Om isn’t looking to approximate thebombast of their father band Sleep. Although Sleep made at least one epic-length stoner metal anthem, Om triesto jump right for primordial spiritual minimalism, composing albums from 20minute undulant bass and drum dirges, ridden by bassist Al Cisneros’ chant-singingof nonsense adjectives and Tolkienian compounds that are luckily not loudenough in the mix to rise into meaning.Something about the strictness or the purposefulness of the form turnsme off. Everything is heavily composed,tight as a drum, to the point where, played loud, the instruments churntogether rather than rocking forth, a suitable aesthetic for Om’s purpose, butat odds with the notation and timbre of the sounds played, which are still verycaustic, attacking, very metal, full of laboring, intricate hammer-ons...lotsof notes played, not a lot of space between them.
I expect that if they are going to play thisway, with this same Sleepiness, then a logical progression exists leadingtowards freak-out, towards frayed edges, squalls and randomized sound, toward adopesmoker’s predictable decent into hands-up surrender to impulse. Ican’t ignore a degree of excess in the band’s execution; no matter theall-over-ness of the compositions, they teeter into a stubbornness thatdegrades their mood. …And they just plug away. I am no metalhead, but I enjoy my share of that, and certainlyminimalism, as a descriptor and genre-type, but I gained nothing from theseveral times I sat with this. It’s likelistening to a metal record skip mid-verse; the crescendos are surprisinglysmall and uninvolved, the bass distortion gathering everything into a blanketof sleepy sameness.
Though I hesitate todescribe something with such grounding in minimalism as predictable, it’s aword that communicates the dysfunction between Om’smethod and what I gather as their purpose. Granted, this purpose might feel served for someone who listens only tometal; however, I’ve never met such a person, or at least one whose taste was indiscriminantenough to let this stand for some kind of holy minimalism. Also, though I tried to turn it up, I’ve neverseen Om live, a potential mind-changer, as this kind ofmusic is always better when it’s shaking your chest. That said, maybe live is the only way theycan be appreciated; at barely over 30 minutes and boring, Conference of the Birds offers little argument.
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