With only a passing glimpse of the critical impression of Philip Glass, I know I'm wandering into well-trod territory. The intelligencia's been all through here, tamed the beasts, beat down the grasses. And I can only retrace the fact that the repetition entrances, that the imperfection becomes figure to its ground, that every thing is in its right place, that the chords rise and fall until your breath follows suit.
It's fucking perfect. It coaxes meaning from the moment of listening.
It's the kind of album that makes me lament this project, the forward passage of time - what better words might I have spilled about Dan Deacon, Beck, Basinski, Atticus Ross, to say nothing of the just-reviewed Sontag Shogun and Cornelius, a dozen others (but especially Dan Deacon, jesus).
What's the the Mint Chicks said? You're bored because you're boring.
I try to keep a finger on the scale around here, to check whether something's actually worth listening to, pretension and reputation aside. I feel like these 10-seconds-stretched-to-7-minute stemwinders could be called boring. But with only the barest inclination to dig into the details, I think you'll find ever-increasing layers of doubt, tipping over into violent disagrement with the idea that there's anything boring about any of this -- there's near-infinite details to dig into, if you have even the most basic inclination. Consider yourself encouraged to find it 4.5/5
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