No Perfect Wave

C.Diab, 2016

Life is rife with small, personal zeitgeists. As I fall into fandom of some new artist, they begin to appear everywhere, in unexpected places. For example, Take C.Diab's No Perfect Wave: an excellent album of analogue drones that sound too earthy to be purely electronic—perhaps guitar… maybe organ? Only after purchasing it and dwelling with it a few days, did I find out it was recorded and mixed by one of my tastes-du-jour, Ian William Craig. Which makes sense: it's easy to hear Craig's deft hand at decaying audio on the hissing distortions of No Perfect Wave. All the sounds are clouded as if from a badly oxidized cassette. Even it was my excitement for Craig's production that brought me to No Perfect Wave, the patient construction and focused playing are it's truest traits.

Centres

Ian William Craig, 2016

I'm personally fascinated in the way drone music is divisive. It's either utterly intolerable or restorative and healing. The constance of it is easily analogous to a meditative state, and yet for those who don't cotton to drones, it's a trigger of anxiety. I think it might be something akin to how cilantro tastes like soap to some people. The drift pop movement is interesting as it teases out the melodic core, often lurking unseen in a drone. Centeres arrives like a balm from a distorted haze. Ian William Craig's voice, hovering somewhere between soulful and operatic, is lighthouse in an ambient sea—lending the abstraction around it a quality of plaintive yearning. The addition of his human voice redraws your perception of it's surroundings.

fermentation and fruition

A particular brand of liminal music, which I like to call drift pop is… having a moment. You can see it cresting all up-and-down the pop culture ticket. Follow it from the up-and-comers Kaitlyn Aurelia-Smith and Ian William Craig, to the well-established acts like Grouper and Benoît Pioulard, all the way to the old-guard, like Brian Eno. Hell, even Kevin Martin (best known for his ballistic dancehall productions as The Bug), made some drift pop with King Midas Sound, sourcing material from Fennesz. 

What, exactly, is it, though? Drift pop is a particularly gaseous song form, steeped in hazy ambience and unmoored by any conventional rhythm section. There's a heavy emphasis on sound processing and sonic texture. It still features vocals—both traditional and wordless—that (vaguely) resemble pop structures, but they're often lost in a fog of reverb. It's drone music that's learned to sing. Of late, it's been crossed-pollinated with a modular synthesis revival and the North American tape ambient scene, creating a fertile seam of musical pathways.

While it has many roots, it's longest and greatest champion has been Kranky Records. From their very inception, they've pioneered the style—almost as it is known today. In 1994, Kranky's first release was Labradford's Prazision LP—which is so fully formed it feels wrong to label it 'proto'. They were also early champions of Grouper, the styles' first breakout star, earning rave reviews in high profile publications.

Even though it's steeped in our pop culture for a decades now, 2016 feels like the year drift pop went from fringe sub-culture to a fully acknowledged category. The sheer number of albums being produced has spiked dramatically, and plenty of them are getting reviewed and promoted on pretty mainstream sites. The new release lists I follow feature at least one-a-week, lately. Drift pop is competing heavily to dominate my best-of-the-year list. When I go these shows—to my surprise—it's often packed houses.

Which begs the question, why? It's easy to say it's the flavor of the month, but I subscribe to the belief that even our artistic consumption is guided: culture, as a whole, moves for a reason. We look for art to explain the world around us, or to help reflect on and examine ourselves—or to escape all of the above. I find a fractured, lonely beauty in drift pop: yearning voices cut loose in a sea of sound. There's beguiling mystery, getting lost in an ambient fog. Does this appeal more, now, because we are in fact more isolated in our new digital lives? Is it  more aspirational—a refuge and retreat from a world that seems universally intrusive? Does this kind of expression sound more authentic in a space as ambiguous as emotions themselves? 

It's easy to understand one appeal of drift pop to me, personally—so many of it's earliest modern incarnations happened while I was coming-of-age, musically. At first, this recent uptick just seemed like a run of good luck. About the time Brian Eno announced The Ship, it was clear I was just surfing the zeitgeist along with everyone else.

This may be drift pop's moment. While it was here before—and will likely continue—2016 will likely represent some sort of apex. In a few years, pop culture will have moved on and all this will be processed and catalogued—largely shorthanded, remembered and referenced by a few key records. That is the way of things. For now, though, you can drown in the drift pop swells.