Ambient

Listening Through the Body in the Music of Sarah Davachi

| Tyran Grillo

In the music of Sarah Davachi, sound remains suspended beyond the moment of its apparent exhaustion, gathering strange internal populations as its harmonics fracture and quietly reassemble. What initially presents itself as stasis develops a secret grammar of departures, an entire cosmology folded into the infinitesimal distance between two frequencies. The ear, accustomed to locating movement in the passage from one event to another, must relearn the contours of an event whose distances are buried within it. A barely perceptible alteration in pitch opens a wound across the whole duration, exposing the fragile membranes through which consciousness negotiates its relationship with the audible. Each resonance becomes an archaeology of its own disappearance, a spectral excavation of possibilities held captive within the seemingly immovable. One begins to suspect that time possesses no reliable exterior, that every second harbors its own miniature antiquity, and that listening is the delicate violence by which we break into it. Davachi’s compositions inhabit this ontological fissure with extraordinary patience, allowing sound to become estranged from its origins until even the familiar reveals the exquisite foreignness of its existence.

Such music emerges from an imagination profoundly attuned to the afterlives of instruments, particularly their capacity to preserve obsolete understandings of what it means for the world to vibrate. Davachi’s pipe organs carry the accumulated breath of structures designed to give eternity a physical address, while her electronic instruments disclose a more intimate archaeology of voltage and decay. Her engagement with temporarlity subjects the very possibility of consonance to philosophical scrutiny, exposing harmony as a provisional agreement between matter and the cultural imagination. A chord can preserve the memory of an entire system of listening through which earlier ears organized the permissible universe; a single overtone can dismantle that universe without ever raising its voice. Here the Renaissance continues to dream through the nervous system of modernity, and the boundary between the sacred and the mechanical dissolves into a deeper uncertainty about where human intention ends and the secret autobiography of matter begins. Every perception arrives fractionally late to its own happening, already carrying the faint sediment of something irretrievable. Such belatedness gives Davachi’s work its peculiar tenderness, as she asks the ear to become answerable to events that cannot quite be claimed as present.

Recorded in Los Angeles throughout 2020 and released the following year on her Late Music imprint, Antiphonals retreats from the monumental expanses of Cantus, Descant into a more intimate architecture of resonance and remembrance. Entirely composed, performed and produced by Davachi, its eight compositions draw upon the spectral vocabulary of the Mellotron, whose simulated instrumental voices mingle with electric and pipe organs, harpsichord, piano and synthesizer. These instruments seem to speak through one another’s mouths, each timbre trailing an afterimage that cannot be returned to its source. The title evokes the ancient liturgical practice of alternating voices, yet these exchanges unfold within a solitary consciousness, each utterance answering another across the immeasurable distance between sound and its recollection. One hears the same mind assuming the roles of supplicant and sanctuary, of an unseen singer whose throat has been replaced by corridors. The album’s silences acquire the thickness of walls that have absorbed centuries of prayers without ever understanding a word.

The opening “Chorus Scene” puts a rusted harpsichord on the edge of mutability in the night, its brittle articulations attended by electronic tones that soften the undercurrent with their song. The instrument seems to be reading a letter from the future in an alphabet made entirely of hinges. From this uncertain threshold, “Magdalena” touches us with the organ-shaped song of a thought that finds our secrets, working itself into an iron filament pulled through the marrow. As synthesized wonders reveal their light amid the darkness, we are taken into an inner sanctum that cannot be located on any map of the body. The melodies never quite consent to being possessed. They pass through attention in the very act of teaching attention how to receive them, leaving the heart momentarily stained by colors for which vision has devised no name. A more secular beauty enters by way of “Gradual of Image,” whose folkish accessibility makes room for the wandering soul that might reach out for a melody and discover an entire history of touch concealed inside it.

Yet this tenderness has a shadow. In the distorted reaches of “Border of Mind,” the music brings us face to face with our wounded selves, while “Rushes Recede” offers the uncanny sensation of a stained-glass heart cradling hymnody in its blood-bearing chambers. These interiors are neither wholly consoling nor wholly threatening; their beauty consists in refusing to conceal what the light discovers. Elsewhere, the drones of “First Cadence” and “Doubled Flutes” pour illumination at dream speed, stretching the interval between recognition and understanding until the two appear to have been born in different centuries. Even the withheld motion implicit in “Abeyant” suggests a harmony engaged in the delicate work of self-awareness. Underlying this hushed communion is the suspicion that the ear can encounter its deepest interior only by listening to something it cannot identify as its own.

That suspicion undergoes a more concentrated trial in Basse Brevis, co-commissioned by Radio France and INA GRM and premiered at the 2024 Présences festival dedicated to Steve Reich. In this eighteen-minute enmeshment of organ and synthesized voices, Davachi extends her minimalist investigations into the intricate relationships between timbre and duration, letting the gradual evolution of sonic material become an exercise in perceptual displacement. The distinction between instrument and artifact grows porous, gradually erasing the fingerprints of its own manufacture. Between instrumental resonance and musique concrète, abstraction acquires an unexpected tenderness; each tone feels at once exposed and inaccessible, a piece of matter dreaming that it possesses an inward life. The listener is asked to inhabit a structure whose dimensions change only when one stops measuring them, an acoustic building secretly rearranging its egresses around the person standing inside.

Something resembling an uncovering of sin touches the sky with its highest flames. The music conflagrates into the ashen skeletons of our most untoward thoughts, and for a moment we wish to crush them into powder and throw them into the nearest river. Davachi instead refashions these remains into a subtle yet crucial monument to the life we used to live and from which we now deviate in search of something pure and good. The gesture is troubling precisely because the monument refuses to entertain absolution. It preserves our former selves without granting them the privilege of innocence, allowing the listener to experience memory as a material still undergoing its own composition. Formal exploration and emotional immediacy occupy the same perceptual space; one feels the mind approach its deepest disfigurements by way of almost imperceptible changes in resonance. And while the piece seems to end where it started, a global circulation of thought has occurred, slingshotting consciousness backward in order to move on.

