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In my bedroom, behind my bed rests a small stereo which I've owned for approximately 9 years. One of my favorite moments of every day is falling back into a soft pillow with music playing while I fall asleep. Unfortunately the CD player portion of this stereo ceased to work over a month ago. I brought it into a trusted local shop and waited for nearly four weeks before it was returned to me. Unfortunately the CD portion couldn't be saved, but I could attach a portable and still get a good stereo sound behind my ears. Excited to have my player back behind my bed, 'EAR 2' was the first selection chosen to fall asleep to. Utterly blissful. Like 'EAR 1' released EARlier this year, this disc features (alleged) old sources of C&C material re-attacked with a focus on depth and space. 'EAR 2' is a revisitation of Cosey Fanni Tutti's "Time To Tell" release and while EAR1 featured about 15 medium-sized tracks, EAR2 features four long, stretched out drones with echoes and bleedings from "Time to Tell."
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- Carl Thien
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- Carl Thien
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- Carl Thien
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- Jon Whitney
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For a band known for playing so damned slow, Earth have evolved quickly the past few years. Their visionary work takes yet another step into uncharted waters on this new release. Billed as a continuation of last year's album of the same name, Earth's music takes a turn toward sparse improvisation, with a suite of five songs openly influenced by English folk-rock and blues.
Angels of Darkness, Demons of Light II was cut from the same sessions as its elder sibling, but doesn't share the same blueprint. Gone are fully composed, structured songs like "Old Black" and "Father Midnight," which opened the first album with plodding, desolate blues shot through with cello and low-end guitar/bass drone. Those two songs circled like vultures around their skeletal, stripped-down melodies for ten minutes at a clip, never veering beyond the guardrails imposed by the band's patient rhythm section. All told, those songs weren't a far cry from those on The Bees Made Honey in the Lion's Skull; new instrumentation aside, Angels I sounded like a refinement of that album's luscious, drone-heavy Americana.
On Angels II, however, the closest reference point is the fully improvised title track of Angels I, on which Lori Goldston and Dylan Carlson's tonal and melodic interplay meandered for 20 minutes, the rhythm section keeping (very slow) time at arm's length. In contrast to its neatly composed neighbors on Angels I, the title track seemed at odds with the rest of the album; now, it makes perfect sense alongside Angels II, which brings the band's improvisational skills into the limelight. Everything on Angels II was reportedly improvised in the studio, bringing an incredibly loose, relaxed, and laid-back feel to the album. It is also very clearly a team effort, with no single player stealing the spotlight or outshining the rest; these are balanced, full-band compositions through and through.
What surprises and pleases me most about Angels II—and has kept the album on repeat in my home for over a month now—is the spaciousness of the music. For a band that cut its teeth pioneering the feedback-laden world of doom metal, there is nary a trace of that genre's density of sound. Instead, the album's first track, "Sigil of Brass," kicks off with a subtle drone and Carlson's clean guitar playing a bare-bones melody, its notes borderline assertive enough to pierce the surrounding air. "His Teeth Did Brightly Shine" is all slow-motion guitar and bass interplay, with Adrienne Davies adding a feather's touch on cymbals to remind of her existence. Toward the end, a hint of dissonance enters as Carlson gently bends his guitar strings out of tune—a subtle touch that breathes new interest into the song.
Goldston finally makes her presence known on "Waltz (A Multiplicity of Doors)," her cello screeching and sawing away while the band ambles onward in 3/4 time—a waltz as imagined by drone connoisseurs. Midway through the track, the cello gets more aggressive, increasing in volume and tonal intensity, if not tempo, building the album's tension to a peak, then letting off again. It's a patiently composed piece that proves the old adage about the journey being more important than the destination. "The Corascene Dog" spotlights Carlson's guitar more so than anything else on the album, cycling through minimal chord progressions with ever so subtle changes in tone and phrasing, his playing clean and confident.
