The Sound of Silver

LCD Soundsystem, 2007

When LCD Soundsystem is firing on all cylinders, they're straotspheric. Even still, I approach every new missive with skepticism. Any band with that much knowing irony baked in makes it's hard to discern when you're an admiring fan or the butt end of a joke. LCD Soundsystem is practically a musical representation of the early-2000s rise of Brooklyn chic.

I came around to their second album, The Sound of Silver, via the astounding single, All My Friends. Or, rather, the cover of it—by the one and only John Cale—included as a b-side. While LCD, no doubt, wrote an exceptional (and surprisngly affecting) song, John Cale completely hijacks it. When I play All My Friends in my mind, it's Cale's voice I hear. It served it's purpose nonetheless, inspiring me to give the rest of the album a closer listen.

James Murphy & Co. know their craft. There's hardly a modern rock band that can compete with just how fucking well they put tracks together. Every sound in every song on Sound of Silver is in exactly the right, yet somehow unexpected place. They hug every curve, from the storming Us V Them and North American Scum, to the torch song closer of New York I Love You but You're Bringing me Down. The Sound of Silver is one near-perfect prismatic construction after another.  

like imploded pizzas

I was gathering recipes for stuffed tomatoes, looking for a filling, healthy springtime dish. Ultimately, I found myself disappointed by either a bland flavor profile, a lack of substance, or how (not) easy they were to make for a weeknight cook. So I set out to make my own variation, a sort of amalgam of my various failures.  

What I ended up with may not be terribly authentic, but is delicious and efficient. Sure, you could spend the time to make a garlic-basil risotto to fill your 'mats with—if you've got that kind of time on a Tuesday night. In the end, these rich, filling, robust little flavor bombs seemed to me like imploded personal pizzas.

6 whole medium tomatoes
1/2 cup of rice
½ cup of bread crumbs
1 cup of packed basil
1 tbs blanched slivered almonds
3 whole cloves of garlic + 1 more, minced
¼ cup parmesan cut into ¼-inch cubes
juice of ½ a lime
2 tbs olive oil
salt
butter

GREEN
I'd start out by making the pesto. You'll have time while the rice is cooking, but the tomatoes need to be dealt with as well, so… you've got to start somewhere. This part is easy. Wash the basil, throw it in your food processor with 3 whole cloves of garlic, almonds, lime juice, salt and olive oil. Blend until it's pesto. After that's a wrap, preheat the oven to 425˚.

WHITE
The rice is up next: I often start rice by melting a small pat of butter in a saucepan. Once, it's good to go, I'll add a clove of minced garlic and a pinch of salt, simmering until it's fragrant. Then I'll add the rice, stirring it constantly, until there's a light toast on it. Lastly, I'll add twice as much water as I did rice, and a bring it to a boil, reduce the heat, cover the pot—letting it simmer for 15 minutes or so until done.

While the rice is doing it's thing, core the tomatoes, cutting down through the the top in circle, with a paring knife and scooping out the insides with a spoon. (Note: I don't need to tell you to save those tomato innards for stock, do I).

RED
Let the rice cool a wee bit, then combine it with the pesto, parmesan and about ¾ of the bread crumbs, in a bowl. Once you've folded it all together, fill the cored tomatoes with your mixture. Top each tomato with the rest of the breadcrumbs, patting them down just a bit. Line a small casserole pan with parchment paper, arranging the filled tomatoes in it. Place it all in the oven for twenty minutes or so—until heated through and the skin of the tomatoes are crinkling a bit and breadcrumbs are toasty on top. Let them cool (just a tad) and serve warm—I'd provide some steak knives to quarter them easily.

Nippon Guitars

Takeshi Terauchi, 1966-74

I don't own much in the way of classic LPs of surf guitar like Link Wray. It seems a style so thoroughly ingrained in the American collective consciousness—now, repeatedly reinforced by film and TV—that owning any often seems ancillary. When I find myself drawn to surf rock, it's the oddities, like the punked up version peddled by Man, or Astroman?.