The scale of this investigation expands dramatically in The Will of Tongues, which stretches beyond two hours across three LPs. Thirteen compositions probe the boundaries of harmonic perception, gathering five solo works for historical pipe organs recorded across North America and the Netherlands alongside choral writing and microtonal instrumental encounters. An extended chamber work intertwines a string trio with organ and tape, deepening the inquiry. Musicians including Whitney Johnson and Eyvind Kang enter this field of resonances, with Lucy Railton and ensembles such as Chamber Choir Ireland contributing to its intricate human circuitry. Davachi’s enduring interest in tuning theory assumes an almost biological dimension: musical ideas migrate between instrumental bodies, undergoing tiny mutations until their identities can no longer be secured by the material that first carried them.

The first of its dispersed “Interludes” begins with strings whose metallic dissonances hover over fragile harmonies, opening a texture so encompassing that the very distinction between surface and depth seems briefly suspended. Farther along, an answering woodwind meditation restores a more harmonious balance to this cosmos, though its equilibrium never loses the memory of disturbance. When the brass eventually take their turn, their collective breath suggests one larger organism laboring to pronounce a consensus vowel. The movement among these instrumental families produces an antiphony on a scale more bodily than architectural, carrying forward the private exchanges of Antiphonals into a community of resonant flesh. The choral “Songs of the Smile’s Fig” introduce another series of arches, enchantments born of everyday interactions and the small interruptions that arrest us at the fragile edge of life. Their organ ancestry can be heard passing through the human throat, where resonance becomes newly vulnerable to the possibility of breaking. What holds a mirror to the soul here is also capable of cracking it. A voice does not merely occupy a note; it must risk an entire body to keep that note alive.

At the center stands the massive two-part “The Rose Dialogues,” meshing strings and drone with an eye turned on the imperfections of the flesh. Its title opens a botanical wound: thorn enters blood, and the rose begins to resemble an argument between what can be touched and what can only be imagined through touch. The senses negotiate this profound disconnect between the physical body and the metaphysical world by giving us a taste of what lies just beyond their own grasp. The music maintains a delicate interval between corporeal resistance and spiritual appetite, allowing each to reveal the other’s unfinished dimensions. Around this central wound, the organ works pursue their own forms of divided speech. “Canto Solo” and “Canto Duo” undulate at the pace of a tidal shift, in which even one tone can contain the outline of an interlocutor, and even dialogue can disclose the intolerable loneliness of being heard.

Other correspondences develop across the album’s expanse. Separated by the intervening music, “The First Tuning” and “The Second Tuning” appear as windows turned toward each other from different buildings, each illuminating a bright expanse in which the blood drops of the human condition become impossible to ignore. To tune is to admit that there exists a difference between where we are and where we mean to arrive, however minute or unreachable that distance may be. Buried among these proliferating relationships, “Four Narrow Forms” pulls the organ’s breath until it seems to have nothing left to say. Yet this extremity is also strangely generous. The instrument’s apparent depletion exposes the physical effort sustaining what we too readily call eternity, reminding us that even an apparently disembodied resonance depends upon mechanisms that can fail. From this recognition emerges an acoustical codex of hesitation. Listening must remain vulnerable to phenomena too gradual to possess.

Across these works, Davachi stages an encounter between the mortal body and the impossible duration it has invented instruments to imagine. Perhaps the deepest provocation resides in the suggestion that our ears are themselves historical instruments, tuned by choices made before we ever drew breath. Consonance, in this sense, becomes an inherited belief whose laws can be revised by the slightest disobedient overtone. There is tenderness in that possibility, though it carries an ethical question disguised as an acoustic one: Whose future listening are we helping to make possible?

The Caretaker: Everywhere At The End Of Time

| Tyran Grillo

Somewhere beyond the last remembered melody, a room is waiting for us to remember that no human being belongs entirely to memory. Its confines continue to breathe long after the drywall of experience has surrendered to oblivion, while the invisible inhabitants of its past move through one another with the exquisite indifference of ghosts who have misplaced the circumstances of their deaths. Perhaps memory has always been an elaborate misunderstanding between presence and disappearance, a clandestine negotiation through which consciousness persuades itself that what has passed remains available for retrieval. We inhabit the ruins of our own becoming, adorning their corridors with images whose origins grow increasingly illegible, trusting in the fragile hospitality of recognition to shelter us from the terrifying possibility that our lives have already begun to forget us. Music offers a particularly seductive refuge from this predicament. Its repetitions confer upon transience the illusion of permanence, allowing what has vanished to return under the auspices of a familiar cadence. Yet beneath every recurrence lies an infinitesimal displacement, a subtle estrangement through which the present discovers its inability to coincide with its former incarnations. The melody remembers something its listener cannot, even as the listener attributes to its unfolding an intimacy that may never have existed. Such is the beautiful treachery of nostalgia, whose most enduring achievement consists in transforming absence into an almost tactile substance. And somewhere beyond that substance, where the distinction between recollection and invention becomes impossible to sustain, an entire universe awaits its own unmaking.

Into this labyrinth of vanishing correspondences, James Leyland Kirby, under his spectral alter ego The Caretaker, deposits the extraordinary six-and-a-half-hour Everywhere At The End Of Time, a monumental undertaking whose six stages unfold across an increasingly unstable geography of remembrance. Conceived as an artistic meditation on the progression of dementia, the work excavates the exhausted glamour of antique ballroom recordings, letting their melodies circulate through successive degrees of distortion until the possibility of musical recognition begins to disintegrate. What initially glimmers with the tarnished elegance of an abandoned social ritual gradually submits to an acoustics of ontological bewilderment, where every recognizable fragment carries within itself the premonition of its eventual illegibility. Here, the phonograph becomes an instrument of metaphysical excavation, unearthing the remnants of experiences that have survived their own intelligibility. The grain of a recording acquires the density of an ancestral wound; a half-obscured orchestral phrase opens upon an abyss of unremembered tenderness. We hear these sounds through an elaborate inheritance of absences, for their original listeners have long since relinquished their places within the world. Even their anonymity acquires an almost unbearable intimacy. Somewhere a trumpet continues playing for a woman whose face has disappeared from every photograph, its metallic throat preserving an affection no living witness can authenticate. A piano bends toward an unfinished dance, waiting for the hands that once taught its notes the meaning of proximity. The music circulates through an impossibly elaborate genealogy of vanished encounters, offering itself as evidence for experiences whose existence we can neither establish nor deny. We recognize something. Perhaps we have always recognized it. Perhaps recognition itself is the first symptom of an error whose consequences have yet to disclose themselves.

