Author: Hidden Wordsmith

An Epic Tapestry of Darkness and Light

album review

I can’t remember exactly how I came across this band: whether it was because someone recommended them to me or simply because I was idly browsing playlists and Bandcamp looking to discover new, interesting music. Either way, I remember only needing a few minutes to be blown away, and getting deeply invested in all their albums soon after. Ironically, I discovered their albums the “wrong way round”, probably thanks to the randomness of how I got there; I invested a lot of time getting to know and absorb Canopy first: I was absolutely hooked to that magnificent piece of work for a long time before I felt I could move on to anything else. I was also extremely excited to discover they were releasing a new EP in 2023, and they certainly didn’t disappoint with North EP: I’ll review both of these albums separately. 

However it took me a while to really look into all their publications. I’m not really sure why; I adored everything I heard, and couldn’t get enough of them. But it took me a year to realise I hadn’t listened to Requiem – an album with cover art of a scene which manages to be both calming yet haunting; sentimental yet contemplative; positive yet dark. And that’s what’s make it perfect artwork; the album also feels like it’s made up of different emotional extremes. It veers sharply from sweetness to darkness in the span of a single track, and takes you on long, thoughtful journeys as you listen. Listening to it the first time, I realised how much I’d been missing out on. Ask me to choose which album of theirs is my favourite and I won’t be able to reply honestly; but all I can say is that this is the one I needed to write about first.

To the sea, we release everything for it so zealously keeps our secrets. From the sea, we regain the will to rise again

Silent Whale Becomes A° Dream – Requiem

Requiem kicks off with Dies Iræ, Dies Illa, which means “This Day, a Day of Wrath”. Like any great post rock composition, it takes its time to grow steadily but surely, starting from a string section being led by a haunting cello setting a sombre mood: a fitting introduction to an album called Requiem. Yet while strongly melancholy, the orchestral piece hits notes of hope quite early in the track, giving off hints of light and setting up the contrasts early. Drums start building in a beat which slowly takes shape as you listen, overlayed with textures which add to the brooding sense of the track as it grows steadily. Guitars grow slowly in presence, played in an almost mandolin-like fashion. This well-named track sounds like watching a cloud grow larger and darker, swirling in front of your eyes as it builds towards what you know is going to be an inevitable storm. But the overall feeling isn’t exclusively one of impending doom; instead it’s of a cleansing which is about to happen, almost an invitation for you to go out there and stand in the rain as it lashes down. 

When it hits, it hits hard: Silent Whale are experts at building an epic tapestry, and when the track breaks it takes the listener through a massive rollercoaster which keeps growing in intensity; sticking to the rain analogy, you can almost see the lightning in front of your eyes and feel the rain hit the ground hard as it washes everything away with it. I find the bass particularly effective in this composition: it backs everything up solidly in the background, while bringing in small but crucial highlights of its own, taking centre stage for fleeting moments which continue giving this track its undulating effect. After the peak, the track breaks into an organised tapestry of chaos for a few minutes, adding another emotional point to the mix before it suddenly fades into a conclusion which comes and goes like waves of the sea calming down after the storm’s worst is over. It’s a long track at 18 minutes long, but one which captivates you every second of the way. 

The album continues with the shorter Cor Contritum Quasi Cinis, or “Heart Broken Like Ashes”. It starts with a tolling picked bass line which feels like a funeral march. The bass guitar takes centre stage in this track; rather than a supportive instrument, it leads the way, with the guitars bringing in highlights, drums adding weight and a deep bass drone adding oomph to the slow, haunting pattern. The march pauses for a section in the centre of the track, with all the instruments coming back in and gathering speed in breath-taking section where the guitars join the string section and deeply percussive drums to build towards a huge crescendo which.. never arrives in the way you expect it. It takes your breath away, building anticipation then killing it in mere seconds, leaving you gasping for air. An intelligent and unpredictable affair which wrangles your emotions, much like most of the rest of this album.

