Archive for August, 2010

Dying Star was recorded in the fall of 2008, using only a vintage analog synthesizer and mixing board. It was completely improvised, with no overdubs or post-processing. The intention was to produce a completely improvised work while remaining completely pure and secluded, the resulting recording stands as a fading presentation of memory, time, and loss, set against the ending day.

Presented at a low volume, the ideal and intended procedure for listening is with headphones, with the volume set specifically at 80%. Through intimacy, tenderness, and isolation, the resulting imaginings are stately presented, yet consistently withering away; and throughout the duration, energy pushes forward, strains, explodes, but eventually crumbles.

‘We are nothing but a view of the world.’
– Maurice Merleau-Ponty

Celer have a tireless work ethic. “In Escaping Lakes” was one of nearly a dozen albums released by the duo in 2009, and they currently have a number of 2010 releases to their name as well. In their apparently enduring effort to make the quietest ambient drone possible, they have crafted an album to match the minutiae of life– gentle breezes and flowing streams whispering tales of the Earth that span millions of years.

Time becomes imperceptible in the midst of the slow drones on “In Escaping Lakes.” The piece, roughly forty minutes, is comprised of a handful of smaller movements. Everything moves at a languid pace, slowly gliding along, never deviating from its uniform ambient wanderings. The collected piano, gong, strings, electronics, flutes, and more all come together in an act of audio osmosis, seamlessly forging a beautiful whole from the parts of many.

It’s difficult to write a review for such an ephemeral piece of music. The drones here seem to fade into existence, and then vanish just as quietly as they came. “In Escaping Lakes” is certainly beautiful, but its opacity demands a lot from the listener. 7/10 — Robert Oberlander

Hum drops along
my hairs and hems
the tears together
in a cross-stitch climbing staffs,
Into Middle C

Amount in sums,
The empty spaces
swell and swaying
in almost dirge thrums

My eyelids burn to
meet another
A chaste kiss
that is
awful maddening under such

After which I dream