When we push ourselves through these lenses, it is astonishing what details are revealed in the in-betweenness of light. There are windows of time, each a flushed cheek embarrassed by the hint of love, yet perpetually on the edge of awareness. Pianos reveal their inner organs, each atrophying at its own pace, so that marking the passage of life becomes an exercise in futility, its cessation indistinguishable from its inception. “It’s just a burning memory” opens upon an almost indecent tenderness, a melody whose apparent familiarity arrives already contaminated by the possibility of its disappearance. Its repetitions provide the illusion of reassurance, although each return seems to have misplaced an infinitesimal portion of its own history. The horns emerge from the depths of our hearts and lungs, transformed by their passage into the outside world, where the first touch of air begins to corrode their cause. Sometimes there is scarcely a melody to shelter, only the tragedy of old vinyl caught in its own unresolved crackling, a tiny mechanical caesura endlessly rehearsing the circumstances of its infliction. Yet how strangely beautiful this damage becomes when heard through the fragile hospitality of reminiscence. We begin to desire the deterioration itself, listening for scratches as evidence that something has endured the violence of time. There is an almost erotic confusion in this attachment, for the aggrieved recording offers us the impossible pleasure of approaching what we cannot restore. One might even imagine that every remembered life consists of a similar arrangement, its coherence sustained through repeated encounters with the places where coherence has already failed. Still, the melody continues, while in the back of the room, a person is standing beside a window. The window faces a garden, or perhaps the garden is a photograph. It is difficult to tell from this distance. The person turns. We know the face. We have seen it before, although the circumstances escape us. There is a name for this feeling. There must be.

The intervening stages make increasingly uncertain demands upon the grammar of recognition. “Misplaced in time” suggests an estrangement that has penetrated beyond the boundaries of any particular recollection, while “Denial unravelling” seems to describe a consciousness losing the very instruments through which refusal could be articulated. These compositions are extracted from their own cellular makeup, rendered into a serum to be circulated back through the self, where their supposed restorative properties disclose an intimate toxicity. An orchestral phrase begins with the conviction of arriving somewhere, only to discover that its destination has withdrawn from existence. The same interval returns, carrying a slightly different account of what preceded it. The ear attempts to gather these irregularities into a recognizable sequence, but the sequence has forgotten the principle by which its elements were once related. We might call this confusion, although the word assumes an earlier condition of clarity whose existence becomes increasingly suspect. Perhaps identity has always amounted to a provisional arrangement of memories whose coherence we mistake for an enduring self. Perhaps the assurance of consciousness depends upon the willingness of yesterday to answer when today calls its name. Yet something remains troubling about these formulations. Their elegance seems to presume a spectator capable of contemplating the erosion from an intact position of knowledge. How easily philosophy transforms another person’s vulnerability into a mirror for its own anxieties. How readily the aesthetic representation of dementia risks confusing the collapse of recognizable form with the disappearance of the person who once inhabited it. I want to preserve this distinction. I remember wanting to preserve it. There was something important here about the distance between listening and knowing, about the danger of imagining that another consciousness becomes available to us through the very act of depicting its inaccessibility. I had been following a thought through the music. It concerned the person beside the window. No, there was no person in the music. There was a window. I think the distinction matters.

By Stage 4, distortion has assumed an authority that the surviving melodies can no longer challenge. Familiar tunes take on the inevitability of decay, wearing it as a new skin against the current of a relentless decline. String remnants collide within enormous chambers of sound, their former relationships compressed into a density that resists interpretation. Snippets of memory, fragmentary conversations and unfinished sentences become the new normal, flashing in slow motion as though signaling to some faraway vessel that never answers back. The compositions seem to stretch themselves across impossible distances while contracting around a center that cannot be located. There are moments when a recognizable contour almost escapes the tumult, only to be drawn back into the machinery of its own disintegration. The ear searches for continuity and discovers that continuity has become a demand imposed upon something no longer capable of satisfying it. Somewhere a phrase is beginning again. It has already begun. Perhaps it never reached its conclusion. There was a piano here, its secrets exposed, each note struggling to maintain its place within an increasingly unfamiliar body. But the body has become difficult to distinguish from the room that contains it. The window is farther away now. The garden has moved behind the glass, although there is no longer any certainty that glass separates these spaces. Someone is speaking from another part of the house. The words arrive without their beginnings. I understand the endings, or remember understanding them. It seems essential that I answer, since silence might suggest I have not heard. But the question has gone. There is a terrible intimacy in being addressed by a voice whose claim upon us survives the disappearance of its identity. It makes the room larger. It makes the room smaller. There should be a word for the distance between those two sensations. I had it a moment ago.

In the fifth stage, the music inhabits an almost geological disorder. Its remnants move through enormous folds of sound, crushed beneath the accumulating weight of their own discontinuities. A brass inflection surfaces from somewhere. A small brightness. Something metallic turning beneath the floorboards. The sound seems familiar because it was here before, although before has become an uncertain direction. There is no reliable way of knowing whether the phrase belongs to the present recording or to an earlier one, whether it has returned or never departed. I remember the orchestra. I know there was an orchestra. A room crowded with people whose faces have become the spaces between their faces. There were hands, I think, and someone had been waiting beside the window. The hand was familiar. It moved toward something. A door, perhaps. The door was there when the music began. The music began in a room. I am trying to remember whose room. It seems important to know because someone will ask, and there should be an answer. The answer has a particular shape. I can almost hear its syllables turning somewhere behind the sound. They are very close, close enough to hurt. Yet the closer they come, the less certain I become that they belong to a word. There is another voice now. It could be the same voice. It speaks with the familiarity of someone who knows me, although I cannot understand how that knowledge has survived when mine has not. I should respond. I want to. The music is very far away. The music is inside the wall. Perhaps I am inside the wall. There was a distinction between these things once. I had been writing about it. About the difference between a person and the memory of a person. It seemed possible to explain. I was going to explain.

