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Становящийся в наш суетной век все более редким (а отсюда и все более желанным) явлением, дневной сон имеет существенные отличия от полноценного ночного отдыха. На фоне череды порой очень даже последовательных видений, порожденных спящим подсознанием, дневной «отдых разума» наполнен, как правило, фрагментарными вспышками неуловимых образов, выхваченных из окружающей реальности, приобретающей сюрреалистические оттенки, но оставляющей за собой ощущение некоей «незыблемости» бытия. Впрочем, многие эту точку зрения наверняка оспорят, ведь сон – дело сугубо индивидуальное. Но вот Уилл Лонг, создающий сейчас единолично произведения для «Celer», почти наверняка согласился бы со мной – надеяться на это позволяет недавно вышедший альбом «Radish», где как раз и собраны треки, с помощью которых Уилл постарался описать свои дневные сны.

«Radish» – работа без четких структур и границ. Без объяснений, обещаний и сложных концепций. Просто семнадцать коротких зарисовок, неожиданно начинающихся и не менее неожиданно заканчивающихся. Продолжая реализовывать идею «бесконечных короткометражек», представленную когда-то на дисках «Nacreous Clouds» и «Capri», Лонг словно бродит по квартире в сомнамбулическом состоянии, прислушиваясь ко всем окружающим шумам, проходящим через фильтр заглушенного сознания и предстающим в голове слушателя нереальными объектами, потерявшими привычные очертания и обильно приправленными инграммами,  гештальтами, мыслями и воспоминаниями, сливающимися в блеклую, размытую картинку. Поэтому в дело идет все: уличный шум, гул водопроводных труб, бормотание телевизора и звуки бытовых предметов. Несколько композиций хрупки, как звон хрустальных бокалов, некоторые – массивны и тяжелы; одни стелятся ментальным грузом, другие массируют мозг тонкими и нервозными («Celer» всегда ими умело манипулировали) высокими и нарочито грубоватыми частотами, несколько же треков-крупиц этого затейливого калейдоскопа весьма легки, нежны и эфемерны, как волна тепла, обнимающая тебя, когда веки закрываются и жаркий летний полдень уходит на второй план, уступая место видениям куда как более интересным, мягким и уютным.

Слушать «Radish» строго рекомендовано именно в таком состоянии. И лучше на повторе. И хорошо бы отложить его еще и на ночное время, чтобы отгонять тяжелые сны, обитающие в неизбежно нагрянувшей темноте.

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Tralasciate per un attimo le nuove e per certi versi sorprendenti derive innestate con i suoi due nuovi progetti Rangefinder e Oh, Yoko, Will Thomas Long ritorna all’abituale alveo di Celer con uno dei lavori più evanescenti ed eterei tra i cento e oltre pubblicati negli anni sotto tale denominazione.

L’idea sottostante all’ora abbondante di soffi ambientali, articolata in quattro tracce, della quale si compone “Climbing Formation” nasce a mezz’aria tra terra e cielo, tra i riflessi di un tramonto senza fine, inseguito da Long nel corso di un viaggio aereo che lo riconduceva all’attuale residenza giapponese.

Calda e vaporosa è appunto la consistenza delle undici “concatenazioni” che formano le quattro pièce, dilatati frammenti generati da organi, synth e loop assortiti, espansi fino a sublimare bagliori corruschi cristallizzati in una durata, al solito, imponente ma in questo caso fedelmente rappresentativa della placida narcolessia di iterazioni e graduali punti di snodo di composizioni le cui frequenze subliminali a volume elevato rivelano l’incessante moto degli elementi di un’atmosfera impalpabile.

