Propan – Swagger

Sofa

For Propan‘s third album and their second for Sofa Records, they have dusted off a piece that was originally commissioned by Femme Brutal for the 2016 show at Oslo’s Parkteater.

To produce these sprawling adventures, the duo has been augmented by six friends and fellow travellers on Swagger, and this seems to have pushed the scope of the album far beyond what the duo might have accomplished alone, taking in dronescapes, ethno-forgery, space travel and audio verité in one concise but far-reaching blast.

The vocal drone that opens the album has a humanity yet a distance to it that pushes the focus into the outer reaches, and the feeling that an attempt at communication is taking place drifts throughout the album; a new species is discovered and the flutes and drums that abound give a childlike, joyful quality to the vocalising. Each section is a fresh progression with a hint of Alvin Lucier in the string work of part three, merged with gasps and sweeps that beckon the listener into this little hidden enclave.

Sometimes it is difficult to follow as distorted, disturbing grumbles brush past you, while the insistent march of plastic boots starts a rhythm to which unlikely elements are haphazardly added. This leads to a gradually morphing surprise in which the voices are integral with exertion at a premium, until bass and guitar develop this piece into a kinetic, addictive, hypnotic force with the vocals riding freely over the top.

A sparse, dusty feel envelops us in places; a vast sky and a hint of turmoil. Grains of sand shimmer in a terrible heat as wind whines through lonely telegraph wires. The wires transport ghostly sighs and phantasmal voices that carry messages from another place, one that demands discovery; but just as we might be considering setting off, so the mood changes again and we are in sylvan countryside. The sound of horses and looped voices are joined by a beautiful melody picked out by a single voice and here we are brought back down to earth with this simple delight.

Disconcerting vocal ululations affect the exotica of part eight, where the seashore sounds and popping of bubbles are suddenly set upon. You have no real idea of what might be coming next and that is the excitement of this album; voices are trapped in a remote Twin Peaks setting in one minute and then slow-motion slide guitar pushes us straight back into the desert before we realise. The throb of loneliness is only too palpable under a huge, bare sky that leaches heat as dusk arrives.

Once the album ends, you can’t help feeling a little bereft and the right thing to do seems to be playing it again to see what messages you missed, and let yourself revel in the wealth of details once again.

-Mr Olivetti-