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| All Images: North Leicester, March 2022 |
I am glad I gave this a listen/ the fundamental lack of certainty that's colouring everyone's thoughts now has got me doubling down on my usual worries/ I was skeptical of listening at first due to/ associations of Genesis/ as well as/ an almost impossible high wire act/ in which case, it's possible I've completely missed the point [in entering into contact with a world for which we are not made, which seems formless to us because our eyes do not perceive it, meaningless because it evades our understanding, which we can attain only through a single sense] I should make plans to revisit this project later in the year with a different mindset. And if it's not/ some kind of escape/ well, then that's OK too/ we can definitely recommend this album for those who want/ cheeses of concentrated revival/ and let's be clear - many of us "electro introverts" are envious of the extroverts who enjoy/ the normal excellence, of long accomplishment.
This is music not made by marketing teams or in boardrooms searching for a demographic to fleece, it is music made by/ birds - birds and sirens/ no boxes being ticked, no second guessing trends, just a welcome flashback to a/ certain Goldilocks zone of wishful reverie - not too heavy, not too light, neither forlorn nor jubilant/ we hear the bubbles swell into life and burst almost immediately, their existence necessarily fleeting/ it's hard to think of another electronic musician whose work feels so tactile/ melodies are woven together as if their respective elements were [multiform, undivided, smooth and colliding like the purple tumult of the waves when the moonlight charms them and lowers their pitch by half a tone] you get a real impression of time's palpable dilation with errant voice messages and recordings of life's activity/ largely lost in the translation of his current temper/ but this first impression should not be considered definitive [the only one which is purely musical, immaterial, entirely original, irreducible to any other order of impression] as we will see/ a cultural-leaning deliverance was just what was exuded at/ 3 a.m.
The first sound, low, humming drone, hovers around the ears as if sitting on a primeval airplane, disappearing into clouds [an impression of this kind, is for an instant, so to speak, sine materia. No doubt the notes we hear then tend already, depending on their loudness, and their quantity, to spread out before our eyes over surfaces of various dimensions, to trace arabesques, to give us sensations of breadth, tenuousness, stability, whimsy. But the notes vanish before these sensations are sufficiently formed in us not to be submerged by those already excited by the succeeding or even simultaneous notes] melodies are woven together as if their respective elements were concocted only to be synthesized by way of his imagination/ yet it takes a very long time to develop, and risks verging on dull/ is the album supposed to be this reflective and introspective? Possibly/ the energy here isn't exactly new, nor all that energetic, but it is aglow with/ the tock of snare and bass drum, a vocal loop that just slips beyond comprehension/ harpsichord, harp/ dainty blips and pops/ wistful timbres and delectable breaks/ from our concrete prisons and tie-wearing shackles.
Even if you're a vinyl purist make sure you get the download of this album and take it walking with you. It will help [to envelop with its liquidity and its 'mellowness' the motifs that at times emerge from it, barely discernible, immediately to dive under and disappear, known only by the particular pleasure they give, impossible to describe, recall, name, ineffable - if memory, like a labourer, working to put down lasting foundations in the midst of the waves, by fabricating for us facsimiles of these fleeting phrases, did not allow us to compare them to those that follow them, and to] elevate ourselves from our bone and flesh/ that little bit more/ electronic musicians have always tapped into a higher plane and we as listeners were happy to [differentiate them] we're the sort of folks who would rather crack open a track to examine what's inside at a respectable time of night/ I think it is definitely a better record for the daytime though. Probably dawn would be ideal. Listen to it outside, if you can/ the sun rises over the water. The endorphins flow.
Includes excerpts from: Marcel Proust, 'In search of Lost Time, Volume 1, The Way by Swann's' (Trans. Lydia Davis), London, Penguin Books, 1913/2002
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