By the sixth stage, even the disturbances have begun to withdraw. The great collisions of sound recede into a dark and opaque mirror that has nothing left to give. There is a vastness here without distance. The instruments move beneath the surface of something that cannot be named. Somewhere, almost impossibly, a choral radiance appears, carrying the suggestion of a human multitude into a place where the individual voice has become difficult to imagine. I want to hear consolation in it. But consolation requires someone who can receive it, and I am no longer certain who is being addressed. The voices seem to know. They are singing from another room. The room was here. There was a door. I remember the door because someone had been standing beside it. Or waiting beyond it. They had something to tell me.

The words were important.

There was a name.

I knew the name. It belonged to someone I loved, or someone who loved me. I can remember the feeling of being known. It has no face now. It is moving through the room without finding a place to rest. Perhaps the name belonged to me. Perhaps someone had been calling it for a long time and I had forgotten that I was meant to answer.

There is a hand.

I know this hand.

No. I know that I should know it.

The fingers close around mine. There is a warmth that has nothing to do with remembering. Someone is speaking. The voice has been speaking for a long time. I have been waiting for it to become familiar before allowing myself to answer.

But someone is here.

Someone has been here.

Why do I keep asking for the name?

The hand is still holding mine.

I think I was trying to understand what happens to a person when the world can no longer recognize them. There was an argument. Something about identity, about the strange authority we give to memory. I wanted to say that a life might persist beyond the stories used to establish its existence. That a person could remain worthy of being addressed even when the language of response had begun to disappear.

I cannot remember the argument now.

There is only this hand.

The room is very quiet.

Someone says my name.

I have no name to give them.

They say it again.

And again.

I can hear that they are calling for someone. I want to tell them that someone is here, although I do not know how to tell them who.

They are waiting.

I am waiting.

The name is somewhere between us.

They keep calling.

I am answering.

They keep calling.

I am answering.

Why can they not hear me?

Joseph Branciforte & Jozef Dumoulin: ITERAE

| Tyran Grillo

When entering ITERAE, we realize that it has already entered us. In this realm of post-glitch and digital bliss, an unsettling current draws us inward, threading its way through our attention until we no longer stand outside it. By the time orientation falters, we have already been absorbed into its matrix. This first collaboration between Joseph Branciforte and Jozef Dumoulin feels less like a beginning than a recognition, as though the music had been forming elsewhere long before it reached our ears. The eight-part work makes room for whatever meanings we bring to it, yet those meanings do not remain intact. They splinter, becoming granular, each shard holding its own quiet tremor.

Although the sounds are free-flowing and, for all intents and purposes, “abstract,” something organic guides their unfolding. There is a sense of inevitability that breathes through the music, as if each gesture were the continuation of an unseen process. Both performers have examined the inner workings of the Fender Rhodes with an intimacy that borders on anatomical devotion. Branciforte approaches from a cerebral vantage, tracing circuitry and signal, while Dumoulin leans into resonance and touch. Their shared immersion in improvisation suggests a practice that listens as much as it acts. Electroacoustic molecules begin to feel like carriers of a subtler vitality, and what emerges, though rooted in the present, carries a strange immunity to time.

With an instrument each at their disposal, they shape and process their sounds in distinct ways, allowing differences to coexist without friction. Branciforte’s live editing system introduces another dimension, folding moments back into themselves so that traces of what has just passed continue to sing within what is becoming. The effect is neither nostalgic nor recursive in a conventional sense. Memory behaves more like a living texture, constantly reabsorbed into the present. Across 70 minutes, a broader tapestry takes form, one that does not declare its structure outright yet reveals a continuity of reception. By the end, something in us aligns more closely with itself, though the nature of that alignment resists easy articulation.

What’s astonishingly heartfelt about this record is the unforced way in which it unfolds. Each shift of color, light, and texture feels intentional without ever seeming imposed. The music often takes on a visual quality, as though it were painting in slow motion across an inner field of perception. At certain points, the effect is hymnal, repetition carrying a quiet sense of ritual that feels open rather than doctrinal. Elsewhere, the atmosphere turns distinctly technological, articulating patterns that seem native to machines yet remain accessible to human feeling. While Branciforte and Dumoulin could easily construct overwhelming densities, their attention turns toward the interstices, the fine cracks where detail becomes a form of revelation.

Skips and starts establish a kind of pulse, though one that resists regularity. In the spaces where expectation wavers, something almost biological begins to stir, hovering between unease and resolution, never fully committing to either. As the sonic architecture takes on a more metallic sheen, a subtle shift occurs in its sensory character. There is a taste to it, faintly coppery, as if the sound itself were brushing against the elemental conditions from which life emerges. This grounding in the fundamental gives the less anchored passages a surprising sense of familiarity.

The continuity of the work remains one of its quiet marvels. Emotional currents, physical responses, and fragments of memory intertwine in ways that feel both intimate and expansive. The initial unsettlement does not disappear, yet it softens as the music offers points of illumination along the way. There is always a sense of contact, as though the sound remains attuned to our capacity to receive it. Nothing is pushed beyond reach, even when clarity seems just out of grasp.

When rhythms become more defined, they resemble presences moving alongside one another rather than structures imposed from above. Listening begins to feel like watching language dissolve into color, each shade carrying a meaning that cannot be translated back into words. Melodic gestures arise from the digital substrate as complete entities, already aware of their own contours. Direction loses its usual significance, and the distinction between forward and backward begins to blur.

Near the end, distortion enters with a subtle insistence, though it never threatens to overwhelm. Instead, it refines the material, drawing out a clarity that feels paradoxically linked to decay. Each iteration preserves a certain purity, suggesting an affection for entropy rather than a resistance to it.

Derek Hunter Wilson: Sculptures

| Tyran Grillo

Sculptures, the third solo offering from Portland-based composer and multi-instrumentalist Derek Hunter Wilson, gathers, darkens, releases, and clears in intimate, elemental cycles. Framed as “an ode to the ancient and contested shorelines of the Pacific Northwest,” the album’s six pieces trace the quiet, uneven topography of grief after the passing of Wilson’s father. What first appears gentle soon reveals itself as something patient and transformative, a slow-burning catharsis shaped by recapitulation, erosion, and the fragile courage required to let go.

