 Ex-Jessamine member and Sunn 0))) contributor Dawn
Smithson seems happily married to the autumnal nuance of desolation. Despite the title,
Smithson's writing is dangerous, capable of unfolding and making the most resolute optimist feel
wholly crazed and alone.
Kranky
Some albums can't help but exude loneliness, like they were forged in a model of Jandek's house
located somewhere in remotest Nebraska. Joining Smithson is Rex Ritter of Fontanelle and Jessamine fame, Brian
Foote of Nudge, David Farrell, and Jussi Brightmore. The majority of each song is encompassed in
Smithson's elegant voice and her spirited guitar playing. While each song has a slow pace, her
guitar work can sometimes be jumpy and intricate, teasing different rhythms out of the strings
with no sign of repetition or design. Now and then a shimmering guitar will appear above hers,
electric and ringing with despair in its voice.
I can imagine watching leaves falling over a
valley deep in the mountains, lamentation for things that have passed pop up here and there, and
ultimately there's no choice but to drive back home and face all the consequences of the past
year. There's a quality to her lyrics that make me think of love letters found too late or of
correspondence that details how utterly typical life has been lately. The music, however, is far
from typical. Its quiet, pulsing rhythm feels a thousand times removed from the more insane
guitar work that seems so popular, but it doesn't reference any distinct style that I can pin
down and utilize successfully.
Just as Smithson sounds as though she's about to lapse into a
Low-esque meditation on how the guitar is to be played, she shifts gears and allows more
orchestration into her work, patterning her lyrics around the descending persistence of the
album's somehow dire mood. Ever so slightly, like on "A New Day," hope comes shaking out of the
background, capitalized by the accelerated pace of the music. Before that hope can really stand
out, Smithson sinks it underneath an instrumental passage, leaving no words to place
the music and it's dirge-like qualities.
Open the windows and soon the room will smell like the
album sounds, the wind coming through the house will feel suspiciously still, and reminiscing
will soon become impossible to avoid. To be honest, some of Smithson's lyrics are positive,
completely betraying the mood the instruments establish. The cutting power of this record,
however, isn't ruined by the contradiction, just strengthened by it. There's an ambivalence to
Smithson's music that stands out and supports the feeling that it must've been created by
tapping into someone's blood and sucking all the stories out of it. Simultaneously, it's a
relaxing, soothing listen and no amount of emotional weight can keep it on the shelf.
There's
always a desire to put on the record and simply follow along, pretending as though she is
talking directly to me and laying out the past, for better or for worse.
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