In Death's Dream Kingdom

In Death's Dream Kingdom

Houndstooth 2018

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In its young existence, Houndstooth has developed a penchant for putting out music that feels ominously present. 2017 alone saw the release of acclaimed full lengths by label auteurs Throwing Snow, Special Request, and Call Super that tap-danced across electronic styles; each took ingenuous leaps forward with an aura of timelessness, and displayed beauty, freedom, and identity in strange sections of the minutiae. But the challenge faced by current musicians and record companies alike is maintaining universality, while staying mindful of the contexts that surround an ever-changing world around them.

Within this organization, most have come to understand that facing reality can be an unpleasant task. The averted closure of fabric, its parent organization and prolific nightclub, in 2016 was a painful ordeal for artists, fans, and figures behind the scenes whose painstaking efforts made their recent flourishes possible. Sadly, the scare was far from the only existential threat at play in this community and others over subsequent months of global turmoil and unrest. At a time when serious doubts and fears linger in the air with discomforting regularity, it should come as no shock that among this creative cohort, the UK, and beyond, the quality of “present” music and art is as important today as it ever has been.

With In Death’s Dream Kingdom, Houndstooth has seized the opportunity to showcase its resiliency, artistry, and audacity, grabbing it by the lapels and shaking loose twenty-five dreadfully gripping experimental tracks  by as many artists, managing more continuity than could possibly be expected in such an unprecedented form. The project’s title, derived from T.S. Eliot’s evocative The Hollow Men, is a fitting inspiration for a collective so stylistically scattered and adept at using non-linear approaches to develop synergy with their surroundings at large. To borrow Eliot’s words, they oblige to occupy a space “between the potency and the existence/ between the essence and the descent.” Befallen to derelict places, the poem extends an unsteady hand toward an intriguing if not insidious prospect for the figures involved, not only in their placement alongside other compelling artists on a beefed-up quasi-playlist, but also in drifting toward untrodden realms of noise and sound.

After parsing the anticipation of its announcement, the slow tease of its day-by-day releases, and its digital-only accessibility, the first indication of IDDK’s ambition comes from the diversity in its list of participants. A heterogeneous mixture sees masters of ambient, atmospheric styles featured next to peers best known for convulsive techno or unclassifiable avante-garde, and nearly everything in between. But if it seemed like the stark intimacy of Pan Daijing’s sinister work couldn’t share space with Bristol-based producers Hodge and Batu’s dub and bass, or that the Shapednoise take on Eliot’s line “shape without form” couldn’t follow the freakish energy harnessed by Gazelle Twin, their slick confluence will come as a surprise. Time and again, songs adhere to one another in the shadows (Spatial/ Yves De Mey) only to juke sporadically in jarring fits and starts, a texture that dovetails the possibility of slipping into the background and demanding full attention. The bulk and amalgamation are oddly functional in this way, carefully avoiding the pitfalls of turning complacent or redundant, despite serious volume.

But there’s more to the boldness of this array than its strange pairings or its massive appetite; the essential component is the singularity of its aesthetic. Creating sounds without limitation is liberating in theory, but the possibilities can be daunting without requisite points of focus or conceptual coherence. In this case, The Hollow Men is a five-part beacon and constant reference point. Its unsavory suggestions (“This is the dead land”) and overarching solemnity (“Quiet and meaningless/ As wind in dried grass”) offer a creative foothold, and impervious imagery catalyzes wicked chain reactions. Abul Mogard’s enveloping “Trembling with Tenderness” is IDDK’s most emotive effort, latching onto Eliot’s vulnerability and imitating it with deft touches and shifts of force. Later, it’s Roly Porter’s turn to give a literal interpretation in an infectious rendition of “Without Form”, complete with garbled swells of reckoning. The indirectness of the stanzas’ thick tones works just fine, too, as clearly evidenced by Petit Singe and Sophia Loizou’s mechanical entrenchment around harsher ideas, much in the same way the aqueous environments of Tomoko Sauvage and Koenraad Ecker compliment the poem’s organic material.

