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It's like the opening sequence of Altman’s "The Player" where each character - even if just for a few moments - managed to capture attention with something distinctive given to them alone.
It's like walking through an unfamiliar city and being captivated first by a scent, then a shop window, then a boundary wall, then the facade of a church; and then by a bizarre language, the broadening perspective, the growing crowds, the clearing clouds.
Every detail, every gesture, every dress, every stone is necessary. Irreplaceable. Clear-cut.
And it is precisely for the contribution it gives to the whole.
It takes the craft of a great director or the mood of a particularly enchanting city for the reflections of everything to resonate in a score of tangled coherence, familiar estrangement, disjointed balance.
Space is just noise as much as the time of "Space is Only Noise" is marked only by sounds. Sounds that - like noise - can be isolated and labeled, but a mere segmenting process will never give this record - or space - a clear idea, nor will it ever be a satisfying synecdoche.
It’s the sound of a post-modern alchemist. Transforms widely trodden paths into unexpected journeys, carves out a downtempo-trance-space-dance tinged with brandy from the hammer of vintage synthetic barrels, nails a lazy chant with smoothed corners to a deconstructed loop.
They are the thin, bloodless, and grey fingers of an alien cartoonist tracing mysterious sketches on the piano while sampled spoken word flows over a glitch definition screen. Slides of human things commented on from a sidereal distance.
Every frame could belong to other records, but it’s only here that it finds another placement.
It's Eta Beta's pocket from which objects of every shape and size emerge with disarming ease. And so a misty indie-pop led by a merrittian baritone is preceded by the lunar evanescence of lounge fascinations. And a glitch-hop snapshot from which the crystal-clear voice of a sax emerges is followed by the endless desolation of a ballad that itself despairs of its reason for being.
Overall, a kind of nebulous ambient-pop hovers. Something like a controlled, oblique, remote melancholy where even brief minimalist sketches - rather than mere intros or outros of other pieces - are fundamental pieces of the narrative continuum.
They are the brilliant insights of Pirandello that exploited the potentials of in progress for which precisely the non-development of the Youth and the Girl served as the perfect counterbalance to the subtextual richness of the other family members in "Six Characters in Search of an Author".
It's the debut album of Nicolas Jaar, a Chilean-American producer and pianist raised in the micro-house school of Ricardo Villalobos.
A beautiful woman might grab our attention anywhere, but if we fall in love with her it’s precisely because she is in that place and at that exact moment, precisely because she is dressed in that way and not another, precisely for that particular gesture that reverberates in that sky and that unrepeatable moment of our life.
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