Although Peter Wright is a talented musician who produces evocative drones, what separates his music on this album from others exploring similar territory are the field recordings underlying the mix which provide a narrative of sorts. If they don't add up to one grand tale, then it is these pockets of stories scattered throughout the album that lend it an emotional core.
For instance, when "Approaching Low from the West" becomes a high-pitched wail drowning all voices but its own, it's capped by a billowing cloud that disintegrates all that has come before. Combined with an ominous guitar on "Blue Ridge," the water and the boat slapping against a dock suggest an empty aftermath that mutates into the shouts, helicopters, and sly marching drum of the title track.
Field recordings aren't evident in every song, and sometimes the music alone must carry the narrative, if there is one. For me, these spots are a lull in the album, but perhaps a necessary sanctuary. It's not until a banshee tunnel becomes a gentle guitar and birdsong in "Cows" that a new morning seems possible. The journey ends bittersweet with "Infection" as ringing stars and Doppler memories preface an elderly woman recounting her troubles walking which, it turns out, is because of a chest infection. I'm not sure what this story of hers has to do with the album as a whole other than emphasizing life's frailty, but the sentiment itself is clear.
With a guitar, effects, and carefully chosen recordings, Wright has created an album of surprising beauty.
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