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Will Thomas Long is the name associated with the synth explorations found under a new guise called Rangefinder. It might not be a household name per se, but TOME-followers and/or ambient music obsessors might also know him from the more-commonly associated nomenclature, Celer — an act many, many releases into an impressive career, most-recently landing on tape with something of a stunning masterpiece for Constellation Tatsu. (which Nathan is STILL borrowing by the way *shakes fist.) But of course here we have a different beast altogether; if Celer is a sound that can be defined by it’s wallowing ambient beauty, lakes of synthesizer made for a nice relaxing bath, then Rangefinder pulls the cork at the bottom of these bodies of liquid synth and let’s that water flow… fast. Of course, there’s no real tempos to be associated with this music, no beats-per-measure, and really there’s no measures. So how can we describe this music as being fast? How does Long create the illusion of rapid motion with such a sweeping, blinking blanket of tone? We often discuss ambient or drone music in terms of its ability to move, its inherent forward motion, but when it’s a slow-feeling piece, somehow that doesn’t seem quite as remarkable of an observation. Therefore, Long is treading on new ground with this his approach here, the synths themselves and their thrumming instabilities, shuttering arppeggios and chords, feel like they are travelling at warp speed. This is a new kind of ambient music, bracing and arresting, packed with inertia and soaring through the cosmos. Long lays out several chord progressions which succeed through boiling, bubbling strokes of Major and minor intervals, sometimes plunked out on a piano or danced out of what sounds like an organ made from laser beams. The sheer variety of textures, not only across the breadth of this breathtaking tape, but within individual tracks themselves, is a thing to behold; notes sound like they’re coming from buzzsaws, bows, strings, plasmas, fireflies, pools of blood, solar flares, amoebas, brain waves… and each note arrives as an unstable, pliable thing. Heavy vibratos, tremolos, tones squeezed and stretched to the max, and of course general reverberous and distorted effects are carefully chosen for each to keep the listener guessing, nerve-endings stood rapt in attention and tickled to death with each new sonic glimpse offered.

There is an element or two that is sacrificed in all of this: The main thing is that the immediate and compelling paintings of beauty that Long is nearly famous for (or should be, amirite?) are not exactly gone altogether, but a bit hidden. With the focus on these strobing textures, the harmonic subtleties are a bit harder to pin down and recognize, or even make sense of, and sometimes it seems like they might not even be there to begin with. And while there is still lots of gorgeousness in the compositions if you look hard enough, the pieces also have less clearly defined structures (beginnings, middles, and ends). Themes appear out of nowhere and wander about before ever really concluding themselves. But hey, maybe that’s OK. In fact, it very much is ok, mostly since this is the first Rangefinder tape, and it feels like Long was probably looking for a new vehicle to drive his instruments around in, joyrides to nowhere in particular for these experiments. Here he’s just testing out all the gears, making sure everything works like it should. The results are beyond thrilling for beat-less synthesizer music, and point with a fat finger towards a compelling future for all things Rangefinder — if he can take these new points of reference and map them out into a full, seamless journey, we’re really going to have something. And hey, I think a new tape might already be out, or is at least on the way… I’ve been flipping this 800 yen piece of merchandise over and over in my deck for months now trying to figure out how to write about it (and, of course, I have likely failed even now), but hopefully this little post gets folks hip to the even greater greatness that’s on Long’s long horizon. The best part? Whether it’s more Rangefinder or Celer material, it’s bound to be brilliant. What do they call that again? Oh yeah, WIN WIN.

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“En la mitad de la noche digo tu nombre. En el medio de un baño digo tu nombre. En el medio de un afeitado digo tu nombre. En la mitad de un sueño digo tu nombre. En el medio de una nube digo tu nombre. Oh Yoko. Mi amor te volverá loca”. Una de las canciones más sencillas, solo cuatro acordes insistentes, y a la vez una de las más hermosas declaraciones de amor sirve para dar identidad a un proyecto de electrónica casera que sorprende, de la misma manera, por su simplicidad. “Oh Yoko!”, la pieza final del “Imagine” (Apple, 1972) de John Lennon, es el nombre escogido por un dúo radicado en Japón, solo que eliminando el signo de exclamación final e introduciendo una coma entre las dos palabras. También es el motivo para impulsar una nueva plataforma, Normal Cookie, editorial artística con sede en Tokio y fundada el 2012, dedicada a publicar sus propios sonidos.