It’s the display in Jazz Szu-Ying Chen’s stunningly spare cover graphic that aptly and bleakly brings the connectedness of the literature, visuals and sound full circle. But, naturally, calibrations were needed to take the musician’s familiar methods and align them with the cloudy timbres called for in their prompt, where sensibilities are stripped skeletally bare, and an opaque blanket of fog rife with despair obfuscates the escape from an empty existence. For percussive techno producer Peter Van Hoesen, kick drums and four on the floor basslines are set aside in favor of bellowing drones and sweeps, creating what could be a soundtrack for a slow-motion collision of atoms. Others use outbursts of brooding energy to leave Burial-esque dark vibrations in the air; Pye Corner Audio’s “Box in a Box” churns along with heady determination, while ASC’s effort “Tesselate” uses its cosmic underbelly to reach for something more paranoid. Regardless of which tactic is employed, each song is its own house of cards, threatening to turn in on itself or collapse at the smallest provocation.

To be fair, ambition and curiosity aren’t exactly unprecedented for those behind Houndstooth’s unique vision. Rob Butterworth and Rob Booth, who in tandem run the label, have used their FABRICLIVE and Electronic Exploration series, respectively, for over a decade to give chances for both young and established musicians (including many that contributed tracks to IDDK) to spread a rarified, abnormal lens to the outer reaches of DJs and producers. Of equal significance, they’ve cultivated the symbiosis of community readily apparent throughout these recordings and in previous compilations, namely in the 111-take #SAVEFABRIC, which served as a precursor to their undeterred approach to voluminous collections, particularly in the underground.

In Death’s Dream Kingdom embarks on a mission to acknowledge the largess of streaming-era music consumption, but subvert the impersonality of “everything now” information seeking and instant gratification. Instead, at the core of its existence is a combination of sonic exploration and external awareness as a powerfully redemptive force. Amidst all of the boundary-pushing and aural shapeshifting are tracks comfortably adrift in the waters of abstraction, yet grounded in Eliot’s disconsolate thematics and bleak images. The dying energy of Ian William Craig’s sprawling “An End of Rooms” adds finality and a necessary moment of pause. Wide-eyed, shaken, and under the dim twinkle of a fading star, we’re left grappling with a compilation rooted in a century-old poem and in reality, one that will surely wind up being one of the most beautifully unsettling releases of the year.

Call Super- Arpo

Call Super

Arpo

Houndstooth 2017

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The freest iterations of electronic music exist outside of time and space; untethered, and without obligation to subject itself to confinement. The most eccentric versions defy conventional structures, opting instead for nuanced sounds that hum and hiss alongside choppy beats. Still, other albums in this space exude a sense of purpose; a predestined expressivity made possible by the sum of its smaller, organic parts. What, then, can be made of work that holds each of the above qualities at once all while subtly morphing and selectively shifting points of focus?

It is remarkably difficult to find a reference point for the music of Joseph Seaton, the Berlin-based Londoner whose work under his Call Super moniker has been met with growing critical acclaim. His new record, Arpo, seems to bear a resemblance to early Aphex Twin or Autechre, while the intermittent damp, lugubrious textures might call to mind Boards of Canada. These similarities, however, are just that and nothing more; the idiosyncrasies that lie within his abstract impressions of techno and dance music are distinctly his own, and aren’t directly derived from any of the scenes or genres that might inform his productions. Instead, Seaton eschews contemporary styles that may border on myopic or predictable, as well as “retro” electronic that leans toward antiquated, and relies on the slick pairing of electronic instrumentation with reedy woodwinds, oboes, and clarinets. Arpo, the creative fulfillment of a lonely artist’s contemplations, strikes a timeless, unique, and deeply satisfying chord.

From the onset, its songs and the sounds inside them establish an intricate tug of war; the haze of a nervous undercurrent fights with crisp, bouncing melodies for a place in view. The result is a cohesive, wandering whole that is as unpredictable in its movements as it is uncertain in moods. A heavy dose of ambiguity is not an accident, but rather a firm commitment to establishing a breadth of possibilities to its audience- originality and purpose go hand in hand here. Thematically, Call Super’s sophomore effort aims to capture the essence of his early morning walks back from his shows- while the world is calm yet undoubtedly alive- but at times even that narrative fades away beneath the flutters and blips in the background. It’s music that was made to get lost in.