Nippon Guitars collects recordings by Japanese guitar guru, Takeshi Tarauchi. The appeal—beyond the impressive fretwork—amounts to cultural re-appropriation. On the cover, Tarauchi and band are in samurai garb in front of a stylized set piece, fit for kabuki. They are hamming it up. On record, a few of the tracks even throw in 'far Eastern' scales—but it's more in the vein of a Martin Denny variation. So are they playing to our expectations, merely playing a part, or are they reframing the representation and hijacking the most American rock-n-roll sound for good measure?

field report no.022318

LOCATION: the Grey Eagle AVL.NC
SUBJECT: Jonathan Richman

OBSERVATIONS:
Jonathan Richman is a bundle of contradictions. He exudes a studied naiveté. His songs appear simple but his performances are filled with subtle dynamics. He plays the everyman while singing in no less than four languages. His music is humorous, filled with grinning turns of phrase or out-and-out punchlines, but he never seems less than sincere. In fact, many of his goofy tunes are, by turns, heartwarming and heartbreaking.

Richman's music endures by virtue of its humanity. In person, he's human-scale—no a larger than life icon on stage. While he possesses charisma and force-of-personality to spare, the show itself feels intimate. For one night only, Richman is your own private Cyrano, serenading you with sonnets galore. I've seen him billed as opening for large scale acts, like Wilco, and I have to wonder how his show translates to such a vast crowd—but I shouldn't underestimate Jonathan, he's more cunning than he lets on.

NOTES: Jonathan Richman, featuring Tommy Larkins on drums; Ané Diaz
PRESENT: AMS; Angela F.

The Guillotine

Hey Colossus, 2017

Hey Colossus had been chugging along for a decade before I heard of them. The Guillotine was my first encounter—and it's a stunner. It's something like their twelfth record (depending on how you add it up) so I had some catching up to do. 

Their earlier earlier releases belie why they're lumped in with sludge metal, and (later) noise rock, but Hey Colossus have outgrown such distinctions. There's an hermetic feel to their work—not so much self-referential as ascending out of their past. Their tunes are tightly coiled, and, when they want to be, brutal. The ragged, live edge of the guitar work is miles away from the Helmet model of compressed, percussive blocks of distortion—which is still the template for so much heavy rock today. Instead, Hey Colossus court a sonic murk, always threatens to become too muddy but lending the songs a fathomless depth. They retain just enough clarity to let melodies rise to the surface, when needed.

It all sounds amazing on vinyl, but I fear the rawness of Hey Colossus is the sort that gets diminished by mp3 compression and streaming.

Audio Umami: Mecca Normal

Pigeon holes are sometimes damnably deep. Mecca Normal, the duo of Jean Smith and David Lester is a fixture of the Pacific Northwest indie-punk scene. They're a major signpost in feminist protest rock; the preeminent proto-riot grrl group. Listening to their mid-90s album, The Eagle and the Poodle, one question kept rattling around my head, though: why are they not a feature in avant rock discussions. Their music frequently experiments in form, texture and expression, more than any of the bands billed as their peers.

Their avant bonafides extend well beyond that. Vocalist Jean Smith had a side project with New Zealand avant-legends, Peter Jefferies and Michael Morley (of This Kind of Punishment and the Dead C, respectively). Sadly, two records they cut together remain out-of-print, even in this digital streaming age. She even has an edgy, (mostly) instrumental solo album to her name—which is nothing to say of what an unconventional vocalist she is.

Why then are Mecca Normal so rarely discussed in those terms?

Again, I'm brought to the conclusion that feminism is like a scarlet letter in criticism. Being a woman who sings about female experience is a frame many can't see beyond. You're forever tossed on the Lilith Fair pile (though Mecca Normal were likely way too outré for that ilk). Which is not to say that Smith shouldn't rightly be proud of her place as a feminist punk icon, but I'd like to leave that aside for a moment and talk about just how experimental her and Mecca Normal's work is.

Let's start with how stark and confrontational Mecca Normal can sound. The precedent for their format—guitar and singer—stretches back to the very beginnings of rock and folk music. It is THE original format. Billy Bragg had already helped forklift the concept into punk rock by the early 80s—but Bragg also had far more ties to traditional melody and songwriting. It's like comparing the Clash to Minor Threat: they're both punk and share significant DNA, but musically they're pursuing different ends.

While David Lester knows his way around a guitar, and isn't afraid of a solid riff, he's equally willing to wallow in dissonance and distortion. The gnarlier aspects of the electric guitar are not just colorations or accents thrown in for decoration, either. He'll linger in them for the duration of an entire song, if need be.