Oh, Yoko son Rie Mitsutake y Will Long. De este último sabemos principalmente por Celer, su proyecto infinito y sus incontables trabajos de sonidos paisajistas y la oscuridad que yace debajo de ese panorama. La muerte de su compañera Daniel Banquet–Long supuso un golpe fuerte, pero el ritmo de trabajo no se detuvo, sino que impulsó aún más nuevas ideas. Por su parte, Rie es una artista japonesa que comenzó a tomar lecciones de piano a los cinco años. Sin embargo, no fue sino hasta el año 2000, después de pasar por varias bandas, que comenzó a registrar sus propias canciones. Desde ese entonces, y bajo el nombre de Miko, ha publicado dos discos, “Parade” (Plop, 2008) y “Chandelier” (Someone Good, 2010). Luego de un single, “Seashore” (Normal Cookie, 2012), tenemos propiamente su primera colección de canciones de Oh, Yoko, catorce piezas de pop electrónico de fidelidad baja que se recuestan sobre un colchón de sonidos orgánicos, ruido de segunda mano y texturas análogas. “Grabado en Tokio con un montaje de instrumentos acústicos y electrónicos vintage, micrófonos clásicos, found sounds y juguetes, ‘I Love You…’ es la primera declaración de Oh, Yoko de la apertura de la creatividad en momentos capturados de un simple hogar y la vida en la ciudad”. La fragilidad se apodera de las armonías infantiles que recorren cada centímetro de este álbum. “I Love You…” es débil, y esa debilidad hace que los sonidos que en su interior habitan deban ser tratados con el mayor cuidado. Y esa es precisamente la forma en que estos acordes son manipulados, con la máxima atención y esmero. Electrónica hogareña recubriendo melodías de almíbar que se derriten en la boca como algodón de azúcar y colorantes. El estruendo de la vida urbana se encuentra con el murmullo que reside en un hogar ubicado dentro del caos de su arquitectura, la geografía agreste y artificial convive con la naturaleza aislada en un parque inserto en medio de bloques de cemento. El bullicio de las tardes y la tranquilidad de las noches cohabitan en este trabajo de tiernas piezas de estructura simple, adornadas con luces como las de un árbol de navidad. “Heaven’s Gate” resplandece con su electricidad en medio de la calma acústica y la respiración que sale de los pulmones de Rie. Las flores de fuego iluminan la panorámica azul oscuro, y la lluvia de estrellas deja su rastro borroso sobre una fotografía fugaz. Siguen las melodías reservadas, encerradas en las paredes de la habitación. “Toumei” apenas asoma la cabeza sobre el cuerpo. Sin embargo, minutos después “Grand Prix” trae la sorpresa de la mano de una caja de ritmos y la alegre efusividad que brota de sus circuitos. De pronto, sin quererlo, sin pensarlo, los pies marcan el tiempo. La timidez se vuelven sensaciones extrovertidas. Pop multicolor en movimientos circulares. El desplazamiento ondulado permanece pero desacelerado. “I Did This, I Did That”, sintonías cazadas desde las emisiones en aire y las palabras recitadas. Música espacial que parecen cristales cósmicos, justo en el vértice opuesto de la lluvia cayendo sobre el suelo asfaltado de “Song With Coyotes”, una canción con coyotes e instrumentos de juguete, folk adiestrado entre la humedad, como los sonidos ásperos de “Treehouse”, sonidos encontrados en su estado natural. “Daylight Lunch”, “Keio Line” y “Take-Off” se evaden en las armonías que se pierden en el cielo y sus bordes expansivos. El regreso al folk digital viene con “Boîte de nuit”, una balada minimalista tendida sobre electricidad fina, un puente de delgadas fibras que sostienen la melodía, tiritando mientras la voz de Rie pronuncia palabras que me son indescifrables en mi ignorancia, pero que me reconfortan como si me las dijeran suavemente al oído. Tras el breve quiebre de “Newsbreak”, “Radio Days” recupera la quietud en una pieza que apenas parece esbozada, otro momento de fragilidad con los susurros como protagonistas desde la distancia, los mismos de “Ice Skating In The Dark”, solo que intercambiando el atardecer por el amanecer. Rayos de sol sobre el horizonte despierta la vegetación que levanta sus hojas hacia el cielo. Las notas reiteradas que podrían repetirse por la eternidad tienen como acompañante a la suavidad expuesta con una claridad abismante, Miko y el canto amable junto a los paisajes luminosos. El folk estelar y el murmullo que desborda familiaridad esconden las melodías de exquisitez inagotable. Otra vez el sol oculta su brillo anaranjado, al mismo tiempo que las palabras descansan sobre las líneas horizontales de acústica digitalizada. “Love Song” se propaga indefinidamente con sus breves y esporádicos destellos.

“I Love You…” es una hermosa declaración de amor compartido que nos es entregada para que creamos que algo más es posible. De estructuras simples y acabados artesanales, estas canciones nacieron para ser amadas y tratadas con cuidado. Rye y Will nos muestran la intimidad de su hogar, y con ello el ruido doméstico que adorna sus habitaciones.