Next is Recordare (Remember), which starts with sweet picked guitars on a bed of reverb and space, setting a contemplative, quiet mood. That fades away into nothingness, coming back in waves and bringing with it brooding bass textures which rattle you while the guitars continue their tonal exploration. Strings start building in with the drums softly but surely building up. The beauty of the choice of progressions here is that they blend melancholy with peacefulness and hope in ways which tear your emotions apart. You’re taken slowly into an epic build-up, led into a vast expanse of sound which explodes in a mixture of mystery, darkness and even rage and anger: tinted with positivity and hope. It then slows into a guitar-led sequence which feels soothing, yet introduces dissonance you don’t expect. Once again, the bass, drums and strings bring a depth to the whole song which makes it feel like a huge, masterful  contrast between light and darkness. It concludes with the guitar meandering thoughtfully and unpredictably, fading away into a nothingness which feels incomplete. This track engages you so much you barely realise 14 minutes have passed by. Then again, every track in this album is like that.

The final track, Lacrymósa Dies Illa (That Tearful Day) is probably my favourite one, even though it’s a hard choice to have to make. Brooding drone sounds lead the way, with a dark bass line setting the scene for the first couple of minutes as the drums builds up textures on the crashes in the background. Strings undulate in and out, pausing only to let the bass guitar change gears and the drums to enter slowly in earnest. A slow journey begins; one which once again specialises in what feels like extreme contrasts through the expert choice of notes; brooding darkness supported by guitars bringing in notes which give the whole tapestry a positive outlook, yet one which is underpinned by a never-absent sense of loss. And that’s the best way to think about this album, which is why the title fits perfectly; I feel it’s all about grief and loss. Those periods in life are undeniably dark and hard, yet the loss of a loved one also sparks lovely memories of all the great reasons why they were indeed loved ones. Grief is tainted with love, loss is offset with fond recollections. 

This track grows extensively to a peak which feels even larger and more powerful than all the previous ones, suddenly fading away into a sole picked guitar sequence which starts the journey once again and builds to an even bigger, more epic crescendo. This last one is difficult to describe; it pulls all the strength of the album together in one big, final push which leaves you reeling and gasping for air, yet feeling hopeful and even elated after a long period of grief. An incredible conclusion to an epic album.

Reviewing albums like this one is extremely hard; the emotional journeys they take you through is indescribable. Yet they’re exactly why I listen to post rock; when you really listen, post rock can take you to a place far, far away and support you through your deepest thoughts and darkest moments, giving you strength. This is an album which achieves that absolutely perfectly, and is a must-listen for anyone looking to understand what post rock done well sounds like. This is a monstrous masterclass, beginning to end.

Rating: 10/10

Moods: Darkness, Grief, Hope, Epic

A Different Kind of Darkness

album review

The first time I listened to this, I hated it. It was early in my post rock journey; I had been to my first Sigur Rós concert and listened to a couple of bands in the same vein, thinking that’s what post rock “meant”: vast expanses of instrumental music which take you on a journey and penetrate your soul. So when I started delving deeper, thirsty for more of the same, I invariably came across this album, mentioned across multiple forums and reviews and lauded as one of the very best in the genre.

So imagine my surprise when I finally got my hands on it, switched it on, and was presented by a raw, unpolished series of six songs which felt, at the time, more like grunge (which is really not my thing) than anything else. Worse still, it had vocals! What was everyone on about? This wasn’t post rock as I knew and loved it. I gave it one shot, then parked it as a disappointing discovery, and steered clear of it.

Fifteen or so years of listening to a multitude of post rock bands later, I felt I couldn’t avoid it any more. It kept coming up, time and time again: the epic review from none other than Steve Albini, who famously gave it “ten fucking stars”, must mean something. So I tried it again.

And boy, was I wrong. I feel stupid for not realising sooner, but I think my tastes needed to evolve. Now that I’ve spent time listening to so many different styles within the loosely-defined genre that is post rock, I get it. It’s not a “hype album” you have to like because you’re uncool or non-knowledgeable if you don’t. There are plenty of albums out there which people adore and I just can’t get into. But Spiderland is… something else. It’s difficult to describe, and it’s very difficult to review. Which is what makes it a great album review to start this website on. 