Jean Smith matches him blow by blow. Her phrasing is on time, but she works around the beat, rarely sitting squarely on it. Her tonal range is filled with flat plateaus where she'll draw words out, distending them. I'd like to think it a compliment that the closest antecedent I can find for her delivery is Yoko Ono—even though their styles share little in common.

Of course, here to, I fall prey to my own gripe: I could easily pick a more relevant comparison if I weren't limiting myself to female precedents. Johnny Lydon's haunting warbles across the early PiL albums comes to mind. It's a comparison far closer in time, style and genre—yet I pass it up because we unconsciously limit how we talk about women in music. Hell, when 2 Foot Flame starts really kicking up dust, comparisons to Kieji Haino wouldn't be far off. That would elevate Jean Smith to the same circle as some of the most extreme rock ever made.

Smith, and Mecca Normal, have cemented a place in feminist music history, so let's take a minute to appreciate their other innovations. Let's see about making sure they are mentioned in the annals of avant rock, too. Don't let Smith's words completely overshadow their deeds.

I Was Hoping You'd Pass by Here

Ghost Music, 2018

There's an ongoing debate whether names like indie-rock or punk describe a scene or a sound. Punk icons like Ian McKaye and Calvin Johnson have argued for the former, insisting punk can grow and evolve, even to things that sound nothing like punk today. Others insist we use the term 'punk' describe how something sounds to someone, using shared preconceptions as signposts. At some point, the idea of what punk becomes fixed.

The term indie-rock was coined to describe a particular scene and sound, but naming the genre after bands' affiliation with minor labels has caused no end of confusion as to just what is 'indie'. A wealth of independent labels still ship records in just about every genre imaginable, but there's also a generally accepted 'indie-rock' sound.

Ghost Music nail classic 'indie-rock' so well, listening to I Was Hoping You'd Pass by Here the first time through felt like aural comfort food. It was all familiar and lived in—in the best possible way. The strumming jangle, the ragged edges, the peculiar melancholy cool were all exactly where they should be.

It's more of a feat than it, at first, appears. If you remind me of great indie-rock, but actually pale in comparison, I'll be reaching for what you remind me of. You'd have made a record as signpost. I've found myself coming back instead to Hoping You'd Pass by Here, repeatedly. Ghost Music's magnetic attraction for me is the action that speaks louder than other words. 

field report no.021518

LOCATION: Thomas Wolfe Center AVL.NC
SUBJECT: St. Vincent

OBSERVATIONS:
Instant gratification is rarely the sign of a great artist. Annie Clark's albums as St. Vincent often land with an initial, vague sense of disappointment. That feeling, more honestly expressed, is a sense of loss for the most-recent version of St. Vincent, who I'd  started to love, but, with the arrival of this latest missive, is no more. With time, I found myself awestruck by Masseduction—it just took me a while.

Much of Masseduction deals with ideas of product and manipulation (in various forms). Even the title suggests pop's purpose: tapping people's collective neural pathways, evoking lust and desire to make sales. Her live show foregrounded this by filling the stage with Clark, alone, in an outfit somewhere between dominatrix and superhero. Sexuality, as a performance and product.

While I was apprehensive seeing her perform solo, with pre-recorded backing tracks, this show made those concerns obsolete. Her staging and presentation were impeccable and engaging. St. Vincent's presence was outsized and her performance leaned heavily on her powerful voice and an under-appreciated ability to absolutely shred on guitar.

NOTES: St. Vincent; Tuck & Patti
PRESENT: AMS; Angela F; Grant B; Michael J

Sophisticated Giant

Dexter Gordon, 1977

Jazz sort of withered on the vine as the 70s trudged on. Free jazz edged further toward niche periphery while fusion was quickly laying foundations for AM lite radio. This steady decline in relevance set the stage for a revivalist jazz movement, with some pining for the days when jazz was synonymous with popular music. 

Enter Dexter Gordon. He sported heavy bonafides, having come up with Lionel Hampton in the 40s and cut some phenomenal original hard bop sides in the early 60s for Blue Note. He became Our Man in Paris for most of the following decade, recording for European labels and rarely heard in the US. When he returned in the mid-70s, Gordon received a hero's welcome: just the man to champion the new traditionalist movement—having opted out of the 60s advances so many found alienating.