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This intriguing electro-pop album seems to float above my player, a gentle female voice singing something beautiful in Japanese with an 8-bit keyboard adding a slow rhythm over a synthesized underlayer of ambient music.

That’s “Tourmi,” perhaps my favorite cut on this dreamy collection. “Grand Prix” is more rhythm heavy, but still floating in the same time field of unobtrusive pop soundlings. Low-res audio infuses this tea ceremony; it’s as if all the Casio keyboards of your youth got together and went to Julliard. Another noteworthy track is “Song with Coyotes.” Raindrops fall off the digital leaves of a tropical forest as a harmonica tunes up. The band searches for a sound that they can’t quite hit, and exotic birds cry out in the background “Arrrrrthuuur LYYYman! Arrrrrthuuur LYYYman!” These must be Hawaiian coyotes.

Oh, Yoko mixes low tech sounds, complex overlays, pop culture samples, and breathy intimate vocals to create a special place of calm and reasonableness and a place of childlike play and inquiry. How can you not relax? Even the coyotes are relaxed.

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This is the debut album for the duo of Rie Mitsutake and Will Long, released on the relatively new label Normal Cookie from Japan.  Given that most of the previously unheard artists I have received from Japanese labels have been of the highest quality I was excited as to what I may hear.

‘Heavens Gate’ opens up this 14-tracker, with lo-fi analogue electronics and female harmonies that float of kilter against one another, slipping off parallel that works more than it should in theory; either way I was surprised as to just how engaging this was as a whole.

There is more than a pop influence to Mitsutake and Long’s work.  When the former sings, it’s more often than not in her native tongue; but this is rarely an issue and she still manages to hold the listener regardless of their linguistic skills (or lack of).

There is something so unremarkably simplistic about “I Love You’, that it’s remarkable in itself; and whilst it would be easy to dismiss a lot of the output on the release, the retro sensibilities fit a certain guilty pleasure of mine when it comes to a lot of Japanese music, regardless of genre, somehow often owing more to the music I listen to than is immediately obvious.

This debut will most likely find itself at some point onto my phone for listening to whilst travelling to work and that’s no mean feat in itself; a peculiar, yet strangely alluring album that I enjoyed from start to finish that holds its weight well in the originality stakes.

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It’s wonderful to see Will Long, for so long associated with Celer, exploring an entirely new direction in Oh, Yoko, his group project with partner Rie Mitsutake (aka Miko, known for her full-length albums on Plop and Someone Good), with whom he manages the Normal Cookie and Bun Tapes labels. The fourteen songs on their debut Oh, Yoko album offer a striking blend of lo-fi vocal pop and electronic experimentalism, with all of it created from found sounds, toys, field recordings, and vintage electronic and acoustic instruments and recorded at their Tokyo home base. Sunny in spirit, the recording is marked by a playful and explorative sensibility, and seemingly documents Long and Mitsutake working through the process of pinning down the Oh, Yoko identity. Though the duo issued the Seashore EP earlier this year, it featured a single original only, making I Love You… the first in-depth presentation of the group’s sound.

Things start promisingly with “Heaven’s Gate,” a shimmering synthetic soundworld against which murmured vocals, acoustic guitar, and melodica intone, and gentle ballad-styled pieces and serene, entrancing settings for organ, synthesizers, and vocals (“Toumei,” “Daylight Lunch”) follow in quick succession. Lyrically, the songs are sincere and straightforward declarations about love, nature, and simple pleasures that Mitsutake typically sings softly in her native tongue though sometimes in English, too. Instrumentally, the music is often soothing in style and design, though an unexpected element occasionally surfaces, whether it be the ‘80s-styled drum machine rhythm coursing through “Grand Prix,” the relentless synth stab in “Keio Line,” or the warbly synthesizer fluttering through “I Did This, I Did That.” While most songs include singing, some are largely instrumental soundpaintings, such as “Song with Coyotes,” which accompanies field recordings (of nature sounds and, yes, coyote yelps) with melodica wheeze, kalimba plucks, and Mitsutake’s wordless musings. While an experimental radiophonic vignette like “Take-off” is interesting, the fifty-eight-minute album’s most affecting moments arise during traditionally designed songs such as “Boîte de nuit,” whose hazy lilt exudes a seductive aura reminiscent of Mazzy Starr, and “Radio Days,” whose soft, nostalgic glow evokes the feel of a ‘60s radio ballad.