Years later, I’ve listened to Spiderland hundreds of times, and each listen doesn’t get any easier. It’s been called the “ground zero of post rock” — and that really is an excellent way of describing it. The whole album feels like we’re listening in to a garage band rehearsing: raw, gritty and yet polished and incredibly well-crafted. It’s clear that a lot of work went into each song: the band plays loosely, but they’re in complete control of their instruments and very respectful to each other. 

It’s crazy to think how young these four guys from Louisville, Kentucky, were at the time of recording this: at the same age, I had my own bands and we were excited by making music, but we were desperately trying to craft originality through mimicking the bands we listened to, “stealing” inspiration and turning it into our own creations. Those have faded away: none of the band members I played with even remember any of the songs we wrote. Conversely, Slint’s masterpiece has only grown from strength to strength, and the reason for that is because it’s unlike anything that had ever existed. I find it hard to compare it to anything else which exists to date. 

Spiderland starts off on a sweet harmonic riff repeated multiple times, interrupted almost immediately by a narrative vocal which is both hard to understand and hard to hear, buried in the music. The opener, Breadcrumb Trail, immediately disorients you: 1 minute 20 seconds into into it, you’re still not sure what you’re listening to and what to expect. Then suddenly it explodes: almost gracefully, yet vengefully, it suddenly turns into an agonising organised mess of sounds which work perfectly together. The rest of the song veers in a similar fashion: respectfully ignoring the metronome and focusing on what needs to be done to get things said. 

Listening closely, you can immediately seeing how Spiderland influenced so many sub genres, including math rock: the band is extremely tight and know exactly what they’re doing, yet they’re steering the song almost as if they were all drunk. It’s perfect in its chaotic atmosphere: and as suddenly as the chaos started, Breadcrumb Trail goes back to where it started. Six minutes into the album, and you’re genuinely unsure what you just listened to. But it feels important.

The rest of the album flows in a similar fashion, but gets broodier and heavier the deeper you go: Nosferatu Man, the next track has a deep, dark brooding bass line which disappears yet hangs over the whole song until it breaks into quasi-grunge. But what’s different here is how this music hits you: grunge and similar styles stir up rage, anger, and a slew of similar emotions. This stirs up emotions on the same dark spectrum, but is rich with sadness, regret, apprehension: it feels like you want to be angry, but it’s a silent rage which doesn’t really ever make you want to punch a wall. 

I’m not really sure that works as a description: I told you this was incredibly hard to describe and review appropriately, so my apologies if the adjectives I’m using feel odd. It’s also my first ever review, which feels appropriate: this is my own “ground zero” for the site, so it might be messy and slightly awkwardly raw but it’s where it begins.

Spiderland feels like it pauses for breath with Don, Aman, the third track and the only one without drums. But if anything this only serves to make it darker, heavier: a spike of raw guitar riffing in the middle of the track and then a short snippet of it at the end passing by remind you of the dangerous emotions this album explores. 

Washer hits next: this to me is my favourite track, and the one I listen to most often from the whole album. Its melodic, charming riff feels lulls you into a morose sense of safety. I don’t understand why this track hits me so deeply, but everything just works. You can very clearly hear the emotion many post rock albums considered to be classics emphasise: Washer brings it to the fore, leading you at length into its darkness then hitting you with a massive burst at the very end which feels almost violent, yet appropriate, fading away back into nothingness after 8 minutes. 

For Dinner broods heavily following Washer: the only instrumental track on the album, it tells a story of pending doom, of dark black clouds overhead waiting to burst but which never really do. It’s apprehensive and ends with an expectation: you’re not sure why it’s over, but it is, and that feels right. 

Good Morning, Captain is the final track brings all the album together: the sense of danger, heavy and consistent sense of heading somewhere uncertain and dark: six minutes of pure build-up which wells and disappears, then suddenly explodes at the very last minute, ending on the screams of “I miss you” hitting you like a brick. And as fast as it appears, the sudden explosion is cut short: one final riff, and a guitar allowed to linger on a final note suddenly cut off. 

At the end of this album, you’re disoriented, unsure of what just happened, and are left with a dark sense of unease you can’t shake off. Something magnificent just happened, and you’re not sure where: but you certainly need to listen to it again to try and figure it out.

