative array of hushed readings from old plant books, magazines, JG Ballard, Philip K. Dick, and her own writings.  The overall effect is often wonderfully surreal and intimate, but Atkinson’s hyper constrained and minimal palette does not offer enough melodicism or dynamic variety to quite carry a full album.  A few of the individual pieces, however, are quite mesmerizing (particularly the closing "No Fear But Anticipation").
The album opens in lovely (if deceptive) fashion with the subtly smeared psychedelia of "I’m Following You," a woozy reverie for Fender Rhodes organ.  For better or worse, that is Atkinson's sole foray into conventional melodicism on Hand in Hand, a decision that will never stop perplexing me given her oft-stellar past work as a multi-instrumentalist.  Intellectually, of course, I get it: during the prime of the first phase of her career, Atkinson was one of the most compelling voices in the cassette underground, but she fit very comfortably within that milieu.  With her more recent work, she has forged a much more divergent path that is very much her own.  That is certainly gutsy and inspired, but I wish the break with her past had not been quite so decisive sometimes, as it is like watching a great boxer fight with one of his arms tied behind his back.  Initially, however, Atkinson's radical minimalism serves her fairly well in the Phillip K. Dick-inspired "VALIS," as the overlapping, French-accented voices of her breathy and sensuously whispered monologue feel increasingly disconcerting and inhuman as an undercurrent of noise-damaged and insectoid textures swells below.  While she never attempts anything quite as gauche as singing, Atkinson is admittedly quite skilled at using her voice as an instrument, managing to imbue even the most mundane passages with magnetic intensity and mystery while subtly employing effects to add a patina of hissing, out-of-focus unreality.
The following "Curious in Epidavros" unveils still more of the album's recurring themes, namely a sort of plinking, hollow metal percussion and a blurting, squiggling arsenal of modular synth textures.  Variations on those two elements surface quite a lot in the following songs, which is a very disorienting and counterintuitive aesthetic indeed: half primitive home-made marimba, half retro-futurist space music.  Naturally, such a strange blend of the ancient and the future leads to some interesting directions, such as the broken, shuddering, and wobbly dub-techno of "Adaptation Assez Facile" or the druggy bass slide and clattering ping-pong ball soundscape of "Monstera Deliciosa."  The downside is that many pieces feel like brief, sketch-like experiments rather than fully formed ideas.  One notable exception to that trend, however, is "Visnaga," as the hollow plinking percussion feels like a dull, broken bell resonating through the eerie streets of a deserted town and the strangled, sputtering synth flourishes only deepen the air of menace and desolation.  Atkinson's hushed and fraught vocals seem especially unsettling and confessional, which is an impressive testament to the perverse genius of her art, as the text merely extolls the virtues of a desert plant.  Elsewhere, "A House A Dance A Poem" reprises the deeply broken and warped dub of "Adaptation," tweaking the formula with a buried transmission of chopped, stammering vocal snippets and an invasive, random-sounding high-hat that feels like a grotesque parody of dance music.
Aside from "Visnaga," the unquestionable zenith of Hand in Hand is saved for the final piece (the aforementioned "No Fear But Anticipation").  For one, it is quite a bit sexier than the rest of the album, as Atkinson ruminates on the nature of desire.  More importantly, she does so over a sensuous and understated groove that offers some rare glimpses of non-subverted chords, melodies, and rhythm.  That alone would be enough to make it the album highlight, but it goes still further to build to a wonderful outro of wildly chirping synth jabbering.  Aside from that, Hand in Hand is mostly a curiously challenging, uneasy, and chance-influenced affair that bears little resemblance at all to any of Atkinson’s peers in the contemporary experimental music scene.  That gulf would almost be wide enough to make Atkinson seem like a hermetic autodidact/outsider artist, but she actually does seem to be part of an established movement: she just happened to be born at the wrong time, as her passion for found text, unconventional tools, and bizarre juxtapositions would have made her very much welcome in the Surrealist/Dada milieu or the '60s/'70s avant-garde that birthed so many of her current influences (Robert Ashley, Joan La Barbara, etc.).  She certainly seems to share that generation’s revolutionary/"anything is possible" mindset, gamely blurring the boundaries between poetry, cut-ups, performance art, conceptual art, and music and even transforming this album into a 7-hour "environmental audiobook" for an exhibition in Rennes.  Such ambition and adventurousness certainly do not always translate into accessible music, but they did not for folks like Stockhausen and John Cage either.  While Hand in Hand is not my favorite Félicia Atkinson album, it is definitely one of her most bold and admirable releases to date, as she is tirelessly straining at the bounds of sound art rather than making any attempt to play it safe.  When she succeeds, the results can be quite striking.