Built on looping foundations in collaboration with harpist Joshua Ward, the music resists linear time. It circles, returns, hesitates, then presses forward again, mirroring the way mourning rarely obeys a straight path. Piano and synthesizer drift together in mutual trust, one offering structure while the other dissolves it. The result is a softening of resistance, a quiet agreement with impermanence.

The patterns of “Fort Stevens” move with a tentative grace, unsure whether to hold fast to the present or recede into recollection. Synth tones float while the piano steps lightly beneath, each note placed with the care of someone afraid to disturb what remains. With “Battery 247,” the sound narrows its focus, carving out a space where healing can begin to take shape. Arpeggios flicker like distant lights, guiding rather than commanding. Mirabai Peart’s viola enters as a kind of interior voice, suggesting that sorrow, when held long enough, becomes a chamber rather than a wound. Within it, something tender begins to bloom. Hope arrives as a gradual reconfiguration, a blade that learns to soften into a petal. Peart’s presence deepens further in “Deception Pass,” where the music turns inward, almost translucent. Here, absence becomes palpable, filled with unsaid things refracted through stained glass, each color hinting at meanings that resist direct expression. There is a quiet tension in the way phrases unfold, as if the music were attempting to speak a language it has not yet fully learned. 

“Salish Sea” expands outward, reaching into the unknown with a sense of fragile yearning. It evokes the act of listening for something just beyond perception. There is a childlike hope embedded in its repetitions, a belief that distance can be bridged if one just waits longs enough. In that bated suspension, the boundary between loss and continuation blurs. The question of whether anything persists after death is not answered, yet the act of asking becomes its own form of solace.

The descent into “Cape Disappointment” feels like a return to ground, though not in defeat. The music glows with a dim, steady light, reminiscent of a lighthouse seen through fog. Pianistic motifs rise and fall with a quiet insistence, illuminating the contours of the coast without betraying its mystery. By the time “Benson Beach” arrives, the album has shed much of its earlier tension. The waves that once pressed heavily now move in sync, their motion no longer threatening but restorative. Raymond Richards’ pedal steel glimmers across the surface like sunlight breaking through cloud cover, offering a sense of warmth that feels hard-won.

Throughout Sculptures, the cinematic quality of Wilson’s work invites listeners to populate its montage with their own memories. The album becomes a kind of shared terrain, where personal histories cross-pollinate. In this way, it transcends its origin, transforming individual grief into something collective, echoing beyond the boundaries of a single life. All of this suggests that mourning is not a detour from living but an integral part of it, a way of learning to see more clearly through the veil of impermanence. If anything endures, it may not be memory in its fixed form, but the capacity to feel deeply, to open oneself even in the face of absence. In that openness lies a quiet, unsettling truth. Perhaps what we call loss is not the disappearance of something, but a transformation of our relationship to it, an invitation to listen for what cannot be heard and to find meaning in the fleeting, luminous act of being present at all.

Sculptures is available from Bandcamp here.

Theo Bleckmann/Joseph Branciforte: LP2

| Tyran Grillo

LP2 surfaces as memory: already in motion, already altered by time. It emerges from conditions set long before its contours became audible, shaped by residue and intention held in suspension. Vocalist Theo Bleckmann and electronic musician and producer Joseph Branciforte return to a shared language first articulated on 2019’s LP1, though “return” feels imprecise. What unfolds resembles a sustained act of listening.

The album opens in a state of half-awareness. Sound drifts forward without a fixed point of origin, part breath, part circuitry, voice and machine dissolving into one another before any roles can be assigned. Nothing announces itself. Instead, the ear is gently reoriented, adjusting to a space where boundaries have softened and distinctions lose urgency. Understanding gathers slowly, arriving through familiarity, through the sensation of being inside something that has been waiting.

This threshold was never intended. The opening fragment began as a technical aside, a moment caught incidentally and set aside. Heard on its own, it revealed an unexpected gravity. What might have been dismissed instead became a doorway that refused to close. Folding it back into earlier work no longer felt possible. From that insistence, LP2 quietly took form, bound to its predecessor through consequence.

Years removed from its initial capture, the album reads as an extended aftereffect. Its modest length disguises the precision of its attention. The exchange between Bleckmann’s mercurial voice and Branciforte’s powered architectures has grown increasingly permeable, unconcerned with hierarchy or authorship. Sound operates as shared terrain, a meeting place for intention, accident, and recollection.

Where LP1 favored immediacy, time is now allowed to fold inward. Improvisation remains central, guided by images, instructions, and gestures that never fully declare themselves. Layers are revisited and subtly reconfigured. At moments, structure briefly surfaces, a harmony aligning, a texture clarifying, before dissolving back into motion. What persists is the sensation of listening under pressure, of sound shaped by forces it cannot articulate.

Several longer works act as gravitational centers. In the opening piece, “1.13,” the voice strains toward release but remains suspended within a luminous enclosure. Light translates itself into sound, illuminating an abyss shaped by collective longing. Movement is tentative, nearly imperceptible, as if forward motion itself has grown uncertain. Falsetto phrases assert presence with quiet insistence, only to be repeatedly subsumed. The calm suggested on the surface carries an undercurrent of warning, a reminder that serenity and menace often coexist.

“11.15” unfolds as a contemplative space. Its pulse and interwoven voices, punctuated by gong-like resonances, suggest ritual, encouraging attention over destination. “7.21” permits deeper aporias. Here, Bleckmann elicits more palpable gestures, a vulnerability that feels unguarded and exposed. That tactility continues into “9.23,” where hymn-like passages orbit their own unraveling. The voice moves between grit and elevation, traversing emotional thresholds in compressed succession. Glockenspiel tones glimmer at the margins, offering fleeting points of orientation, reminders of impermanence.

Threaded throughout these pillars are shorter interludes that function as glitchy nervous tissue. They interrupt continuity, splintering the listening experience into moments of raw recall. These fragments feel unearthed, surfacing abruptly and vanishing just as quickly. Each prevents comfort from settling too fully. Among them, “10.17.13” leaves the most haunting imprint. Its click-driven pulse and premature dissipation suggest erosion in real time, the sound of something slipping beyond reach.