You won’t. And that’s the beauty of it: it works perfectly, and I’m not sure why it does. But this album deserves every single one of the ten fucking stars it gets, every time. Game changer. There’s nothing else like it, and there very probably will never be. 

Rating: 10/10

Moods: Brooding, Dark, Apprehensive

Every Listen Weaves a Different Story

album review

This is a tough album to review. Whenever the topic of post rock comes up and someone asks me for albums to recommend, this tends to be one of the first five I mention. However, it’s one of the toughest to explain exactly why, and what emotions it will elicit in a listener, especially someone new to the genre. After years of listening to it, I’ve come to the conclusion that the reason for that is that it simply changes in meaning around your life as you listen to it more and more.

I know that sounds a little crazy, but I’ve seen it said before about Jakob’s Solace: they’ve managed to create something here which is crafted so meticulously, so perfectly, that it immediately just “fits” in that position in your mind which feels empty – the position we all try to fill with music. It works in almost every circumstance: moments of introspection, sadness, grief, thoughtfulness. Funnily, it’s the only album that does that perfectly even on the other side of the emotional spectrum, with elation, self-healing — hell, even joy.

What ties this all in together is the album title, which was also an excellent selection. Solace describes it: defined as TBD, it’s about finding comfort in oneself. That doesn’t mean necessarily comfort when sad; it also points at the joy you can experience when being alone with your thoughts. And that just works here.

Jakob is a band from New Zealand, and that somehow also feels apt. I visited New Zealand a few years back, and the whole trip was filled with a consistent feeling of awe and wonder: emotions tugging at your very soul at every step you take in their wonderful natural environment. If I had to pick an album which best describes that unforgettable experience, it would be this one, followed possibly by their next, equally perfect yet quite different album, Sines. Jakob truly has captured the pulse of that wonderful country they call home and translated it to a tapestry of musical emotions which is incredible to experience.

The only real danger of this album is that it blends so perfectly across tracks that it’s tough to understand where one song ends and the other begins: not because each one doesn’t have a clear intro and conclusion, but because each song is an extension of the same feeling you choose to explore when you start listening. And yet, it is anything but repetitive. Each track takes you on a different journey: if you’re feeling introspective, it’s easy to play this to help you concentrate on what you’d like to discover about yourself without it taking over. That makes it also quite easy to ignore sometimes, which is a shame: yet even if you’re deep inside your train of thought while listening, a track like Oran Mor, the fourth on the album, will snap you back momentarily into reality, but without ever disturbing your train of thought. 

I’ve found it equally easy to concentrate on complicated work tasks as it is to focus completely on listening to it. I know this review is full of metaphors, but that’s because it’s incredibly tough to nail down a proper description for this: it will mean to you something entirely different on every listen – and what that meaning is depends entirely on where you are, mentally. It’s the perfect album for listening to in the dark when you need.. well, solace.. and it’s also the perfect album to get busy executing tasks to while it soothes your mind. A track like ‘Everything all of the time’ includes the only faint hint of vocals you’ll experience throughout the album – but again, they’re so perfectly well blended that I genuinely had to read the track listing to realise there were vocals on there at all: and that’s after hundreds of listens. Yet when you hear them, you understand why you missed them, and why they were perfect the way they are. 

I think the only difficult part of listening to this is if you want to experience it with more than one person. It’s not great for group listening, purely because it works up different emotions in different people, all of the time. It might also not immediately “click” in your mind — it might take a couple of listens to appreciate properly, and that’s because of where you need to be for it to “fit”. This album feels like it changes with every listen: every time, you discover a new moment which hits you differently.

I know that’s a vague review, and every other note I’ve read on this album over the years has been similar in that describing it in words is extremely difficult. I get it though. I don’t remember when I discovered this album first: all I know is that when it appeared in my life, it never left. And it never will. It’s truly an album which gives you solace, and is worth listening to time and again: it’s the one to reach out to every time you need comfort, peace, tranquility, and a true sense of being alive in that moment. 

Rating: 10/10

Mood: Elation, Solace, Tranquility, Peace, Introspection

A Radical Album for Radical Times

album review

I can certainly remember what happened as soon as I listened to its first few minutes. It was immediately apparent that this debut album would change the genre once again and act as a monolith on the landscape of post rock / post metal. It’s no exaggeration to say that this album shook the scene’s understanding of what can be achieved when the boundaries are challenged.

