My office had cleared out pretty early, which I suppose was to be expected. And while I scrambled to get enough work done so that I wouldn’t come back from the Thanksgiving holiday already behind — not to mention Friday’s tasks so that others can have the day off and not be waiting on me; how considerate of them to ask if I had time to pound three days of work into one — I took solace in knowing that at very least I’d be missing the better part of traffic on the way to Manhattan’s Bowery Ballroom, where Om were headlining with Lungfish frontman Daniel Higgs playing solo to support.

I suppose I did — miss most of the traffic, that is. Wednesday before Thanksgiving is both the biggest travel day and the biggest bar-business day of the year (which should account for all the flashing police car lights I saw on the way home), but I got into the city with minimal drama and only one real alone-in-the-car rant about how much I hate driving in New York, hate the people, too many people, fuck this, fuck that, and so on. Yelling at nothing is hardly the proper headspace for embracing Om‘s intimate sense of tonally warm ritual, but such are the flaws of human experience. In a perfect world, they’d play in temples in remote areas and going to see them would be a pilgrimage.

Come to think of it, that’s kind of what it was like seeing them at Roadburn earlier this year. In any case, the parking gods were kind to me and I got a space right across the street from Bowery Ballroom. I wasn’t late, but I wasn’t early either, and I knew I wanted to be up front for Daniel Higgs, though I didn’t even really know why yet. He was on stage when I walked up the stairs and into the venue proper, his set not started yet, but there all the same, sitting in his chair, plucking strings on his banjo. At one point, he pointed a thumb at the sound guy — who I recognized from when he used to work at the old Ace of Clubs when that was open; good for him moving up in the world or at least venue size — and said something about how the union made him stick to a strict start time.

That probably should’ve been a hint as to Higgs‘ level of interaction with the audience, but I didn’t really know what to expect going into his set. Something of a legend in the Dischord Records sense of the word within the D.C post-hardcore set, Lungfish released their first album in seven years in this year’s A.C.R. 1999, and Higgs‘ solo work has been running concurrent since 1998 at a fairly prolific clip. With a booming mostly-white beard and facial expressions to match his vocal manipulations that reminded me at points of “Dixie” Dave Collins from Weedeater, he quickly turned his banjo into more than its folksy reputation.

He touched on bluegrass groove, sure enough, and there may yet exist an alternate reality wherein what he was playing would qualify as “folk” in the traditional sense of being a music of the people — I’d like to see the place where that’s so, and I mean that with no condescension whatsoever — but with a variety of fingering techniques and runs through Eastern-sounding scales and sitar-esque mysticisms,Higgsdid more with a banjo in about 10 minutes than I’ve ever seen anyone do in my life. Periodic verses appeared, but he wasn’t running through songs in a setlist — the effect was more fluid than that, his approach more open. At one point, still playing his banjo as he was for all but the briefest of moments throughout, he said, “There are more verses to that song. I’m still learning them,” and then asked someone in the crowd what time it was and was much relieved to know how much time he had left.

It was entertaining to watch someone so clearly endeavored in artistry also be jubilant in his work. I feel like there’s an implication that if you’re doing what you love, you’re supposed to be somberly contemplative about it at all times, but Higgs was clearly enjoying himself and it stands to reason why. In his long run of verses, one in particular was a standout that went something close to, “Half-vulcan is enough to mind-meld/But not enough to ignore the pain/Of the mind control technologies that keep us near insane.” Higgs must have known it too, because he repeated it a second time — “For emphasis,” as he put it. My own affinity for the original Star Trek aside, his Vulcan salute was much appreciated. He wished that we all would live long and prosper and remember “this time” that every day should be Thanksgiving, talked about the hurricane for a bit but surmised we were all okay, since we were there.

Perhaps that was his only misstep, but how could he know how sick everyone is of talking about the storm? Higgs spoke about a Mosque under construction they passed on their way through Rhode Island that had a billboard in front of it with “100 million eggs” printed on it and then left the crowd to ponder the meaning, and all the while tapped his feet and played his banjo with an easy-seeming, natural but well-developed virtuosity that was at points as hypnotic to watch as it was to hear. Once or twice, he looked in a small notebook to refresh himself of other verses and kept a friendly vibe going straight through until he was done, peppering in bits of toyed-with national anthem, “The rockets’ red glare,” “Bombs bursting in air,” and so forth while working around the original notes of the song as casually as one might throw a handful of rocks into a river.