That I Love You… is marked by an occasional non sequitur isn’t a crippling weakness; if anything, the abrupt shifts in mood and style from one song to the next keeps the listener on his/her toes waiting in anticipation for what comes next. Having said that, it is jarring to encounter “Newsbreak,” containing Paul McCartney’s infamous first public reaction to John Lennon’s death (“‘Drag, isn’t it?”), appearing amidst Oh, Yoko’s other songs, though, once again, the effect, though odd, isn’t unpleasant. If anything, the randomness is consistent with the duo’s desire to distill the everyday moments of home and city life into aural form, which they do repeatedly on this consistently endearing recording.

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L’ennesima pubblicazione della sconfinata discografia di Celer può rappresentare l’esempio perfetto per smentire i luoghi comuni tanto sull’immediatezza creativa di opere sperimentali quanto sulla magniloquenza espressiva sottostante alle frequenti lunghe sinfonie ambientali di Will Thomas Long. “Radish” consta infatti di ben diciannove brevi tracce prive di titolo, contrassegnate soltanto dal loro numero progressivo ed elaborate nel corso degli ultimi due anni a partire da frammenti strumentali, field recordings, suoni e rumori dalle matrici più disparate.

L’incessante successione delle tracce, sostanzialmente antitetica al loro essenziale contenuto, offre una sensazione di continua mutazione delle istantanee in movimento di Long, che disegnano una sequenza mutevole tale da restituire nell’ascolto lo stream of consciousness nel quale è stata compilata. Come la concisione di respiri che si avvicendano spontaneamente l’uno dopo l’altro, i diciannove brani mostrano una tecnica di impressionistiche suggestioni sonore, talora prodotte da frequenze e rumori appena al di sopra del livello della percezione e quasi solo nei passaggi relativamente più articolati (due sole tracce superano i cinque minuti di durata) sviluppate in minute partiture di placido ipnotismo ambientale.

Pur rinunciando a lavorare sulla persistenza, Long non ha depotenziato il contenuto immaginifico delle sue creazioni, quanto piuttosto ha inteso cristallizzare il fascino degli elementi più volativi di un descrittivismo emozionale costituito da un pulviscolo di brevi schegge sonore, la cui valenza in questa forma viene anzi esaltata.

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Climbing Formation is a four-track album by Tokyo-based Ambient luminary Celer aka Will Long, comprising of eleven concatenations – or rather formations – realized via an organ, a synthesizer and various tape loops and movements. Released on the Parisian Entropy Records in mid-September of 2013, the CD comes in an edition of 500 deluxe matte-colored digipaks and with a limited postcard. It can be ordered directly from Entropy Records and is fully streamable at Will Long’s Bandcamp site. As with all of Celer’s releases, the artist creates a textual backdrop which could be coined as a cheeky faux-clarity; it seems to explain everything one ought to know about the respective work, but is abstract enough to not be served on a silver platter. Climbing Formation is no different in this regard and is potentially easy to understand due to the explanatory notes and the front artwork. Not entirely coincidentally, the unison of front artwork, album title and accompanying text offers the first designed dissonance. Climbing Formation is usually connected to rock climbing and the ascent of said formation, but the front artwork does not show illustrate the flimsiest barrow. It is a US Air Force jet that is shown, probably photographed in motion. The liner notes absorb – and rigidify – the leitmotif of aeronautics: two different travelogs are contrasted, the first written by one William A. Long, Jr. in Fairbanks, November 1960 while being on a plane in order to “oversee a polar station in the middle of nowhere.” Whether this is a relative of Will Long or a namesake is not revealed (yellow press anyone?). The second travelog is written by Celer himself during a flight to Tokyo as he lets his mind drift: “I keep watching out the window, continually sucked into the sunset, and the distant mountains of clouds hanging over the ocean.” Mountains and airplanes are thus the main theme of the album, but the reviewer’s prerogative of interpretation is still in danger as the unfolding arrangements show. The specific qualities and textural components are further carved out below. For now, it should be enough to know that Climbing Formation is a potentially joyous glorification of natural surroundings which steer our thoughts like coxswains from afar. But how does this explain the scattered arcana and paroxysmal mysteries?