In Seaton’s eyes, the interactions between his listeners and his albums extend beyond the sonic makeup of a given track; details like the physical layout of his LP’s and cassettes can enhance and alter the experience, while also creating opportunities for juxtaposition, contrast, and parallelism. In this record’s case, the A and B side start with an identical, smooth progression- opening track “Arpo”, tiptoes into foreign territory, only to give way to a punch of low-end bass and eerie atmospherics, while the longer “Arpo Sunk” is fleshed out and dialed back, helped along by the murky clarinet and oboe played by his father David Seaton, a fellow artist and painter. The disorienting feeling introduces a shift from the succinct nature of the early tracks to stretched out thought-pieces like “Ekko Ink” and “I Look Like I Look in a Tinfoil Mirror”, both of which spiral in a whirlwind of repetition before turning in on themselves and fading to quiet noise.

Scattered throughout are not only appearances of jazz instruments, but reminders of how much the genre helped nurture Seaton’s creative process. Songs showcase freedom in the ways that layers of the arrangement move seamlessly around one another without restriction; any instrument can move up or down in the mix without warning, establishing a kaleidoscopic quality to the textures of the music.  As the blissful “Music Stand” comes to an end, the lush chimes of a melody die out and collide with cascading remnants of an uneven rhythm, bleeding together like a trail of fresh ink smudged across a page. The closer, “Out to Rust”, builds steadily through a mélange of off-beat ambience, until the distorted squeals of his father’s reedy playing pass through a lens of paranoia and are refracted outward. Not for the first time, confusion abounds as the unassuming soundscape creates unease and comfort in tandem.

The totality of Call Super’s second album is a product of its creator’s open-minded and instinctual approach. Club-ready pulses are traded in for foggy and cerebral ruminations stretched across a mere forty-five minutes- an efficiency made possible only by a supremely pragmatic architect of sound. Arpo manages to meander while simultaneously having fluidity and a sense of direction. It feels alive, never standing still as it moves through its myriad transformations. Like waking up from a vivid dream, the inevitable snap back to reality leaves traces of the journey left behind. The unmistakeable sense that we’ve gone somewhere, escaped, and been better off because of it.

Real Estate- In Mind

Real Estate
In Mind
Domino Records 2017

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In listening closely to the run of three successive, excellent Real Estate albums, the term becomes less of a name and more of an adjective. Real Estate is their sound, and you know it when you hear it. Between its self-titled debut, endlessly enjoyable follow up Days, and beautiful, apex-reaching Atlas, mid-tempo rhythms and whimsically bouncy guitar became ingrained within their special brand of indie-pop. The music feels effortless, even though it isn’t.

The remarkable consistency in its sunny, melodic music owes much to a shared background of demo tapes and backyard jamming in their late teens. Progress and growth have been easy to chart, as the albums have thematically played out like many in their late twenties can relate to. First, the rejection of adulthood and its responsibilities, over a backdrop of breezy tunes that swirled with reverb. And second, the “oh shit, time has passed, how did I get here?” of stark reality setting in. The latter was embodied within 2014’s Atlas, which marked with clarity the maturation of Real Estate; that its music could truly be substantive and emotional, without abandoning the carefree core that soundtracked countless road trips, beach excursions, and drives down the coast for its audience.

With In Mind, the band finds itself charting new territory, sort of. The forced narrative that’s followed the release of their fourth album has been the departure of lead guitarist Matt Mondanile, who left the group to focus on his side project, Ducktails. However essential his jangly riffs may have been in tandem with Martin Courtney’s even vocals, to focus heavily on the lineup change would do a disservice to the continuity of sound that has persisted for nearly a decade. To put it in their own terms, “the sun’s still burning”, and you can be equally assured that as long as they exist, so will the refinement of their delicate soundscapes. As longtime friend and frequent contributor Julian Lynch steps in, the result is both a seamless transition, and a resounding confirmation of an idea that Courtney has preached for years. Real Estate music is a drink best sipped slowly and carefully; the close listener is rewarded by the beauty in its subtleties.

