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Current 93, "I Am the Last Of All the Field That Fell"
One of the many things that still keeps me excited about Current 93 more than 30 years into their career is that each new incarnation has the potential to be a stunning or reinvigorating reinvention of David Tibet's vision.  This latest line-up offers up an especially divergent and unexpected aesthetic, primarily due to the contributions of Dutch classical pianist Reinier Van Houdt and saxophone titan John Zorn. Although large parts of Field definitely fall a bit short for me, they are happily balanced by some truly wonderful and boldly original moments as well.
I am insistent that the opening "The Invisible Church" is a work of pure genius from start to finish, though absolutely no one seems to agree with me thus far.  It begins with some cascading and dissonant minor key chords from Van Houdt before cohering into a simple, melancholy chord progression that inexorably unfolds at a snail's pace, providing the sole constant in a song that seems constantly on the verge of unraveling.
Despite their eclectic backgrounds, every member of the group seems to organically and intuitively understand the "hallucinatory prog rock on the verge of collapse" aesthetic of "Church" perfectly, particularly former Cancer drummer Carl Stokes, whose slow-motion fills always sound like they might just abruptly stop or trail off into nowhere.  Another stand-out is Groundhogs' guitarist Tony McPhee, who contributes a host of very broken-sounding blues licks amidst the increasingly mournful oboe swells and twinkling piano divergences.  Naturally, Tibet himself is in fine form as well, purring apocalyptic poetry like a prophet in the midst of a fever dream.
That wonderful momentum thankfully extends into "Those Flowers Grew," which gradually takes Reinier's minor key arpeggios into increasingly propulsive and wild territory as Zorn's playing evolves from lyrical melodicism into something approaching free-jazz caterwauling amidst harsh snarls of wah-wah guitar.  By the time it reaches the end, it sounds positively unhinged.  Also, the sound itself is spectacular, as all of the various threads weave together with both presence and perfect clarity.  I was also struck by how comparatively loose and organic it felt, as it is rare for Current 93 to sound remotely like an actual band playing together in a room.
Unfortunately, the album then hits a prolonged lull with "Kings and Things."  Of course, the word "lull" is quite relative in the case, as Tibet himself remains magnetic and there is no dearth of great ideas–it is just that the band is never quite firing on all cylinders at once ever again.  Also, Tibet's consistent aesthetic vision of Field is a bit of an inherent liability, as I have never found a piano to be the ideal foil for his vocals and 11 piano-centric songs in a row definitely yields diminishing returns.
That lack of variety was made still more exasperating when I realized that James Blackshaw was relegated to bass and that Cyclobe's Ossian Brown was mostly just around to play hurdy-gurdy on a song or two.  Any respite from the piano at all would have been welcome, but–for better or worse–Rainier Van Houdt seems to be the primary non-David Tibet architect of this release.  Sometimes his playing is absolutely beautiful or virtuousic, particularly his runs into the higher octaves, but he can also seem weirdly leaden or straight-forward as well.  Those latter moments are quite confounding.
One such moment is the late-album nadir,"I Remember the Berlin Boys," a jaunty, lurching piece that would sound uncomfortably like it belongs in a community theater production of a popular musical were it not for David Tibet's ranting about invoking picnic demons into his loins (I certainly hope he succeeds).  Thankfully, the album unexpectedly surges to quite a strong finish after that, as "Spring Sand Desert Larks" offers up an invigorating dose of rapidly rippling, Lubomyr Melnyk-style arpeggios over a muscular waltz beat that almost sounds punk at times.  Also, it helps that Zorn turns up for some strangled saxophone flame-throwing near the end as well.  Field then draws to sublime conclusion with the tender Nick Cave- and Antony Hegarty-sung "I Could Not Shift The Shadows," which resembles a cross between a music box and an old, curiously worded spiritual.
Sadly, three or four fine songs do not quite add up to a great album or even a shadow of the band's Stapleton/Cashmore prime, but Field is at least a strange, bold, and improbable experiment that often works far better than I would have expected it to.  Tibet definitely stepped outside his comfort zone and enlisted a line-up that is bizarre even for a band that previously contained Sasha Grey, as I imagine no one ever expected a guitarist from a '70s British blues band (McPhee) and a controversial religious painter (Norbert Kox) to turn up on the same album.
Also, for lack of better wording, Field employs some very uncool elements in mostly cool ways: it is very hard to play a saxophone melodically in a rock context without sounding like you are celebrating the end of another successful episode of Saturday Night Live, for example.  I definitely appreciated that when it worked.  Consequently, Field's greatest appeal lies in its uniqueness and eccentricity rather than its quality, though I still maintain that at least "The Invisible Church" stands among Tibet's best work.  Also, it should go without saying that even a merely decent Current 93 album is more fascinating than the vast majority of the contemporary music landscape, but I will say it anyway.
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