Sophisticated Giant is a curious beast though. The large ensemble gathered here includes some heavy hitters in the free- and post-bop movement: Bobby Hutcherson and Woody Shaw (plus others who'd sat in with the likes of Eric Dolphy, Charles Mingus, and Archie Shepp). The tunes are very nostalgic—tastefully arranged by Slide Hampton—but there's tension in the solos. They have a tendency to stray outside the the sepia-toned confines of the album. Sophisticated Giant ends up an album outside of time, entirely.

Here's Where the Strings Come In / Summer of the Shark / Non-Believers + Staring at Your Hologram

Superchunk, 1995 / Portastatic, 2003 / Mac McCaughan, 2015

Capturing a cultural moment is the sort of feat that requires equal parts skill and luck. Which makes it more amazing that Mac McCaughan has done it three times over. Hell, Superchunk had a such a run, it's fans will disagree about just which album captured the zeitgeist.

For my money, it's Here's Where the Strings Come In. It's where Superchunk transcended their heartfelt pop-punk roots (without forsaking them). In fact, it's one of their more visceral records. What sets Strings apart is its wide-angle scope, giving cinematic more force to Mac's lovelorn musings.

Sometime in the mid-90s, McCaughan began moonlighting as Portastatic. it acted as an outlet for smaller, more experimental work, but it eventually grew to overtake his work within Superchunk. Summer of the Shark is the project's pinnacle. Released in 2003, he perfectly captures the wounded soul of a confused post-9/11 America. There's a couple of indirect acknowledgements of the then-still-recent attacks, but mostly I'm struck by the near-perfect yearning of songs like Hey Salty. Summer of the Shark ranks alongside the best of Superchunk.

More controversially, I would argue that Non-Believers, the first record Mac McCaughan has cut under his own name, ranks alongside the other two. It resonates differently the others: the feelings he's chasing are now more reflective, but not wearier. Non-Believers is synth heavy, marking a major turn in his work, and aligning with the retro-fetish du jour. Non-Believers seems distinct, perhap as it's made by someone who witnessed the synth-pop so many are aping, but wasn't playing it at the time—so it's lived in, from the outside in.

Really though, with all three of these albums, it just comes down to the fucking songs. If I hear one of these albums, I'm humming them for days. These earworm melodies are never tied to trite or half-baked lyrics, so they both delight and fulfill.

(Just for shits and giggles, I also got the limited edition instrumental re-eits of Non-Believers as well. Mac seems like a such an unlikely figure to release a remix album, it was hard to resist.)

field report no.012118

LOCATION: the Orange Peel AVL.NC
SUBJECT: Neko Case

Neko Case at the Orange Peel

OBSERVATIONS:
No writeup of Neko Case fails to mention that voice. It has a presence almost outside herself. A clear, forceful tone: sans vibrato and with only a hint of country twang (not enough to seem put on). Her voice is even more arresting live. It's worth pointing out, though, all her vocal prowess would be wasted if not married to such striking, individualistic songs. There are no shortage of good and powerful vocalists, but few of them possess Case's creative streak.

Neko's development is chartable, since her first couple of albums were mere covers affairs, which in retrospect seem more like clearing her throat than announcing her intent. By the time she released Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, she was a different beast, easily fitting in with then-label-mates Nick Cave or Tom Waits. This songwriting is the heft behind her voice.

Case announced at some point, that this was the deep-album cut tour. In the midst of recording a new LP, this pass through was about performing songs that were rarely aired, live. Luckily, this ended up including many of my personal favorites. 

NOTES: Neko Case; Mt. Joy
PRESENT: AMS

Erosión

Ildefonso Aguilar, 1985

The official history of ambient may already be written but the addenda are rapidly expanding. Continued hipster obsessions like vaporware created a cottage industry for excavating forgotten new age relics. Most of it is mere detritus only interesting in ironic context, but Ildefonso Aguilar's Erosión proves a revelation. It would easily fit into the mid-90s isolationist ambient scene, but was a decade too early. It's dark and cavernous atmosphere is too blurry to be on-the-nose moody, which dooms so many of it's peers. Instead Erosión is more abstractly cinematic, casting everyday moments as ominous.