The first track encapsulates three vignettes and runs for over 22 minutes, enough time for Will Long to fathom out the positively etiolated plateaus in vertiginous heights. The opening segment Motions That Vary Due To Height showcases two particular characteristic traits of Celer’s music which are reoccurring frequently as of late. The first attribute is an almost peculiarly prolonged fade-in phase. The Tokyoite has all the time in the world and lets the listener notice exactly that. The second remarkable feature is based on the overall volume level. Quiet and decidedly thinned retro runlets become ameliorated with unexpectedly weighty bass drones and cautiously seraphic synth washes which remain closely attached to the warm analogue sound of the faintly piercing alloy. In what could be the second section called The Overhead Emptiness, the formerly whispering synth spheroids now seem augmented and much louder, emitting a braiding of aerose cloudlets, with the beguiling abyssal bass still intact, now fluttering in a rotor-resembling way. Despite the constant heterodyning and purposeful setbacks architecture-wise, this polyhedric part is undoubtedly moving forward and yet depicts the glorification of the occasional doldrums. More nostalgic rather than melancholic, the blue-tinted timbre of the vitreous clarity figuratively alleviates and softens every mental leap. The simultaneity of the sylphlike bass flumes and the crystalline translucency of the synths make the whole track a New Age-oid but less histrionic piece of utter contemplation. But where does the last part named Being Closer To The Sun truly start? It could embody the emaciated fade-out phase sans bass. But ever since my review of Celer’s Viewpoint (Murmur Records, 2013) which suggests 26 different movements during one track of 78+ minutes despite the constant reintroduction of former elements and tone sequences, I hope to know better; the whole track shall be seen and interpreted as one outcome, with the track titles being either Will Long’s own or the listening subject’s temporary, highly fugacious thoughts which are slightly driven by the fluxion instead of explaining the music itself.

The second track does not impose such issues on the listener, as it is the only piece that stands on its own feet. Or so it seems. Called Fires That Light Up The Night, it naturally integrates well with the endemic atmosphere, but also revs up the feelings of tension and nervousness which were heretofore only flimsily implied and cautiously hinted at. Now the flurry is all the more astonishing; frosty static noise-infused bell layers are scything back and forth, mimicking the movement of billows. The nocturnal hint of the title really does come into play, for these iridescent but glacial glitters are not as fervid as the titular fires might suggest. The interstitial structure of the track is noteworthy: darkness is indeed all around the listener or the plane, there are no melodic patterns, not even synth tendrils. Bass undulations with those glistening whitecaps are all there ever is. On higher volume levels, the crepuscular twilight is partially illumined by virtually invisible synth gases which diffuse and gyrate around the bass-heavy formations. Fir-green in their tonality, ultraviolet for the eye, they interpolate the arcanum and function as the enigmatic friction. It is a curious remark to suggest turning up the volume when Will Long decides to present fragile movements, but only then is one able to imbibe the hidden undertones and push the otherwise desiccate embellishments into the limelight. The sheer force of the bass might be overwhelming even in neutral amplifier configurations, but the dun-colored molecules behind the liquedous veils offer enlightenment in an arrangement which seems to favor atrophy and putrefaction.

The third climbing formation runs for 19+ minutes and is pieced together by three vignettes. It also sports the most beatific title, for the opening section is named Strong, Exhilarating Effects. If someone told me this was an outtake of Tetsu Inoue’s final bequest Inland (2007), I would have believed it without a shadow of a doubt. Celer’s Ambient piece is again coated in tension, but this time it is pleasant anticipation… presented in technicolor. Elasticized and fluttering synth prongs, Japanese tonalities, the mercilessly hammering staccato of the thankfully enormously softened bassline as well as the spheroidal susurration of the mauve-tinted globs of light altogether create a saturated complexion of thermal fogginess. The synchronism of the layers fortifies the impetus, everything feels erudite, seducing, purified and aquiver with pleasure. Yearly Delta follows after approximately ten minutes – at least that is how I perceive it – and neglects the overabundance of the opening segment in favor of a more whitewashed, distantly stolid approach, but with a similar allure. The synth movements swirl in the distance, but influxes and vestibules allow them to ooze into the foreground. The disposition is inexplicit: the movement borrows the surfaces and patterns from Strong, Exhilarating Effects, but decreases the contrast and lets grayness into the bubbling bass-infested superimposition. There is a third track hidden in here, Autopilot, but it is hard to precisely name its infancy stage, as it seems to be nonexistent. It conflates with the mood range and could have been there all along. That is the boon of an autopilot: invisible and magical to the layman, but fit for service when the professional needs it.

