Slug-slow shoegaze augmented by Black Tambourine-esque vocals fighting through mighty cobwebs of reverb. This album would like to be some sort of meditation-class fractal-soundscape study, and is being marketed as such from the CD cover to Latenight's press blurbs ("a visual" blah blah blah "translated into an aural" blah blah blah). But the end product is a largely instrumental set of altie prayers mumbled at the lotus feet of Interpol, rarely deviating from 4/4 time into the legitimately abstract, and evoking clear imagery not of seascapes, hopes, or dreams but of pimpled art-clucks subjecting their chicks to never-ending private performances built on their unnerving obsessions with stillborn arpeggios. Sure, it's experimental, but their cubicle-mates at work must have dreaded taking turns at the slimy Walkman to "scope out our latest, man."
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