More than ever, Earth sound eager to push forward into new territory, content to let the growing legions of drone and doom metal acolytes—Sunn O))), Nadja, Barn Owl, Corrupted, Grails—carry Carlson's ancient torch. This bold mindset is best exemplified by the closing track on Angels II, "The Rakehell," its bluesy grandeur a sharp distillation of Earth's talents. The rhythm section has a newfound, gentle sway in its playing; instead of just hulking along patiently for 12 minutes, it actually swings—like a jazz band on slow-motion playback. Over this foundation, Carlson's guitar and Goldston's cello wind through a lovely, blues-based melody that seems all too familiar and nostalgic. This is gorgeous stuff, relaxed and spacious, full of life.
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Masaki Batoh, guitarist and leader of the Japanese psych-rock collective Ghost, is a man of many pursuits: music, acupuncture, science and spirituality. His first solo recording since the mid '90s is a result of years of research into bioelectric functions of the human brain, and the national tragedy that struck his home country while working on the album in Tokyo, Japan.
Batoh initially conceived of Brain Pulse Music by commissioning a device called the Brain Pulse Music (BPM) machine. Essentially, Batoh's aim was to translate brain waves—activity from the frontal and parietal lobes—into electronic sound. Tragically, when the Great East Earthquake hit Japan in March 2011, Batoh's goals with the BPM project took a sharp left turn, and it's impossible not to feel moved by the story: Batoh used his BPM machine (and its "music") to help reconcile and treat the spiritual needs of his acupuncture patients, while the album is intended as a prayer and requiem for his disaster-stricken country. (Oh, and a consumer-friendly version of the BPM machine—purportedly not unlike a guitar effects pedal—is forthcoming.)
As for the music itself, Brain Pulse Music is a bit of a mixed bag—sometimes more interesting to read about than to listen to. It is composed of two recordings from Batoh's BPM machine, as well as five recordings based on melodies and rhythms heard in Japanese religious rituals, played on traditional instruments. Concept aside, the BPM recordings sound straight out of a science fiction novel—amelodic, atonal, inhuman—which is just fine, except they aren't a compelling listen. Perhaps if used in an acupuncture setting they function differently; as is, they don't bring about any of the "inner peace" that Batoh might have been striving for. Honestly, I'm not sure what else to expect from a recording made by tracking human eye movements with two separate BPM machines ("Eye Tracking Test"), in which Batoh's concept and creative process are far more interesting than the end result heard on tape.
Fortunately, Batoh has augmented much of this music, based on the BPM machine's wave forms, with traditional Japanese instrumentation, which injects these inorganic, mechanical forms with natural life. At its best, the BPM machine creates a warm harmonic drone, which is sufficiently more interesting when combined with ancient folk idioms than on its own. Batoh has assembled a variety of acoustic instruments—flutes, wind pipes, gongs, wood blocks, Buddhist bells, even Shinto chanting—to bring his compositions to life. The result is worlds away from the American and European music in which many of us are immersed from birth. The easiest parallel is to Ghost's fine excursions into subdued psychedelia; unlike Ghost, Brain Pulse Music is more sounds than songs, which lessens the impact. Still, Batoh does a fine job curating the sounds of his country's folk music—chimes and bells, ceremonial percussion, wooden drum hits, bright flute melodies—into pieces that soothe, calm, and lull one's mind into a sense of peaceful tranquility.
The final track, "Aiki No Okami," is a startling diversion from the album's template, an attempt by Batoh to replicate the earthquake's effect (and to purge the anguish it has caused his country) with pure sound. He combines harsh bursts of BPM machine dissonance with distorted percussion, while the track's title—which translates to "Great Spirit of Aiki"—is chanted. Eventually, the noise rises to a piercing crescendo. Played at high volume, this is impactful and moving sound, acknowledging the natural disaster that inspired it while straining to match its impact blow for blow. While "Aiki No Okami" sounds quite unlike the preceding album, it shares the same intentions: music as therapeutic device, intended for healing.
As a worthwhile side note, Batoh is offering a well-intentioned incentive to buy, not download, the album (putting his money where his mouth is): all proceeds from Brain Pulse Music go to earthquake disaster victims through Japan Red Cross.
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