The finale rests upon a long-winded four-part apotheosis and rounds off the album with another mélange of potentially threnodic but rather turbulent constructions, turbulent of course only in the given set of intrinsic rules and textures. Weak Hillsides does actually feature a tumular physiognomy (Oldfield fans, read that again: tu-mu-lar). Similar to the wave movements in the second track Fires That Light Up The Night, it is as if Celer flew above the Chocolate Hills of Bohol. One can even sense the body of the airplane and the droning of its machines and engines. The ebb-and-flow fabric is intensified by various rumbling bass protrusions and the cosmically coruscating coils which are severely attached to the wave-like nature. Once the respective apex falls down, so does the synthetic moiré around it. Resignation Tendency is the second aural subheading, but again, do not ask me where it starts. It could end after about 16 minutes though, for I link the title of the third track Hot Tower to that specifically dazzling ardor which unfolds around this mark. The tone sequences of the former two tracks are resurrected, but camouflaged, blurred and diluted, now shimmering from afar, fulfilling the service as interim backdrops in close proximity to walls of low frequency warmth. It is either here on Hot Tower or the cross-fading and immeasurably resemblant last call Free Daydream where Will Long presents another one of his trademarks, and not a minute too late as the adage goes: piercing sine tones. They are neither aggressive-alkaline nor brazen-metallic, but much more present and self-confident. The quartet of tracks ends with a magnanimous fade-out phase and the calcined state of all emotions. The daydream may restart and build up these emotions anew.

Why Will Long eventually neglected the plural of the titular formation is not known to me, but factually, Climbing Formation is pieced together by multitudinous circular clefts, promontory protuberances and tramontane tectonics which are watched from afar, with the airfoil or wing always in sight. This is still no kaleidoscopic piece rather than a funneled artifact where a certain set of textures is poured into the contours and outlines. The outer hull of the airplane is always physically apparent. Yes, I do indeed refer to the tactile sense, as the droning bass is often overwhelmingly present and upfront, resembling the droning engine sound that is so archetypical for passenger planes. It does not need the front artwork, let alone a genius to pinpoint the plane’s omnipresence as a quasi-fragile piece of shelter: track titles such as Autopilot and Motions That Vary Due To Height speak for themselves. Technically, they are not real track titles rather than poignant formations of Will Long’s observations and reasonings. While the aforementioned Viewpoint featured 26 movements in a gigantic track of 78+ minutes, the eleven vignettes in four tracks are comparably tame and transparently opalescent. Appearances are deceiving, Celer prefers his herring the red way, and it may well be that the sub-tracks are not at all attached to a certain intersection rather than a specific observation which is not necessarily transcoded in the piece via enlightening tone sequences or specific timbres. This would explain why there are often more sub-tracks than there are definable progressions. Overall, the applied surfaces show typical Celerisms such as the entanglement of strongly pristine-purified New Age vestiges in the shape of crystalline synths with their jagged semi-incisive organ spirals. Both aortas are then perfected by abyssal yet snugly bass pipes and waterways. This textural triptych maintains, fuels and kindles the whole album; no field recording or spoken word sample is presented, at least not in an audible, clear cut form. The whole album is magnificently pensive and stupendously efficient during work-related tasks at one’s desk, with its third track being eminently saturated and imbibing. One final advice, whether it reduces the driving factor of Climbing Formation or not: crank up the volume! You will be rewarded with belly-massaging bass drones and super-crystalline synth cascades without bringing the positively tranquil ambience to naught.

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Last week we had two releases by Will Long, as Celer and as Oh, Yoko, here he debuts with a tape as Rangefinder, and returning to the synthesizers of the 70s and the 80s, the Yamaha CS-60, Yamaha DX7 (which we see almost every week in these pages) and the Roland MC-500, if you nerds must really know. Other then working with computer which he normally does, Long’s interest here lies in the immediate composing on multi-track and keep it all more fresh. Like Sleeper it’s not easy to try and don’t think of the 80s and the many synth doodles that were released back then. This thirty minute tape has relatively short pieces, twelve to be precise, and that makes the pieces rather sketch like and short. All of these tunes are instrumental, and a bit spacious. These could easily be the start of a great new composition, a lengthy cosmic tune if you will, but it’s not the case. It’s just a nice pencil made sketch of electronic music. In the early 80s you’d find this on ICR, YHR, Neumusik or Third Mind, or one of the many compilations that were floating around in those days. The years of my coming to age with electronic music, so you can be sure I quite enjoyed this tape.

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