 
I was initially planning to write something like "somehow this wonderfully sublime 2015 release managed to slip by me completely unnoticed," but immediately realized that there was no mystery at all: the only effective way to keep abreast of Andrew Chalk's quietly expanding oeuvre is to actively keep an eye on the Faraway Press website and hope that anything I gamble on is up to Chalk's usual high standards.  While a few of his recent releases have admittedly been a bit too pastoral to fully connect with me, the glistening and gently hallucinatory reverie of this single extended piece for electric piano completely hits the mark.  In some ways it reminds me of William Basinski's eroding tape loops or Steve Roach's classic Structures From Silence album, but not in any sort of direct way.  Rather, A Light At The End of The World just feels like a mesmerizing soundscape of almost liquid textures that I could happily listen to an infinite loop for hours.
At its surface, this album is essentially a single very simple and meditative motif extended for album-length duration.  There is no clear beginning or clear end, as "A Light at the Edge of the World" essentially just begins happening and then eventually stops happening with no overtly significant evolution in-between.  Rather, Chalk is content to just quietly, tenderly, and languorously improvise around a few arpeggios.  The magic, of course, lies in the details, as Chalk has made his career as a master of nuance and understatement and this album perversely takes those (non-extreme) tendencies to their hypnotically beautiful extreme.  The single most striking aspect here is the glistening tone that Chalk conjures from his piano, as each individual note seems like a sun-dappled droplet of water slowly rolling down a windowpane.  That curiously radiant, fluid, and organic texture, coupled with the flowing, arrhythmic pace of the notes combines to evoke a slow-motion cascade of shimmering globes leaving a blearily spectral and hallucinatory after-image in their wake.  Chalk truly weaves a near-perfect illusion here, masterfully erasing himself from the picture to leave just a lazily undulating mist of warm and elegantly blurred heaven that seems to extend forever.  In short, this album is basically a lysergic summer rain experienced in extreme slow-motion (not a particularly common aesthetic).
Naturally, creating a texturally rich and dreamily shifting soundscape that feels like a living organic entity is considerably more complex than it may seem from the apparent simplicity of the central theme.  While I have admittedly encountered a few loops that were perfect enough to warrant infinite repetition, the idea of an endless loop or floating stasis tends to be a hell of a lot more compelling than the reality.  Consequently, maintaining such an illusion requires a masterful sleight of hand to inconspicuously sneak in some much needed unpredictability and dynamic variability.  Chalk achieves that objective by quietly ensuring that his rippling tumble of individual notes unfolds over a constantly shifting haze of sustained lower tones.  Also, while he is not overt about it, the arpeggios in the foreground lazily follow the drift of the underlying chords rather than lingering around the same small cluster of notes.  Consequently, what feels like a warm, amorphous drift is actually a glacially unfolding flux of constantly evolving new harmonies (and one that is beautifully deepened by the lingering, quavering cloud of overtones to boot).
Less significantly, Chalk peppers the piece with a host of small-scale dynamic touches, such as understated space-y whooshes and washes of hiss.  His greatest small-scale dynamic feats occur with the central arpeggio motif though, as he sensitively varies his attack to give his notes a wonderfully physical and multi-dimensional feel.  It seems as though they are billowing through the mist at varying levels with varying degrees of force: some seem like they barely break the surface, while others feel like a small-scale eruption.  In Chalk's hands, the cumulative effect of all these small acts and behind-the-scenes plate-spinning is quite a wonderfully absorbing spell that feels like a natural event.  I am always in awe of composers who manage to completely dissolve into their work (there are not many around).  Naturally, I feel a bit silly hailing an Andrew Chalk album for all of the same slow-burning, nuanced, and thoughtful virtues that essentially define the bulk of his oft-wonderful oeuvre, but this album definitely feels like one of the more immersive and perfectly executed jewels in his sprawling and under-heard discography.
