A diverse gathering of sounds from Rob St John, Colleen, Cheval Sombre, The Chills and Juliana Hatfield goes through some evaluating ears

Whilst there might be some of the traditional summertime slowdown in new releases and reissues after the usual spring flourish, there’s still more than enough to sift through from all directions, as the below assortment attests.

Arriving on Edinburgh’s beautifully presented Blackford Hill label – which recently delivered the generously proportioned and handsome multi-artist Transmissions / Volume 1 compilation in aid of charity – comes a new vinyl edition of Rob St John’s Surface Tension. Previously issued elsewhere on two long-gone CD editions back in 2015, this fresh configuration of the album, from the co-leader of Modern Studies, is an aural and aesthetical delight. Stunningly packaged with sleeve essays and bundled with digital extras (including a full remix reconstruction from label associate Tommy Perman), this is the definitive encapsulation of an already impressive conception.

Now split into two sublime sidelong pieces, it’s no wonder St John has sought to give Surface Tension a second physical incarnation. Assisted by fellow multi-instrumentalist Pete Harvey, it finds St John blending field recordings, guitars, tube organ, harmonium, analogue synth, piano, percussion, tape loops, cello and more, to adroitly blur the boundaries between post-classical and ambient landscapes.

The first side soaks together tranquil sounds and moods drawn from wandering through London streets, along trainlines, across green spaces and inside ecclesiastical interiors, to forge some intimate and expansive segueing passages, whereas the flipside follows slightly more linear but no less varied routing. This means the latter-half builds up from aquatic rippling into gloriously galloping kosmische-meets-classical-minimalism before breaking down into a serene chamber ensemble-like sequence, ahead of an outro converging irradiated dronescaping and watery murmuring.

All told, Surface Tension is a richly-imaginative treasure, that fans of Second Language Records wares from Dollboy and Plinth, the bulk of the Clay Pipe Music canon, Steve Reich and primetime Brian Eno shouldn’t hesitate to pick up before it disappears once again.

Similarly inclined to traverse non-rock paths is Cécile Schott, who returns after a noticeable prolonged absence as Colleen, with The Tunnel and the Clearing (Thrill Jockey). Having switched into pretty much full-on glitchtronica mode with 2017’s preceding A Flame My Love, a Frequency, after the more alluring electro-acoustic fusions of 2015’s Captain of None and 2013’s The Weighing of the Heart, this long-in-the-works sequel is a far warmer and more up-close affair. Whilst it doesn’t find Schott reaching back for her viola da gamba, it does funnel modern composition idioms through more organically assembled layers of organ, antiquarian drum machines, Moogs and other synths, sometimes implanted by her delicate breathy vocals, into a flowing immersive thing of hypnotic beauty.

Recorded off the back of some medical and romantic life upsets, The Tunnel and the Clearing feels very much like a quest for healing and fresh purpose for its creator, that also reaches out comfortingly and invitingly to the listener. Gliding through wordless hymnal ambience (“The Crossing”), bossa nova-infused motorik (“Implosion-Explosion”), pulsing yet soothing organ-fired soundscaping (the title track) and swirling throbbing mistiness (“Hidden in the Current”), there is a lot densely saturated into the seven largely lengthy tracks, which only grow in stature with each successive transportive spin.

One definitely not to be missed amongst this year’s more openly assertive long players.

Staying in a cocooned creative headspace, albeit anchored by less avant-garde roots, is Cheval Sombre’s Days Go By (Sonic Cathedral). The promised quick-to-follow sibling to Time Waits for No One, which appeared near the start of this year, this is cut from similar spectral-folk cloth. Culled from the same spaced-apart studio sessions, featuring Chris Porpora’s vocals and guitar shrouded by Sonic Boom’s keyboards/effects/production, Dean Wareham’s guitars, Gillian Rivers’ strings and Francisco Dias Pereira’s piano, it is however a moderately less earthbound experience than its predecessor.

Indeed, the opening “If It’s You” and “So Long for This” are so hazy that Porpora is almost lost in his own mix. Further in, better balances between the corporeal and the ghostly are achieved. Hence, “Well It’s Hard” drifts from pared-back acoustics into washes of spacey symphonics; the gorgeous instrumental “Give Me Something” adds in some balmy albeit warped John Fahey-isms; “Sunlight in My Room” unfurls in a husky delicate dreamscape; and a closing cover of Alasdair Roberts’s “The Calfless Cow” lowers the curtain with a spiritualistic longing airiness.

Whilst it won’t win over many of the previously unconverted, for those that loved Time Waits for No One this is a no-brainer purchase to expand upon Chris Porpora’s celestial bucolic bubble.

Far less covert in its melodicism is Scatterbrain (Fire Records) from The Chills, the latest album in the Kiwi band’s rebooted umpteenth lifespan. Having redemptively reset the creative clock with 2015’s Silver Bullets and 2018’s Snow Bound after a spell in the wilderness, this sprightly 32-minute set finds Martin Phillipps and co. spreading their wings somewhat wider with more orchestrated pop arrangements.

For the most part, the results are richly rewarding. Highlights abound through the widescreen carnivalesque stomp of “Monolith”; the lushly-augmented folk-rock shimmer of “Destiny”; the gorgeous art-baroque of “Hourglass”; the chamber music ruminations of “Caught in my Eye”, the swooping percussively offbeat “Little Alien”; the rousing wall of sound wrapped “Worlds Within Worlds”; and the soaring finale of “The Walls Beyond Abandon”.

Although not quite everything charms, with the squally title track being one noticeable misstep, there is much to commend about the refreshing Scatterbrain, that belies the clichés of a veteran enterprise, with a determination to not become a living museum piece.

Also trading on a slightly younger veteran status, Juliana Hatfield however displays fewer signs of wanting to embellish and polish things up, on her latest solo LP Blood (American Laundromat Records). Yet there also appears to be clear intentions of avoiding just going through the motions. Having delivered an infectiously curious set of covers from The Police catalogue for her last full-length outing, this new set of self-penned material is almost as loose, raw and playful – without being as messy as the cartoonish body horror front sleeve suggests. Largely recorded in a home studio set-up, with Hatfield covering all instrumentation bases, the album is both barbed and beaming.

The best moments come through when a balanced equilibrium between its extremities is reached. Thus, a mid-fi take on mid-70s Stones strutting serves “Gorgon” and “Nightmary” well; a honey-coated nod to The Folk Implosion fashions “Splinter” as an endearing nugget; the swooning chug of “Mouthful of Blood” recalls Hatfield’s college rock origins with a darker lyrical edge; and the closing “Torture” nods nicely if lopsidedly to both Elliott Smith and Madder Rose. Although there are less likeable moments with the unfocused sprawl of “The Shame of Love”, the scratchy mangling of “Chunks” and the psych-grunge of “Had a Dream”, the best of Blood does make for an engagingly spirited diversion.

Adrian
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