A quartet from France whose name literally means “Noise”, Bruit had already cultivated a small yet growing fanbase with their first EP, “Monolith” (also highly recommended!). As they’ve explained in their releases, their original intention was never to take their music live, but to experiment with the boundaries of music and create ever bigger walls of sound within a studio environment. They certainly achieved the target of breaking boundaries and redrawing the lines: I’m also glad they decided to take their music live on the road too, as their live videos are mind blowing. I have yet to watch them perform, and they’re certainly on my list of “must-sees”. 

What makes this album special is just how unexpected it is, and how expertly each second has been crafted. It challenges your understanding of how music should be constructed every few minutes: effortlessly moving from drone and electronic noises to professional classical moments, then evolving masterfully into huge crescendos which sweep over you completely. 

The album starts off with “Industry”, a song which kicks off with a soundscape of droning electronic noises devolving into an urgent electronic ticking accompanied by drums, droning, and the quartet’s cellist bringing in the string section. It layers things slowly as it builds, adding more and more dreamy and heavy guitars, driven by a bass line which leads the way into an organised cacophony. It then disappears fast, falling back into electronic drones leading into a tragic, well-defined string piece accompanied by the ever-leading bass guitar. This folds seamlessly into “Renaissance”, the second track, which starts off with an acoustic guitar piece accompanied by piano, violin and more strings with definite roots in folk music. 

The album evolves so fast, so seamlessly and so fittingly that I find it hard to pinpoint a track except as a series of ever-complexly evolving moments, interweaved to create a story which starts, evolves, devolves and begins again. Bruit themselves describe this album as “an existential tale describing a humanity that experiences apocalypse and rebirth”, and you can see why: each track is a series of “cycles” which peaks, troughs, and starts all over again in a new direction. But unlike most post rock albums which follow the pattern of lows and highs, the moments which lead to these are entirely unpredictable, and anything but uniform in nature. “Renaissance” ends on as sweet a note as the one it started from, fading into nothingness and leaving space for the soft, undulating piano notes of “Amazing Old Tree” to make their presence known. 

This third track weaves an intricate, soft bed of introspective noise, overlaid by quotations from the documentary “If a Tree Falls: A Story of the Earth Liberation Front”, where the protagonist is clearly mourning the loss off incredibly old trees which were murdered ruthlessly with the onset of the last century. You can feel his sadness in the tone of the track, and even the most distracted listener will feel the magnetic depth of this track leading you down into forced introspection, reflection on the chaos humanity has wrought through its actions. It finishes by challenging the listener into taking action indirectly, questioning the definition of environmental radicalism and insinuating that it’s nowhere near radical enough. 

If the first three tracks are amazing, though, they simply pave the way to the masterpiece that is the fourth track, the behemoth “The Machine is Burning”. This track should be in every post rock fan’s top 10 of all time, and its live performance in the below video should go down as one of the strongest genre-defining moments we’ve seen in the last 20 years. I’ve watched it probably hundreds of times at this point, and it never ceases to take my breath away:

I won’t try and do this track justice with words, as it is impossible to convey it accurately in any way which fits. Suffice it to say that builds magnificently until it unleashes an incredibly powerful wall of sound which takes you to new, emotionally powerful heights as it continues building seemingly endlessly. When it finally does come to a head, the song then fades slowly over the last four minutes, allowing you to catch your breath while simultaneously drawing you further under the darkness of its cloud of perfect noise. 

This album feels like the start of a fresh chapter in post rock. One in which I hope Bruit will continue writing incredible stories in. Since this album, they’ve released another mind-bending EP, Apologie du temp perdu, Vol 1.: less powerful in punch than this one, yet as important as every one of their tracks so far. I can’t wait to see what their future work will bring: even with so few tracks released so far, Bruit is undeniably one of the biggest contemporary presences in post rock. This album is a must-listen, and the band a must-follow. 

Rating: 10/10

Moods: Dark, Rebellious, Powerful, Vengeful