 
This Montreal-based composer/producer/church organist has been quite hard to miss over the last several years, collaborating on Tim Hecker's Virgins album, releasing a cassette on one of my favorite tape labels (Sacred Phrases), and garnering much critical praise with her 2015 collaboration with LXV (Sirens).  For her latest release, she joins the Boomkat Editions series with this brief one-sided vinyl EP.  I am not normally a fan of gimmicky vinyl formats, but that condensed format works wonders for Coverdale, as her earlier releases were a bit too uneven, fitfully pastoral, and diffuse to fully connect with me (even though they all admittedly featured some occasional flashes of brilliance).  With Grafts, however, she distills all of the best aspects of her work into roughly 20 minutes of lushly melodic and dreamily multilayered sustained beauty.  In fact, in some ways, Grafts feels like an inspired negative image of Virgins, reimagining that nerve-jangling opus as a languorous, sensuously flowing, and gently hallucinatory reverie of hazy drones and rippling pianos.
Grafts is ostensibly composed of three separate pieces, but the boundaries between them are so blurry that they seem largely inconsequential: this EP very much feels like a single longform piece that seamlessly blossoms into new shapes as it evolves.  The initial motif of the opening "2c" sounds like an elegiac and occasionally stuttering processed piano melody unfolding over a breathy bed of organ.  Each time it falters, however, it seems to restart with renewed depth and more complex harmonic coloration in the periphery.  After effectively establishing the piece's strange momentum, Coverdale launches into a distorted harpsichord-sounding solo.  For a while, that arguably becomes the piece's primary focus, but the backdrop continues to subtly and sneakily evolve, as the piano theme coheres into an obsessively repeating pulse as the organ chords shift around it.  In some ways, it seems an awful lot like classical minimalism, but there is a surprising amount of emotional resonance in those repeating chords and the various other layers unfold with an appealingly kinetic and organic looseness that bears no resemblance to the rigidity of Glass or Reich at all.  In one of her many great tricks, Coverdale repurposes their tools to weave something quite swirling and dreamlike.  Unexpectedly, that idyll is briefly disrupted by a strange small-scale storm of dissonance before the blearily gorgeous smears of piano resolve into the more sharp-focused and almost harp-like interlude of "Flutter."
With "Flutter," Coverdale trades in her more drone-like impulses for an undulating tapestry of sweeping and rippling piano arpeggios.  That is one just small part of a richly multilayered piece though, as muted organ chords quietly evolve in the hidden depths, pointillist single notes ring out in the foreground, mysterious fluttering textures creep into the periphery, and the air fills with hazy and angelic clouds of overtones and snatches of synth melodies.  It is very much a feast for the ears, though admittedly a rather short-lived one, as the final "Moments in Love" gradually emerges from the dissipating fog.  As it slowly takes shape, it becomes clear that "Moments" is quite a bit different from the swirling lushness that pervades the rest of Grafts, settling into a strangely simmering groove of shuffling snare and a tenderly played yet murkily blown-out-sounding organ melody.  Vestiges of Grafts' earlier passages continue to blearily hang in the air as a lingering fog, so "Moments" has the feel of a half-sensuous, half-broken coda of wounded beats and lazy melodies drifting from ruined, half-submerged speakers.  Such a simple and damaged-sounding outro feels weirdly appropriate after the rapturous and all-enveloping bliss of the earlier half, presenting itself as a well-timed come-down before heaven becomes numbingly predictable. Naturally, part of me is mildly exasperated that Grafts is over so quickly, but that part is easily drowned out by the part of me that feels that Grafts is an absolutely perfect EP and easily the finest work of Coverdale's career.  I genuinely feel that there is not a single wasted second here, as every single moment of this EP is either bursting with inspiration or seamlessly setting the stage for the next beguiling transition.
 
 
