With "Ampday", the now canyon-sized fissures that were once tiny cracks in Kiln's parched-earth facade show more than mud and stone. Where in the past, Kiln releases provided the smallest bit of info possible, with only artwork and titles to satisfy eager minds - now, no longer must we wonder about our once-faceless Gaian scientists, and what arcane incantations were used in the creation of such wonderful sounds. Messr's Marrison, Rehberg, and Hayes, still playfully obtuse (what sound did the "levitating catslide" make?), seamlessly blend their twisting, ethereal instrumental pop with soundscapes that imitate the sounds of spreading rust or moss.
"Tinsunshine" is acoustic-driven and electrified at the same time, like a drum circle in a thunderstorm, with intermittent breaks of ear-tickling static and strummed guitar harmonics that mimic what must be the sound of angels crying; out of the itchy sound of pencil scratching paper on "Learning To Draw" grows an urgent ambulance siren/dopplered guitar, which gives way to calm meanderings of the trio, conjuring images of Ry Cooder's soundtrack to "Paris, Texas" redone by The Cocteau Twins. The attempts to integrate the group interactions with their penchant for earthy atmospheric wanderings are more apparent on "Ampday" than on previous releases, and it's done a deft touch. With each album, Kiln consistently shatter the Platonic Ideal of beauty and grace in music, only to rebuild it to a height out of reach of anyone but themselves.