Their equipment was already set up and looked ready to roll, so when Higgs finished, it wasn’t an especially long break before Om came out on stage, one at a time, first Robert A. A. Lowe, who sat in front of his draped table in front of an assortment of synths, samplers, noisemakers and effects, a guitar off to his right and a couple tambourines on the floor to his left — like the secret ingredient, he was, even unto his own gear — then drummer Emil Amos, who looked on edge only until he took his place behind his drums and then suddenly the world righted itself, and finally Al Cisneros, whose shamanistic presence is furthered all the more by his on-stage humility, quiet speaking voice and entranced stage method. He grooves to Om playing it the way the notes themselves flow up, down, to the side.

His tone was clean for most of the set, and no matter what Cisneros does, he’s always going to be a focal point in the band — Sleep‘s legacy alone ensures that, never mind the quiet intensity he brings to Om, his cross-dogma lyrics, unique vocal style and cadence or the simple fact that he’s the only one of the three standing — but as they opened with “Sinai,” it was immediate how different a band Om has become since they first started out in the middle of the last decade. Lowe is obviously a factor. His is the first guitar that’s been heard on an Om record, and aside from rocking a tambourine like no one I’ve ever seen, the textures of synth and even vocals be brings have enriched the band’s sound exponentially. But Amos isn’t to be forgotten in this mix either.

Om‘s set, which was comprised entirely of material from their last three albums — 2007′s Pilgrimage, 2009′s God is Good (review here) and this year’s Advaitic Songs (review here) — was good enough that on my way out of the city, I took the newest record out of my trusty CD wallet in some vain attempt to continue the experience, and what I noted right away (and the sad part about this is it’s true, this is actually how I think when I listen to music) was that Amos, who seemed far back and distant on the album, was so much more an active part of the process on stage. His drumming is more than just a featured component, and particularly as he and Cisneros — and now Lowe as well — have been playing together over the course of two full-lengths, he’s become integral to Om‘s sound, his highly stylized and intricate play as responsible for carrying across the sense of journey in “Meditation is the Practice of Death” as Cisneros‘ basslines.

From there, Om unfolded a gorgeous string of intricate melodies, spiritually weighted grooves and the loud quietness that has come to typify what they do. A lack of cello made some of the arrangements different than on the album, but Lowe is a master at filling those spaces, such that “Cremation Ghat I” and “Cremation Ghat II” from God is Good could hardly be called lacking. As I’d been so bummed out on the crowd my last time at Bowery Ballroom, when Graveyard played, I was glad to note the audience for Om was decidedly less douche-tastic. You’re always going to get a few — Manhattan is nothing if not a playground for assholes of all shapes, sizes and levels of self-importance — but I don’t know if it was the holiday spirit, Om‘s steady vibing or my own choice to stay sober for the night not wanting to pull a dooey on a holiday weekend, but things seemed much more manageable in general. Maybe Om just chilled me the fuck out. Much needed, much appreciated.

A specifically transcendent moment was when Cisneros clicked into his distorted tone for “State of Non-Return” from Advaitic Songs, Amos meeting him with a precise whimsy in his intricate fills and Lowe making sure the atmosphere stayed consistent while also adding guitar to further the crunch. The heavier stretch and relatively straightforward material was an effective setup for the comparatively minimal “Gebel Berkal” — the 2008 single which served as Amos‘ introduction point to the band — and an ultra-quiet rearrangement of Pilgrimage highlight “Bhima’s Theme” that found Cisneros quietly playing his bass and trading off vocals with Lowe, reciting the verse lines like incantations while Lowe answered back with spaces of operatic falsetto made ambient through echoing effects.

