Eternal drift, slowly consuming time, earth …
Lone spaceman, gravity-less, galaxy-borne …
Two salt shakers trembling on a table under the thrum of a … of a ... KETchup lullabye …
Awwwww JESUS CHRIST. There I go again, letting my mind wander like a lost little Swedish boy. I really do get carried away.
It’s just that I like this album ever so much. I close my eyes, tune in/out and all of a sudden I’m wearing a smock, surrounded by gay men in bear costumes smoking cigarettes out of garish holders.
Pretentious as it all may be, Oren Ambarchi‘s In the Pendulum’s Embrace (buttressed by two slabs of FAT blue marbled vinyl) will take your breath away without making a sound, an outlet to plug your artsy side into.
A slow drip of gentle low-end thrum holds the first two sides of wax together, just barely, things perhaps leaning to the overly elegant end of the spectrum.
Why so polite hoss? I know you BRINGs it when you wants ta’. Aww shit, you gotta play possum … I get it dog, I get it dog …
But it goes deeper than that, of course. Oren Ambarchi shoves restraint down the listener’s throat. Then you realize you don’t necessarily want loud, screeching guitar squalls or John Wiese/Nate Young/Nels Cline/etc. collaborations (not that there’s anything the-FUCK wrong with that) …
A bit less of the Kitaro-esque noodling? Sure, I mean, if we’re spitballin’ here I’d probably like a bit more Burning Star Core and a bit less Stars Of The Lid. A bit more flowing, a bit less Growing; that kind of thing (again, not like there’s anything the-FUCK wrong with that) …
And so I find myself satisfied (ahhhh, hot, steamy sauna groove, milk-y sweat sundae) but not completely satisfied (scratch self, tight purple necktie FUCK-NOISE-NOISE-NECTAR-VILLAIN). Not the worst way to feel in such an expansive medium, where many albums fail to tickle even the tip of my taster’s-choice tongue.