For all its beauty and atmosphere, LP2 carries a persistent shadow. It does not attempt to diagnose. Space is left open for reflection, trusting the listener to bring their own histories into the exchange. The album offers no tools, no instructions. It sings quietly toward the places where repair might begin, leaving discovery in our hands. What is reclaimed in this way carries a different weight. Recognition arrives slowly, shaped by attention, and whatever healing emerges feels earned, never bestowed.

EUROPE IN FLAMES: ONE

| Tyran Grillo

ONE is the debut of EUROPE IN FLAMES, the apocalyptic ambient project of Jason Wach and Hamish Low. In this intentional sonic sanctuary, the duo has crafted a refuge from the din of the current zeitgeist. In this space, the thunder of sociopolitical conflict becomes a distant shudder, melodic signals from afar. This is not an apocalypse of fire and smoke but the quieter aftermath that follows. It is the long exhalation after the collapse, the stillness that asks what it means to create once everything familiar has burned away.

The album opens with “for those who know the dawn,” a piece that serves as an invocation. Piano tones scatter their seeds on barren soil, mingling with the soft hiss of static and what might be the faint hum of machinery left running in an abandoned building. Each note gestures toward rebirth but is shadowed by the awareness that loss is first required. The track inhabits that moment when the first bird calls, not to announce light but to mourn the dark. This forlorn sentiment is only magnified in “forgetting how to breathe.” As low frequencies bloom in bruises, the listener feels themselves dissolving into vapor, suspended between panic and surrender. Dreams twist into strange geometries; trauma scratches the surface of consciousness like windblown branches on a windowpane. This is where the moral infrastructure of the self begins to crumble, leaving behind the rawness of skinned emotions.

The title of “seal the images in an envelope and say nothing” serves as a commandment as repression takes the place of grace. The atmosphere thickens until movement slows to molasses. Within this stagnation, a distant, rasping tone threads through the mix, binding us to our own restraint. The song becomes an act of preservation, suggesting that silence, too, can be a form of resistance. We then find ourselves “stumbling home through the rain.” After so much enclosure, it is a benediction. Its percussion on metal and stone creates a rhythm more human than a heartbeat. Digital glitches flicker through the soundscape, prayers half-remembered. The world, fractured as it is, feels newly sacred. A woman’s distorted voice emerges, a ghost in the circuitry. She becomes our lone witness, her syllables igniting the sky with fluorescent melancholy before “nocturne” lubricates the central axis with its ode to fragmentation. The piano and electronics drift apart, unable to find resolution, yet their disunity feels deliberate and compassionate. The music forgives itself for breaking, inviting us to do the same.

The closing track, “upon waking,” is a new beginning. Dawn finally breaks, revealing not salvation but continuity. The world is still in ruins, yet the rubble hums with faint electrical life. Smoke lingers, dust swirls, and through it all runs a current of hope: the fragile belief that creation can begin again, quietly, invisibly, from within. Every contact of the flesh, every fleeting gesture, sends out an unreturnable signal into the void that says, We are still here.

The album’s surreal brilliance lies in how it blurs the distinction between sound and memory, between the present and its ghosts. When archival voices or cinematic fragments surface, as in a clip from 12 Angry Men, they don’t feel sampled so much as resurrected. They reach us as if from another planet, their gravity warped, their meaning refracted. And yet, because of this distance, they cut deeper. Like nightowls who swear by the strange clarity that arrives when the sun has vanished and the world sleeps, they are most alive in that hour when thought loosens its grip. But ONE is not of the night. It lives in that trembling, liminal moment just before dawn, when the first blue light begins to touch the earth. This is music for that boundary state between remembering and forgetting.

ONE is currently available from bandcamp here.

Unfamiliar Listening: A Brief Introduction to Experimental Field Recordings

| Tyran Grillo

For many, the term “field recording” evokes the greatest hits of natural sounds: ocean waves, rain, and birdsong. Indeed, one of the earliest field recordings dates to 1889, when an eight-year-old Ludwig Koch wax-cylindered the song of a white-rumped shama. In more recent history, anyone of reading age in the heyday of National Geographic may remember Roger Payne’s Songs of the Humpback Whale, inserted as a flexi disc in a collectible 1979 issue. Ten million copies of it were printed—more than any album ever produced in a single run. Payne’s classic and others like it endure for their scientific value, serving as springboards for studies of language and the potential for interspecies communication. They also spawned a robust environmental movement at a time when modernity was threatening to divorce humanity from nature. By the same token, microphones can get too close to their subjects, as in Hans Lichtenecker’s “archive of endangered races,” which documented descendants of the very peoples his comrades slaughtered in German Southwest Africa (what is now Namibia). Even the most benign anthropological motivations have fallen under retrospective scrutiny.

I will not be reviewing such projects here. Instead, I wish to examine—and, I hope, bring fresh ears to—a visceral stream of experimental field recordings. While tracing the origins of such an amorphous category can be difficult, an indisputable pioneer is Jeph Jerman, whose seminal work tops the list below. Kindred visionaries in this sphere of influence include Francisco López, Alan Lamb, and John Tulchin. I highlight their endeavors, subjective as my favorites among them are, in the interest of expanding their embrace of sameness through difference.

These recordings constitute a form of sonic travel to worlds at once internal and distant. Some are spliced and collaged within compositional frameworks in tandem with electronic and acoustic instruments, others manipulated beyond recognition, and still others presented as they are—but always with an aesthetic in mind, even if that aesthetic is simply to let sounds “happen.” Their significance cannot be overstated—not because they represent an overarching artistic ethos but precisely because they shun that motivation in favor of genuinely borderless spaces. It’s not often we can listen to a corpus of sounds without transfusing the blood of our politics and ideologies into it. Here, we can. Such comfort means more than ever in a world on its knees, wondering whether the healing will begin.

Jeph Jerman: Early Recordings ’81-’85

Also known by the moniker Hands To, Jeph Jerman first set out with his cheap cassette deck in the 1980s to document the act of listening while questioning its practices and apparatuses. What continues to fascinate about his recordings is how raw and curated they feel. And while some of his most unadulterated work (e.g., Beach Tree and Birds, 2001, A Pyrrhic Victory) is woefully difficult to track down, this compilation of early recordings is a grounded place to start. Lo-fi swaths of mostly industrial settings (e.g., “Metal Fabricating Shop, Colorado Springs”) reveal an unimaginable depth in the mundane.