I was reminded a bit of Higgs, who had done some similar vocal experimenting — inviting the crowd to partake as well, of course — but the affect with Lowe in Om was entirely different. Amos left the stage for a time to give Lowe and Cisneros the space to explore, and they did. The feeling was open and otherworldly and the room, which had not exactly been lacking in this regard the whole show, once more began to sting my nostrils with sweet-smelling smoke. “Bhima’s Theme” gradually emerged, slow but recognizable, when Amos returned, and from my place in back by the bar, I watched as they brought the song up to maximum volume and then brought it back down again carefully, like putting down an artifact, and thus ended their set, Lowe‘s ethereal vocalizing being the last element to go. Cisneros took a quick bow and before one even had time to wonder if an encore was coming, the house lights were brought up and Motörhead was once more piped through the P.A., as though to hurry everyone out of the place.

Within about three minutes, I was back at my car, and with but the slightest hiccup of traffic leading into the Holland Tunnel, on my way home without incident. The busiest travel day of the year was over, I guess. Fine by me. I made it back to my humble river valley shortly after midnight — again, listening to Advaitic Songs en route — and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to replace the dinner I’d missed on account of the by-now-forgotten workday, thankful for the fact that there were still two slices of bread left to make such a thing possible. Maybe Higgs had the right of it.

Extra pics after the jump.

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Were it not for the fact that Golden Void are fronted by guitarist Isaiah Mitchell — also of Earthless, whose name already lingers with an underappreciated mystique despite the fact that they’re still touring — their self-titled Thrill Jockey debut (available on “baby poop yellow” vinyl) would probably just be another excellent showing of organic heavy psych in a sea of same. The kicker is that but for the weight and profile Mitchell‘s pedigree brings to the new San Francisco-based four-piece, not to mention a few killer guitar solos, the two acts have very little to do with each other. And as turns out to be the case throughout the seven tracks/36 minutes of Golden Void‘s Golden Void, that’s a big part of the new band’s appeal.

In Golden Void, Mitchell is joined by bassist Aaron Morgan, drummer Justin Pinkerton and keyboardist Camilla Saufly-Mitchell, and though his guitar playing remains a defining factor here as in Earthless, its purposes are markedly different. Earthless was for a time and probably still is the strongest American presence in jam-based heavy psychedelia worldwide (Tia Carrera, from Austin, also come to mind, albeit on a smaller scale), with sprawling extended tracks ranging through and past Hawkwindian space. That influence shows up here and there on Golden Void as well — it would almost have to, as the band are named for a Hawkwind track from 1975′s Warrior on the Edge of Time – but the songs are not epic classic rock jams, they’re regular songs, with verse parts, chorus parts, and most of all, with singing.

Mitchell proves a more than able vocalist throughout Golden Void‘s debut, doubtless to the surprise of many who might have assumed Earthless stayed instrumental out of some lack of ability rather than an aesthetic choice. Opener “Art of Invading” pits a grunge-style (think vague hallucinations of Soundgarden) against Saufly-Mitchell‘s melodious keyboard, warm basslines from Morgan and Pinkerton‘s natural, popping snare, rising to a grand but still unpretentious apex that sets the course for the rest of the album. Highlights persist in the thicker “Virtue,” the dreamier Hendrixian airiness of  “Jetsun Dolma” and the rising tensions of the early push in “Badlands” — best performance of the album from the rhythm section, who drive it — and pretty soon it’s apparent that you’re more than halfway through listening and there hasn’t been a clunker yet.

I suppose on some level that should be a surprise, but it isn’t really and becomes less of one with repeat listens to these songs. Someone good at something turns out to also be good at… that thing… in a different band. Fair enough. Mitchell puts an album’s worth of soul into the solo of “Jetsun Dolma” as the band builds up behind, and the pop-minded organ sounds of “Shady Grove” bring out a late-’60s psychedelia in a way that continues Golden Void‘s streak of individual identities within the cuts. So too do the closing duo of “The Curve,” which revives the distorted shuffle of the earlier “Virtue,” and the ’70s prog of finale “Atlantis,” the longest track at 7:47 and perhaps the strongest statement of purpose Golden Void make on their debut offering.