If there’s any critique that has persisted over the years, it’s been that maybe the sound is too consistent, to the point of being redundant. On this record, Courtney and his bandmates don’t just silently disapprove of that assessment, but make a serious effort to prove it wrong. Aided in production by Cole M. Greif-Neill, whose work with Beck, Ariel Pink, and Julia Holter has been widely lauded, they showcase an effort to diversify their sound in ways unheard in the past three recordings. After Days muddied surf-rock sound gave way to almost untouched, crystal clear production on its follow up, In Mind settles somewhere in between; added layers of synthesizer, introductions of drum kits, and varied guitar effects make the sound feel fresh and new.

These types of sonic experiments, the ones that evolve smoothly and without sacrificing the emotive beauty of past successes, are made possible by accepting uncertainty, and ultimately, reaching the contentment they were searching for three years ago. The feeling of empowerment is tangible, in a Real Estate way, and the unrelenting honesty permeates the entire record. Forming this connection opens the door to the finer details, which range from unassumingly profound to spectacularly mundane. Somehow, parroted proverbs seem just as intriguing as the “black and yellow finches” seen through the window.

Littered throughout the album’s eleven tracks are clues of newfound comfort pervading each song’s composition. Murmurings like “back where I belong” and “lately I’m inspired” spread across “Save the Song” are obvious, while side two’s “Same Sun” finds Courtney happily residing in the present (“When does one thing ever end and the next begin?”). “Stained Glass” pays tribute, as many Real Estate songs do, to the group’s suburban New Jersey roots. The guitar licks move together with Alex Bleeker’s bass, and the vivid imagery of scenic landscapes evoke daydreams of bliss-filled summer days.

On “Two Arrows”, the album’s longest track, the sparse percussion slows to a crawling tempo. Lynch’s simple, effective playing moves to the forefront, giving space for Courtney’s contemplations. “I’ll meet you in the morning/ beyond that I’ve got no plans,” he sings indifferently, put at ease by the freedom (or absence) of time. As the song is carried forward by the high “ping” of the guitar melody, its final words (“Although I know we go, I know not where”) unleash an outro of fuzzy guitar. Thought-provoking, and evidence of the Courtney’s personal strides overcoming the stresses and anxieties of being both a touring musician and father of two, the song is a microcosm of what makes the record as a whole stand out.

In Mind isn’t an affirmation of the band’s talent nor a fulfillment of their potential- that’s what Atlas was for. It is, however, an admirable demonstration that they can navigate changes in their lives and in their lineup, all while finding new ways to diversify and experiment with their sound. More importantly, the album breathes fresh air into the philosophy of all that is finite. Real Estate music, like anything in life, will someday end- that’s as certain as the sunrise that Courtney references throughout the record. What better a reason to celebrate something while we have it? To immerse ourselves fully into an art form that provides for us more than we could ever repay. To let go of that which is inevitable and bring ourselves peace of mind. Real Estate have come to understand this better than most, and, oddly, they’ve never sounded more timeless. In the end, it’s a welcomed reminder.

Thundercat- Drunk

Thundercat
Drunk
Brainfeeder 2017

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I’m just going to say it- Stephen Bruner is a weird guy. Even before listening to his third studio album as Thundercat, there were plenty of chances to see why. His best friend is fellow West Coast renaissance man Flying Lotus, a character deemed certifiably brilliant and insane. At last year’s Grammy’s he accepted an award for his Kendrick Lamar collaboration with a lightsaber in his waistband. Colorful clothing and headwear are a staple at most of his live shows. But in two (and a half) previous releases that provided more focus on Bruner’s moods and musical virtuoso than eccentric personality, it was difficult to imagine how or if the two might ever truly coalesce.

