Ex-Jessamine member and Sunn 0))) contributor Dawn Smithson seems happily married to the autumnal nuance of desolation. Despite the title, Smithson's writing is dangerous, capable of unfolding and making the most resolute optimist feel wholly crazed and alone.Some albums can't help but exude loneliness, like they were forged in a model of Jandek's house located somewhere in remotest Nebraska. Joining Smithson is Rex Ritter of Fontanelle and Jessamine fame, Brian Foote of Nudge, David Farrell, and Jussi Brightmore. The majority of each song is encompassed in Smithson's elegant voice and her spirited guitar playing. While each song has a slow pace, her guitar work can sometimes be jumpy and intricate, teasing different rhythms out of the strings with no sign of repetition or design. Now and then a shimmering guitar will appear above hers, electric and ringing with despair in its voice.
I can imagine watching leaves falling over a valley deep in the mountains, lamentation for things that have passed pop up here and there, and ultimately there's no choice but to drive back home and face all the consequences of the past year. There's a quality to her lyrics that make me think of love letters found too late or of correspondence that details how utterly typical life has been lately. The music, however, is far from typical. Its quiet, pulsing rhythm feels a thousand times removed from the more insane guitar work that seems so popular, but it doesn't reference any distinct style that I can pin down and utilize successfully.
Just as Smithson sounds as though she's about to lapse into a Low-esque meditation on how the guitar is to be played, she shifts gears and allows more orchestration into her work, patterning her lyrics around the descending persistence of the album's somehow dire mood. Ever so slightly, like on "A New Day," hope comes shaking out of the background, capitalized by the accelerated pace of the music. Before that hope can really stand out, Smithson sinks it underneath an instrumental passage, leaving no words to place the music and it's dirge-like qualities.
Open the windows and soon the room will smell like the album sounds, the wind coming through the house will feel suspiciously still, and reminiscing will soon become impossible to avoid. To be honest, some of Smithson's lyrics are positive, completely betraying the mood the instruments establish. The cutting power of this record, however, isn't ruined by the contradiction, just strengthened by it. There's an ambivalence to Smithson's music that stands out and supports the feeling that it must've been created by tapping into someone's blood and sucking all the stories out of it. Simultaneously, it's a relaxing, soothing listen and no amount of emotional weight can keep it on the shelf.
There's always a desire to put on the record and simply follow along, pretending as though she is talking directly to me and laying out the past, for better or for worse.
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