State51
Whirring the hinge between this world and elsewhere, Téléplasmiste‘s Of Nature And Electricity’s’ compass points are plentiful — exploratory. Gently coaxing themselves into the uncharted, a softly rounded trip into the infinite.
The drone tone of “Found The World Golden” flickering like a drizzle-caught cobweb pushing forever outwards, giddy with petal-poured metallics and detached retinal smudges, their spearing colours fraying like a
JMW Turner-esque sunset. “Magic In The Space Age” is all key-nibbled enchant, its echo-located bounce like a slo-mo ambulance being unpinned, wavering
a vaporous dance in the headphones, like twine-wrought jester-s diode dipping, dissipating in delicate blurs.
The twitchy modular and the
pulsing radiograms of
Popol Vuh‘s
Affenstunde come to mind while listening, that connective itch to something bigger, more cosmic, that Téléplasmiste seem to share. A void-vexed curling depth to what’s going on, a mystical bite common in everything this duo have done. A mutating energy “Something In The Sky” exudes in see-sawing melodics — all melding meditatives glued up in swampy amphibian-like croaks and pre-Jurassic gurglings, capricious, curious, scuttling allusively across your hemispheres.
The gentle ballerina of slow-cooked circulars on “Into Words And Out Of Them Again” bejewelled in ovaling harmonics and amplified throaty sounds, yachting suggestives scrying for your attention gracefully gliding into the layered droneal rub of “Victims Of Higher Space”. An overblown and frankly magnificent terminus that’s skilfully decanted into a lone church organ’s purr and the perfumed whirr of stray notation that creases the space like twinkling Christmas lights on outstretched arms.
Yeah, Téléplasmiste have managed to
beguile us once more.
-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
Whirring the hinge between this world and elsewhere, Téléplasmiste‘s Of Nature And Electricity’s’ compass points are plentiful — exploratory. Gently coaxing themselves into the uncharted, a softly rounded trip into the infinite.