With Drunk, released on Lotus’ Brainfeeder label, Thundercat has his most honest and personal record yet. Its 23 quick-hitting tracks embody the ambition of their creator, all while painting the picture of a figure that has finally reached an equilibrium. Absent the overwhelming shadows of loss and grief that were cast over his wonderful 2015 EP Where the Giants Roam- a reflection on the tragic death of a lifelong friend- the album offers a glimpse at something much more frivolous. To its credit, it doesn’t completely give up the serious considerations included in his past discography. Instead, it hides them behind a backdrop of initially light-hearted instrumentals and ideas, before eventually fading into an alcohol and drug-induced stupor that, suddenly, feels surprisingly assured. Rampant allusions to death and mortality are replaced by odes to Bruner’s cat. Rather than grasping at relationships and pondering the meaning of life and the soul, he’d rather play Mortal Kombat. This time around, it’s Thundercat’s world, and we’re just living in it.

As a bass player, there was little left for Bruner to do to validate his unmatched skillset. Not only were his two prior full-length albums sparkling compositions of jazz and soul themes, but his myriad collaborations ranging from Erykah Badu, FlyLo, Kendrick Lamar, and hardcore punk band Suicidal Tendencies proved his chameleon-like quality that fit in with whichever style surrounded him. In each case his tight grooves and clever jamming added layers of depth, and epitomized his strongest traits that pervade his solo outputs. Here, however, it becomes clear that his new work wasn’t about validating, but innovating, and doing so on his own terms.

Drunk manages to raise the bar in ways that embrace but challenge his natural talents. The appearance of yacht-rock legends Kenny Loggins and Michael McDonald on “Show You the Way” sounds pure and romantic, and is an unexpected but resounding success. The techno that fills “Tokyo” marks a clear divergence from convention, and has Lotus’ producer fingerprints all over it. Likewise, the dizzying synths on “Real Friends” add electronics to the ambiguous and broad classification of Thundercat’s music. As he continually expands and refines his musical palette, which now includes ‘70s funk, jazz-fusion, and soulful R&B, among others, categorizing him is inevitably a tall task (and an unnecessary one, if you asked him).

Most rewardingly, the record showcases the growth of Bruner’s falsetto, which has evolved from an experiment to a strong point; from a question mark to an asset. The sunny “Bus in These Streets” feels light and playful as he exhales observations between the striking chimes of a xylophone. On “Them Changes” his voice climbs from a funky melody to meet smooth keys and the saxophone of frequent-collaborator Kamasi Washington. He encapsulates the balance struck between dwelling on and overcoming challenges, and reaching a point of comfort (“Somebody tell me how I’m supposed to feel/ When I’m sitting here knowing this ain’t real”). The uncertainty and exasperation in his words are ultimately overshadowed by the clarity of his voice.

These genre-branching variations represent the ascension of an uber-talented bass-player into an artist that can push past preconceived notions without giving up the core that served him well throughout his gradual rise. Over the course of the album’s zig-zagging two and three minute songs, Bruner displays just enough zeal to make it look like he’s working toward something singular, only to change direction just before it materializes. Alternating between the seemingly silly (“You are so drunk, you miss it all/ just make sure you have the right Jordans on”) and undeniably profound (“I’d rather be up my mind/ than to be dead alive”), the journey never seems pointless even if it doesn’t lead anywhere in particular. There’s never been a better opportunity to peer into the sometimes dark, often hilarious mind of Thundercat.

There’s a reason Bruner has a knack for creating music that feel fresh and exciting, and it’s all about his approach. For him, song-writing isn’t about reaching a clear endpoint or even honing in on a specific sound. Rather, his ideas and themes are a starting point that take him into unchartered territory. There’s no confinement; he’s just slipping down the rabbit hole. In this case, it’s the laid-back authenticity that makes Drunk so rewarding. After coming to terms with how to accept pain, to embrace the travails of being black in America, he’s left to live his life, abandon sobriety, and make his music the best way he knows how- with total freedom to do whatever he wants. And, yes, of course, that means it gets weird.

Sonic Youth- The Diamond Sea

The Diamond Sea (Washing Machine, Side B)
Sonic Youth
DGC Records 1995
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Which is more surprising- that Sonic Youth released a lead single that evoked descriptors like “stunning” and “beautiful,” or that they did so in the form of a twenty-minute symphony of scarcity? Yes, this is the same Sonic Youth that comfortably reside at the precipice of post-punk grunge music, who have made a career out of accentuating the abrasiveness of supremely talented instrumentalists and, for lack of another word, love to beat the hell out of their famous Jazzmaster guitars.