ZLO

Uon, 2017

In the late 90s, the Basic Channel label rewired electronic dub. Bass drops sunk so deep they were more felt than heard. Rhythms were implied with negative space as much as drum hits. Uon pushes these same concepts further out, so far I have a hard time explaining why I think this ZLO is in a dub record at all. Central elements of these songs seem to be missing, but their outlines are faintly visible in the periphery of what's left. The undertow of this has become a riptide the songs themselves can't escape. This is dub as a subliminal force.

field report no.111717

LOCATION: the Orange Peel AVL.NC
SUBJECT: Slowdive

OBSERVATIONS:
Arriving at the show late from another event down the road, I knew I'd probably missed the opening act—Soccer Mommy—and Slowdive would have just taken the stage. I questioned that assumption when I heard the throbbing pulse coming from inside. While Slowdive has evolved through many sounds—from twee dream-pop to spacious ambient rock—rhythm was never their calling card. They punched up the rhythm on everything from their new, self-titled reunion album (arguably, their heaviest) to Souvlaki classics. I wonder what they sounded like to see back in their early-90s hey-day. Did they provide such a tight, cathartic performance? Or, was it more of the amorphous ambience that I expected? Is this is a trick they've learned in the intervening years, now they're play to be bigger crowds than back then? Regardless, I was pleasantly surprised.

NOTES: Slowdive; Soccer Mommy
PRESENT: AMS

Stairfoot Lane Bunker

Special Request, 2017

Special Request Stairfoot Lane Bunker

It can sometimes be hard, distinguishing between straight revival and subtle update. The are plenty of old skool jungle classicists, tweaking the Amen break like it's still 1996 (god bless 'em). Like garage rock, drum-n-bass seems to always be enjoying a reexamination in some corner of the scene—a truth also making it an easy anchor reference for explorations further afield.

Special Request's EP, Stairfoot Lane Bunker, has moments that could easily pass for vintage 'ardcore, but on closer listen it has a dark ambient heart. As much as the beats might skitter and surge, the sea level of every track is an ominous cloud of drone. It's a neat trick, really: upping the tension in every track, making the beats—when they burst free—truly cathartic.

Giraffe

Simon Fisher Turner, 2017

I pre-ordered Giraffe by Simon Fisher Turner, not knowing what to expect. Sure, there was one song to preview, but there's so little of his music available on vinyl, or readily available at all. If you follow him, a new LP is an absolute event. I've tried before to explain SFT's ineffable output, and Giraffe is no easier to categorize. It moves between somnambulant ambient passages to dark isolationist paranoia, only to be interrupted by field recordings. He shows little or no attempt to make sense of it for you. Even many of the sounds with a naturalistic / recorded feel remain wholly unnamable. Giraffe is not an easy album because Turner invites you listen to sound within his own terms and conditions, and that's exactly why it's worth any minor discomfort.

Oblique Portrait: William Parker

Legendary bassist William Parker is the common denominator for this mix that spans 40+ years and includes the biggest names of the jazz avant garde. If you would like to keep up on future episodes, subscribe to sndlgc podcasts in iTunes or copy this link to subscribe manually.

You don't know the name, William Parker, if you're just starting to dig into jazz, but if you've listen to any free jazz from the last 40 years, you're likely to have heard him. You'll may start to notice how he keeps popping up, over and over in different contexts. Parker is a advanced, modern jazz: a leader, mentor, organizer, writer and a tireless player who has appeared on hundreds of records.

How many artists have sat in with both Derek Bailey and Yo la Tengo? Or Peter Brötzmann and DJ Spooky?

In his now 40+ year career, Parker's not only played with an impressive list of avant garde luminaries, he's is a fixture among their working groups. He played with Cecil Taylor for decades. He and Matthew Shipp were the anchors of David S. Ware's long-running quartet. 

Yet William Parker remains under the radar for many listeners. Maybe it's his instrument. The bass doesn't hog the spotlight like any horn, or even a guitar. Or, perhaps he was just too late: all the biggest names in jazz made their mark in the heydays of the 50s and 60s. Parker came up in the 70s, frequenting the much-discussed-but-rarely-heard loft jazz scene.

It's why I wanted to weave this particular sonic portrait. If you gathered a broad swath of William Parker's work—as a leader, collaborator or sideman—was there a common thread, an overarching theme? Was his presence a defining factor?

To that end, I didn't want to present this mix chronologically. William Parker's palette has expanded with time, so later experiments with vocals, electronics are  interspersed throughout the mix (rather than piling up at the end). I also wanted to Parker's frequent collaborators, making multiple appearances here, from appearing clusters.

