Porn Sword Tobacco’s first fledgling cupped its
ear to a bed of dewy grass as its blades bristled in
the billowing wind, and a choir of crickets chirped
in the distance, draping the soaring sonar blips and
heart-rending arpeggiated melodies in an encompassing,
ceremonious aura. Sprung from the womb of a Swedish
forest, the mood was hermetic and swam through pallid
piano motifs and flitting synth figures, endowing many
moments with a rigidity and brittleness in the arrangements.
Here, for his first full-length, analogue Moogs, electric
pianos and faintly pattering drum machines erect similarly
assured, meditative arrangements that are enhanced by
wisps and whirls of densely processed synthesizers.
Its distinguishing mark being, however, that compositions
hinge less upon antecedent events and are noticeably
distinct in their own right, even venturing out into
previously uncultivated lands. White Sneakers
for instance, bounds through airily sustained structures,
predominantly involving synthetic strings and echoing
percussion, mournfully reproaching the listener like
an abandoned kids toy slumbering in the gutter, asking
to know what it’s done to deserve such barbarous
treatment. Be that as it may, other experiments fall
well short of enticing – in particular, the clunky,
bass-heavy Thank You! and languorous, space-age
waltz of Old Booze, New Friends leave an unsettling
taste in the mouth, souring the otherwise subdued proceedings.
The effort is not all a loss, though, as successive
pieces forge a springily malleable array of wiry patchworks
that tug at and tease expectations. Carl Zeiss Driving
To Work proves to be a mellow, gleaming drone built
from a chorus of digital chirps, while Praying With
Benny incorporates grating textures and discordant
mechanical hammering, which steadily disband into gray
masses of quivering noise. As the work ages, a more
rustic, childish disposition burrows its way into the
structures and melodies of Detta Ar Karleken Som
Dansar and Folkehmmet, carrying atmospheres
into the realms of Colleen
and Susumu Yokota.
And yet, Explains Freedom lacks those artists’
rigorous focus and commitment to the development of
a specific, concrete theme and, as this album passes
the forty-minute mark, corners are cut and pieces begin
to crumble for the lack of any discernible foundation.
Henrik Jonsson has developed a hypnotic approach to
sound, but this effort stands at a cul-de-sac, one which
spurs too much groping about in the dark to see anything
consistently engaging come to fruition.
Max Schaefer
3/5 |