Unbeknownst to anyone else, hidden underneath layers of angst, sex-drive, and pulsating rhythms, was a desire to bring out the intimacy in their music, and it culminated in the most contemplative and expansive song the band ever recorded. That isn’t to say that it’s quiet, but it is much more methodical and pensive than the majority of its previous work. The trademark screeching of frantic guitars still makes appearances, but that isn’t the point. Rather, the piece is a powerful sound experiment that takes the focus away from traditional song structures and towards the murkiness of the band’s characteristic and idiosyncratic guitar sounds.

“Time takes its crazy toll,” Thurston Moore sings to begin the spectacle that caps off the positively-viewed Washing Machine. He is right, of course, after reflecting upon a period that saw him and Kim Gordon, also a singer and guitarist in the band, get married and have their first child. In contrast to Gordon’s voice, which at its most crass is almost unintelligible, the song showcases Moore’s delivery as crystal clear and ethereal in its two short appearances. Alternating between words of warning (“You reflected into his looking glass soul/ Now the mirror is your only friend”) and offering advice (“Sail into the heart of the lonely storm/ And tell her that you’ll love her eternally”), the delicate lyrics are both surprising and comforting.

What sets the song apart is its dedication to continuity in its textures. From the onset, the wah-wah sounds of delay effects signal a commitment to the group’s ethos- noise creation, atypical guitar tunings, and the organized chaos of extensive reverberation and feedback loops. The trio of guitars (Gordon, Moore, and the irreplaceable Lee Ranaldo) wander around the unusually subdued percussion of drummer Steve Shelley; at times droning and swirling without a sense of direction, and at others strutting and interweaving in a more traditional sense.

To the unfamiliar listener, the notion of intimacy and acute focus carry an enormous asterisk- the song embodies intimacy in a Sonic Youth sense. After all, this is the same group that was influenced heavily by ferocious noise bands of the 1980s like The Jesus and Mary Chain and My Bloody Valentine. In other words, the song still contains the grunge-laden hardcore themes of past successes and influences, only with a fragility unseen to this point in their careers.

By the time Moore’s voice returns for a brief intermission after seven and a half minutes of jamming, we are reminded that the listening experience did not happen in a vacuum- time actually has passed us by, and the imagery (“look into his eyes and you shall see/ why everything is quiet and nothing’s free”) is as vast and daunting as the allusions to the sea. This idea materializes in sonic form through reverb-drenched noise that fills the remaining twelve minutes. It ebbs and flows, fades in and out, and casts an aural shadow that begins at a lull and  eventually swirls into the suffocating but deeply intriguing feedback that fans have grown accustomed to. It’s fascinating, terrifying, maddening, and exactly why Sonic Youth is one of the most ingenuitive bands of its era.

“The Diamond Sea” is a winding tour through the ideas that have sparked the now-split band’s enviable triumphs. Moore’s lyrics are surrounded by a brief pop melody that brings back early memories of Daydream Nation. Ranaldo finds himself at his consistent best playing with and off of Gordon. The unfurling and volatile noise that closes the track is what listeners knew they always wanted. The song is less a fork in the road than it is a line in the sand. This is who they are. The courage to paint that picture in a bold, new way is deeply satisfying.

Tycho- Epoch

Epoch
Tycho
Ghostly International 2016

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David Longstreth, front man of established indie-rockers Dirty Projectors, raised a question last week that elicited fractious responses from fellow musicians and critics alike. He wondered, thinking in retrospect of the musically fertile, cutting-edge 1990s, whether music must necessarily contain the ambition to blaze new trails- to do something that hasn’t been done before- to be considered great. While drastic, his question is quite relevant and should be given its due consideration. In fact, it tackles a quandary that many musicians face, particularly after achieving moderate success. To continue honing in on this area of skill and comfort, or push the envelope to conquer a different niche or technique? The answers are typically far from straightforward.