Alan Lamb: Archival Recordings: Primal Image/Beauty

In 1976, Australian biomedical research scientist Alan Lamb first discovered the abandoned stretch of telephone wires that would define his artistic endeavors to come. Dubbed the Faraway Wind Organ, this massive vibrating skeleton loosed eerie songs at the touch of an air current, echoing since his childhood into a mature desire to record them. That he did, often for hours at a time, assembling choice passages into this otherworldly diptych. Whether whispering the mantras of uninhabited terrain or choiring like a Glenn Branca symphony, these requiems step out of time and ooze their way into the bloodstream.

Maggi Payne: Ping/Pong: Beyond The Pail

Maggi Payne is a venerated composer and multimedia artist whose output has largely focused on electro-acoustic constructions. Her field recordings of “dry ice, space transmissions, BART trains, and poor plumbing” congregated to astounding effect on 2010’s Arctic Winds, but 2003’s Ping/Pong: Beyond The Pail preserved another level of intimacy. Its two 30-minute tracks, recorded in a galvanized steel pail, offer complementary experiences of rainfall through the intermediary of the album’s eponymous vessel. The first catches the rain openly, while the second inverts the pail for a drum-like effect, sealing us in a metallic chamber without excuse for distraction.

John Tulchin: Location Recordings

This collection’s first track, “Fire Alarm From A Distance (Winter Park, FL.),” is indicative of John Tulchin’s questing spirit. It’s also one of the most haunting field recordings in readily available form and an entry into an album unlike any other. The pragmatic titles—“Metal Structure In The Desert (Dead Horse Ranch, AZ.),” “Log Partially Submerged In Water (Seattle, WA.),” etc.— only deepen the possibilities of interpreting them. Somehow, knowing what we are hearing makes it clear how much we miss. Thankfully, we have Tulchin to fill in those gaps with heartfelt portraits of time incarnate.

Quiet American: Plumbing And Irrigation Of South Asia

Quiet American, an homage to the novel by Graham Greene, is the sound manipulation project of San Francisco Bay Area artist Aaron Ximm. Plumbing And Irrigation Of South Asia is at once exactly what it sounds like and something else entirely. Nominally, it is a vast collection of field recordings of various community fixtures, such as a drainage pipe in Madikeri (India), a water pump in Khulna (Bangladesh), and a toilet in Kathmandu (Nepal). Other locations include Vietnam, Burma, Laos, and China. Beyond that, it is an unassuming travelogue filtered through the mesh of a respectful phonographic memory.

Jgrzinich: Insular Regions

John Grzinich is a sculptor combining found sounds and instruments of his own design. For this 2005 release, he gathered personal impressions of Mooste, a rural Estonian village. Insular Regions is among the more tactile albums in this guide’s category of interest. Its resonant intersections of wood, wind, and wire feel like a portal into another dimension. And yet, we are constantly reminded of their fleshly purview, which Grzinich sees no reason to hide. What we hear is what we get, even when we know it has been transformed through technology, because every electrical circuit runs on our conductivity.

Loren Chasse: Synthesis of Neglected Places

Loren Chasse is a humble public school teacher in San Francisco who seems never to have lost that childlike wonder for the world around him. Synthesis of Neglected Places was originally produced as a cassette in 1998 by the Unique Ancient Tavern label. Over the course of eight parts, it lives out every moment in the full knowledge that the act of recording will change its genetic makeup. As Chasse’s most crepuscular album, it speaks in tongues of light and shadow in equal measure, drawing out tasteful keyboard touches as if from within.

Loren Chasse: The Air In The Sand

Loren Chasse leaves behind precious recollections of experiences you never knew you had. That such dreamlike qualities are elicited from unabashed reality sets his work apart. The Air In The Sand shares the spirit of 2002’s Hedge of Nerves, which meshed the crackle of vinyl with sounds of the elements, expanding that aesthetic to welcome wider-reaching absorptions. By revealing the natural in the artificial and vice versa, he pays deference to the molecules common to all matter, guiding them in chorus even as they lead him in kind to voices hibernating until they can be amplified.

Francisco López: Addy En El País De Las Frutas Y Los Chunches

This first American release from Spain’s master recordist Francisco López is still his finest. With characteristic attention to otherwise-ignored wonders, he listens without a hint of imposition. From the patter of a Costa Rican rainforest to the pall of noises flatlined into a language unto itself, he exposes the moribund yet existentially beautiful underbelly of nature as a force of constant transition. Like his near-equal masterpiece, Belle Confusion 969, it reminds us that life is a field recording in process, ever adjusting its receptors to pick up on the machinations of our unstoppable progression into death.

Click on the sub-cover titles below to see my reviews of other vital albums in this loosely allied genre.

Eric La Casa: The Stones Of The Threshold

Collin Olan: Rec01

David Dunn: The Sound of Light in the Trees

Lionel Marchetti: Portrait d’un glacier

John Hudak: Pond

Koura: Shisō

MNortham: Molt And Anecdote

Seth Nehil: Uva

Murmer: Eyes Like A Fish

Jonathan Coleclough/Murmer: Husk

Jgrzinich/Seth Nehil: Confluence

Patricia Wolf: I’ll Look For You In Others

| Tyran Grillo

“What is grief? Can only the sun name its layers?” So writes Edie Meidav in her lyric novel, Another Love Discourse. What the author soliloquizes through words on a page, Portland, Oregon-based electronic musician Patricia Wolf actualizes through synthesizers, algorithms, and the emotional transistor of her own throat and lungs. Written and recorded in 2020 following the loss of her mother-in-law and a close friend, I’ll Look For You In Others treats the interface of flesh and technology as a force to birth something meaningful in the wake of deaths that may feel meaningless.

These messages activate every molecule of “Distant Memory,” which in its first breaths betrays the oxymoron of its title: No matter how distant a memory may seem, it is always nearer to us than any external trigger. Memories are as much a part of us as the oxygen and neurons that complicate them, and I cannot walk through this music without feeling accompanied by the echo of a past self who knew no better than to live as if mortality were a tragic lie. Every swell, pulled from the corona of active denial, finds its way into acceptance. And yet, “The Culmination Of” reminds me of the darker times when solitude cultivates necessary mourning beyond the prying eyes of those who care a little too much. Here, as in the title track and “Severed,” the human voice sheds its communicative uniform in favor of raw expression.