Sound-wise, this was a massive undertaking. The 20 tracks included here made up a 5-hour playlist. Despite making drastic cuts to each song, I tried to make each one flow organically, to feel like a complete unit within the mix (while still, of course, showcasing Parker's contributions). Rather than excerpts, these are like 7-inch edits; readers' digest versions.

Maybe, after listening to this mix, you'll see the narrative, the outline of William Parker in all these disparate paths. If so, I hope you check out more of his work. There is a mountain of it to climb, but I would hold out one record in particular. I didn't include it in this mix because, by rights, you ought to own I Plan to Stay a Believer: the Inside Music of Curits Mayfield. It's a raucous free jazz soul party of a double album that never forgets the political edge at the heart of Mayfield's tunes.

Ensemble Muntu: Flight
Billy Bang: Summer Night
William Parker & Hamid Drake: Faces
Wayne Horvitz: Psalm
Frank Lowe: In Trane's Name
William Parker / Raining on the Moon: James Baldwin to the Rescue
Cecil Taylor: Calling it the 8th
Matthew Shipp String Trio: Whole Movement
Bill Dixon: Brothers
Free Zen Society: Majestical
David S. Ware Quartet: Infi-Rhythms
Derek Bailey / John Zorn / William Parker: Noon Harras
Toxic: This Is Beautiful Because We Are Beautiful People
Charles Gayle: Touchin' on Trane
Brötzmann / Parker / Drake: Shake-a-Tear
DJ Spooky: Absentia, Absentia
Yo la Tengo: Let's Be Still
William Parker / In Order to Survive: The Square Sun
Anthony Braxton / William Parker / Milford Graves: Third Meeting
William Parker: Crumbling in the Shadows Is Fraulein Miller's Stale Cake

field report no.110817

LOCATION: Revolve AVL.NC
SUBJECT: Glenn Jones

OBSERVATIONS:
Sitting at the front a gallery listening room, flanked by his collection of guitars and banjos—each in a different tuning—Glenn Jones makes his finger-tangling folk songs feel effortless. Hands down, Jones is my favorite inheritor of John Fahey's American Primitive guitar innovations. His command of dynamics turns his instrumentals into it's own type of storytelling. Songs dip and swell, surge forward or hold back, like breathing things.

Before Fahey's reappraisal in the 90s, the lore of six-string folk was mostly an oral history, so Jones (like many of the apostles of the style) is an encyclopedic storyteller. He wove winding tales introducing each song—each tied to figures he's known. Jones grants you a glimpse of his private lore, tracing the titanic footsteps he knows he's followed, but he never fails to push those traditions further with his own accomplishments.

NOTES: Glenn Jones; House & Land
PRESENT: AMS; Angela F.

Vermont Versions / Häxan Versions

Vermont & Prins Thomas / Dungen & Prins Thomas

My first exposure to Prins Thomas' work was his remix work for other artists. It's no mean feat to rearrange another artist's work, casting it in a different light, yet retaining a recognizable air of the original. I now rank Thomas alongside the likes of Andrew Weatherall, as a top tier remixer.

Both Vermont Versions and Häxan Versions are collections by artists who let Prins Thomas loose on entire albums—a prospect more interesting than either a hodge-podge of different remixers or a collection of different artists remixed by the same producer. The works still hang together as a whole. It's a complete album seen through a singular, new lens.

The origins of these two LPs could hardly be more different. Vermont is an analogue synth band on Kompakt records making an updated kosmische musik. Prins Thomas' cosmic-disco reworks are not a distant reach. Dungen on the other hand is a rock outfit, operating towards the space-rock end of heavy metal. Prins Thomas respect for the original material gives each record a distinct character, but it's his strong voice as a producer that brings the two ends together.

Leave Corners

Aquarelle, 2017

Not too long ago, the underground was in danger of drowning in ambient drone acts. Luckily the herd seems to have been thinned in the recent years. Otherwise, a fine example of string-and-effects driftwork like Aquarelle's Leave Corners would have easily been lost in the flood. Thoughtfully and tastefully created, Leave Corners pits stasis against melody while striking a balance between pristine beauty and distorted grit. The cello at the heart of these songs lends even the most static stretches a tactile warmth. Aquarelle is more tune oriented than the outer reaches of ambient, though. Perhaps it's best viewed as an electronic cousin to ambient-rock: pop-drone.