While its new album came months before this discussion was brought to the forefront, Tycho- Scott Hansen’s musical project turned full band- offers a passionate response. Epoch, the third record of a trilogy that follows 2012’s Dive and 2014’s Awake, strikes a delicate balance between diversified sounds and the familiarity of atmospheric electronics that have accompanied Hansen’s past offerings. In terms of its greatness, it takes no background knowledge of the group to realize that originality isn’t the intended focus of its work, nor the benchmark for its quality, as Longstreth might require. Rather, Tycho is about feeling. It’s a projection of Hansen’s feelings, but it, more importantly, evokes feeling from the listener. Epoch’s dreamy melodies, punchy guitar and smooth bass surround eleven mystical tracks; mirroring themes of its predecessors, all while exhibiting unquestionable refinement.

Consistent throughout Tycho’s various ideations has been its accessibility to listeners- perhaps its best quality. Regardless of whether it’s called chill wave, electronic rock, or ambient (Hansen couldn’t care less), what makes it stand out is an endearing focus on simplicity, and this holds truer for the new record than of any before it. Add to it the shapeshifting of songs in and out of frenetically-paced percussion and languid soundscapes, and you get a fitting culmination of three successive attempts to get “it” right-. “It” is the intentionally ambiguous creation that manages to illuminate both the spectacular and mundane. Unique to the overall sound of this record is a noticeable advancement of the “band” identity, something that expectedly took time to develop from Tycho’s solo-bedroom-project roots. Live guitar player and co-producer Zac Brown excels with his sparse, tasteful, psychedelic picking, and dynamic rhythms pair gracefully with the group’s layered sounds. The growing awareness breeds expectedly sunny and more complicated melodies by Hansen, as well as sporadic changes of pace between and within tracks.  

Opening song “Glider” encompasses the collection of sameness and variation that fills the entire record. Interweaving synthesizer patterns and single-note riffs swirl as momentum builds, and the song explodes into swelling bliss. A-side standouts “Horizon” and “Epoch” showcase similar displays of brilliance; a mastery of repetition urges the listener to become lost, either in the song or outside of it in the surroundings. With careful listening, Hansen’s personal narrative that accompanies the album (hint: the word epoch literally is a reference to a specific point or period in time) is evident. He doesn’t look backwards simply for the nostalgia, and the music he makes certainly serves as a reflection. The end goal is to consider the past- through memories, or mistakes or something similar- and present it in a new way.

 On the B-side, tracks like “Division” and “Rings” allude to elements as far as the decade-old Past is Prologue, but thankfully don’t sound dated. As is typical of almost any Tycho output, the melodies are bright and uplifting, calm but decisive, organized and full of life. “Fields,” the final song on the record, fulfills the role that “Elegy” and “Plains” did on the two albums before it; quiet and delicate, the rare appearances of guitar are heavily drenched in reverb, proceeding slowly and careful into the calmed consciousness of the listener.

Curiously lacking from the album, upon completion, is a clear meaning to the spacey, rewarding completion of another beautiful Tycho record. There’s no obvious take home message, and it’s intentional. While, to Hansen, the album represents an opportunity to convey ideas from a time from the past in a new, refreshing light, that experience is highly individual. His goal, which is either admirably bold or highly questionable, is to not clutter his songwriting and production process with a cohesive meaning for the listener to gather. In other words, it’s intended to mean whatever you want it to.  The dangers of such a strategy are obvious- make music without a firm meaning, and it lacks substance to the point where listeners can’t relate. The upside, which Hansen certainly taps into, is a widely accessible, overly personal listening experience, and one that is consistently rewarding.

When David Longstreth furrowed his proverbial eyebrows on Instagram as he thought about what characteristics of music amount to lasting quality, it was Robin Pecknold of Fleet Foxes who leapt to the defense of the many bands and artists that felt unfairly criticized for making unoriginal records. With such a controversial comment, the musical community can almost thank Longstreth for providing an opportunity to consider what it is that music contains or evokes that holds the most value to us, the consumer of ideas and sounds. For Tycho, it’s an unwavering attempt to unlock feelings and emotions. The warm instrumentals that fill the most recent Epoch belong equally in the car while sitting in traffic or peering outwardly high from the mountain tops. In truth, its style is both simplistic and sophisticated, the ultimate compliment for an artist whose intense focus welcomes the scarcity of only the essentials above all else.