It’s a stark reminder that even if we haven’t lost someone directly over the past three years, the pandemic has turned us all into targets of its burning arrows. In the eyes of a virus, there is no parsing of memories into categories to be filed until we are ready to reckon them. Rather, it destroys what it can, mutating when it can’t, and scars the skins of souls. Such is the tenor of “Funeral,” in which an organ bleeds across the floor of a chambered heart, even as the light of dawn cracks a smile through tear-stained windows. And though we are left to wander with only pieces to show for our future, “Recombination” is possible with that near-magical glue of cohesion: time.

In the same way that the absence of bodies magnifies the presence of spirits, “Lay to Rest” throws a handful of slow-motion dust onto the coffin in emphasis of the bereaved funneling its descent. And while “Letting Go” promises closure, it may just be another link in the chain that binds the living and the dead. If anything, loss is an opportunity, and an opportunity is a portal of transformation. We cannot go through Wolf’s journey without being changed, knowing that loss has sewn its threads through all of us.

To quote Meidav again: “On the wheel of feelings, is wonder the true antonym of grief?” If so, this album is a wonder of healing at a time when the world itself has been reduced to an ailing organism in more ways than one. Let it hold you close, never letting go until your cheeks are dry.

I’ll Look For You In Others is available on bandcamp here.

Search Ensembles: Prescient/Legend

| Tyran Grillo

Prescient:Legend

With Prescient/Legend, producer and sound artist Dale Lloyd deepens his Search Ensembles project excavation after breaking ground with its 2015 self-titled debut on Lloyd’s and/OAR label. Although released 2019 on the either/OAR sibling imprint, this follow-up was culled from recordings made between 1986 and 2018 by a range of field recordists and instrumental artists, including Alan Courtis, Cedric Peyronnet, Cyril Herry, Eric Lanzillotta, Jani Hirvonen, Jon Tulchin, Mark Reynolds, Michael Northam, Mike Hallenbeck, Phil Legard, and Slavek Kwi. Lloyd sifted through their previously unreleased archives, forging timeless relationships in reassembly, while also inviting new material to be added through a variety of instruments.

“Search Ensembles started as an archaeological dig in the audio sense,” says Lloyd of the project. “I’d always wanted to do a project that revisited this planet’s history, but in a sense beyond anything we’ve learned in our school textbooks. It’s similar to something I started in early 90s called Lucid, for which we intentionally ‘weathered’ or ‘aged’ the recordings to give them an older aesthetic. That’s one of the motivating factors for digging into past recordings with so-called less-than-perfect sound quality. It felt compatible at all levels.”

Search Ensembles renders each of its sources, both organic and manufactured, as instruments in a compositional array. The result is a catalyst for elemental reactions. As far as choosing material that felt appropriate, Lloyd notes that coincidences of opportunity played an important role in shaping what emerged. “It was partially a happenstance thing. Some of the material, for instance, was gradual—things I had heard over time and which felt both appropriate and available.” Beyond that, he points to a relatively new interest in library production music as a tangible influence. Such recordings are forgotten time capsules, and hold in their nostrils the fragrances of ancient civilizations. In that sense, what we have here is nothing short of a patient awakening of buried melodies and textures after millennial slumber. In keeping with the metaphor—indeed, treating it as more than such—the album lays out artifacts still clinging to dust. Each is a village unto itself, spoken in the language of a place that no longer exists.

What follows is this listener’s own field notes, taken while surveying the album’s discoveries and calibrated by ears undeterred by temptation of silence…

1
As natural causes bubble to surface of perception, each works symbiotically with the other in a conversation so internal that it slips through the other side into an external manifesto. Tones at once distant yet so ingrained in the skin that you cannot help but be wounded by them coil around one another, searching for ideas as if they were physical traces left by immaterial souls.

2
Heartbeats and hints of thunder are kindred spirits. Their children are our ancestors, whose messages make paper of our brain tissue when we dream. Worthy only of being imbibed like plants crushed in stone and brewed into a tea of knowledge, they grow for the purpose of being snipped at the source. The crickets nestling around them are not messengers of the night, but remnants of the day speaking in tongues of sunrise.

3
Birds flock behind closed eyes, touching the liminal covering of reality with their wingtips but always returning to the percussion of flesh, metal, and bone.

4
A perpetual shushing of impulses by mothers whose evening chorus filters out the purest components of twilight. Voices are implied by the horizon’s arching back, flush with starlight as a lotus to pond’s surface. What was once implied becomes doctrinal, yearning to bring distances together: a Big Bang in reverse to the first pinprick of creation.

5
That same calling echoes here as dotted lines surround areas of conquering. Like frightened children wielding chalk on a blacktop, they reveal themselves in a tentative cartography, as predictive as it is unknowable.

6
The insects arrive with songs in their thoraxes, hidden until the final sting ejects their souls into death. They wander as if to wonder, hoping for the sky to fill in their broken choices with the possibility of a new hive, only to watch it die with roll of a farm machine intent only on destruction.

7
Splashes of water eject molecules of death, giving way to imaginary towers whose resonant chambers are the beginnings of life.

8
The printing press of the night leaves its mantras visible in the sky above, while the ground below thrives with pre-cultivation memories. A synthesizer is aurora to the flute’s borealis, reaching in for warmth and finding a talisman that is cool to the touch.

9
Static made biological: a song of conception, fertile in its detail. In the background: the cry of a mother yet to be born.

10
Overtones are undercurrents of faith, each dripping with reason until only truth is left in its evaporated wake.

Throughout this album, things hidden in the recesses of our collective past are being reckoned with sonically. More than that, they are turned in the hands until their sharpest points become rounded. A roof over solace, a library of parthenogenetic design whose shelves are as layered as the rock from which they were unearthed. “We’re documenting cultural activity,” Lloyd observes, “something that hasn’t been documented in any other way or is far less known to us.” More than unknown, I would venture to say that what we stumble upon here is a culture that does not exist except by the grace of those fortunate enough to give it three dimensions in the listening.

(For ordering information and to hear a sample, click here.)