Composed of spacious flute tones and the buzz of unseen action, the central 38 minute piece achieves what Mirror always seems to be aiming for: the frozen beauty of a moment.


Plinkity Plonk


Andrew Chalk and Christoph Heemann are the core of Mirror, surrounding them for this performance are David Keenan (author of England's Hidden Reverse), Gavin Laird, and Alex Neilson (seen drumming for The One Ensemble of Daniel Padden and Jandek). Viking Burial for a French Car is Mirror's strangest title yet, a departure from their usually ambivalent or strongly symbolic titles that have always blended very well with their music. The mood on this record, however, betrays the title and, as usual, swirls in a mass of ascending and descending sections. It sounds like a storm of rattles and whines plowing over an old Japanese pavilion, hunting for a lonely and scared man caught inside. The splashes and sudden explosions of metallic and percussive weight can be nothing less than a pounding at the doors of this pavillion, the work of an Oni fulfilling his duty as a hunter of all things evil.

More than any other Mirror album that comes to mind, Viking Burial emulates movement without admitting of any distinct section. There can be no movement in the piece because there is no sudden change, no radical fluctuation except in volume and intensity. No part moves into another, rather every sound seems to evolve from and admit to influence from prior sounds, from the sounds that begin the entire piece. The result is a perfect stasis where pure tonal beauty is captured accurately. All things will age and decay and, in some ways, art is the preservation of beauty or whatever topic is desired by way of freezing the topic in a certain place, in a pleasing location that suits some ideal.

In this case tension and apprehension are frozen beautifully, caught in their hovering, unrevealed power. No monster is ever seen, the Oni never tears down the wall of the pavilion, but the fear of death and the pathetic cries for mercy that must be cried in any severe crisis are bled from every surface Mirror pulls out of their equipment. As feet flop across a tiled floor and the flutes detune into distant sirens there is a distinct impression that the end is waiting just over the horizon. There is a faint red glow slowly expanding through the sky and its progress marks an abhorrent event, but it never reveals itself completely. It is only a threat, an unspeakable flash detailing the brevity of what exists and how nothing frozen in time by humankind's work is ever safe from decay and loss.

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