“Atlantis” caps with memorable self-harmonizing from Mitchell, as Saufly-Mitchell (who one assumes is his wife; the bio doesn’t say), Morgan and Pinkerton drop out, leaving the vocals to underscore this as just the beginning of Golden Void showcasing their creative breadth. They are as naturally flowing in the longer track as in any of the others, which hover between about four and a half and five and a half minutes, but it’s that last showing of progressive ethereality that really sets the band up to expand their sound next time out. I wouldn’t be surprised to find more such layering in future works, and if Mitchell is to continue Golden Void either as a central- or side-project, then the band already has one collection of songs to its collective credit that lives up to the formidable legacy preceding them.

Golden Void on Thee Facebooks

Thrill Jockey Records

Much of the derisive end of the response I’ve seen to YOB frontman Mike Scheidt’s first solo outing — given the title Stay Awake and released last month via Thrill Jockey – seems to center around the simple point that, “This isn’t YOB.” This is true. One imagines that had the Eugene, Oregon, native wanted to follow-up YOB’s 2011 Atma full-length, no one would’ve argued. The quick turnaround would’ve been hailed near universally and it would’ve been a great way to continue the momentum from their run of shows opening for Tool and a way to mark their ascendancy as a touring act (new West Coast dates were just announced). Thinking about that, maybe part of the appeal of doing an album like Stay Awake for Scheidt is the purposeful defiance of that expectation, checking that forward push and not losing sight of a personal creative drive. I don’t know that to be the case, but it makes for easy conjecture. Most pivotally, what the album does is balance neo-folk intimacy with Scheidt’s own particular psychedelic lushness, and amid a slew of heavy/doom solo outings – this year alone has brought acoustic works from Nate Hall of U.S. Christmas and Scott Kelly, as well as Kelly’s three-way split with Wino and Neurosis bandmate Steve Von Till tribute to Townes Van Zandt – it’s the flourishes that work to distinguish what is by now a familiar form at its root. Couple that with Scheidt’s relative inexperience in the style – he has said on stage that he’s very new to it – and Stay Awake can’t help but be individualized, whatever aspects of others’ work it might draw on. Some Kelly influence is there, and the interplay of electric backing chords and acoustic picking that forms the musical basis of “Until the End of Everything” is something I tend always to attribute in my head to Ben Chasny’s Six Organs of Admittance or perhaps even Angels of Light, but Scheidt maintains his wavering melodic vocal delivery and puts it to use in a variety of constants on the six-track/43-minute Stay Awake, which was recorded by the venerable Tad Doyle at his Studio Witch Ape.

That it’s a genuine studio production would on paper seem to run counter to the album’s bedroom folk intimacy, but in terms of the actual sound of the record, it doesn’t. Whatever room space is added to the third cut, “In Your Light,” the solitary mood pervades, and that’s true from the gradual fade-in of opener “When Time Forgets Time,” which keeps Scheidt’s unique (though increasingly imitated) riff patterning despite the shift in context. Of all the songs on Stay Awake, the first is probably the closest he comes to YOB’s style, but he’s neither near it nor a stranger to straightforward opening tracks – see any of the last four YOB records – so don’t think I’m making a direct comparison. “When Time Forgets Time” does much to establish the overarching aesthetic, but little to set up the dynamics that play out over the course of the ensuing Stay Awake, fading out as it came as though we’ve just glimpsed a piece of a larger whole. The shift toward more radical experimentation first shows itself on “Until the End of Everything,” which dedicates the first 1:45 of its total 4:49 to a slow spoken word piece formed at least in part from the lyrics on which a breathy Scheidt reminds his listeners that “Reason has no place in this,” and “Until the end of everything/You will be loved.” The turn from the momentum of the first track might be set as an analogy for the album itself, but that spoken part also marks a misstep – not so much in concept or recording, but in execution – and it’s the moment on Stay Awake where Scheidt’s inexperience with singer-songwriter material feels most apparent. By the time his jarringly distorted electric guitar kicks in at 1:46, the words he’s saying feel forced and overperformed. The reason I say this relates to inexperience is because once the song starts and the lyrical cycle begins again, that’s not the case. “Until the End of Everything,” on which he backs himself vocally and touches on harmonies here and there, marks one of Stay Awake’s most effective arrangements and most lasting melodies. Even the feedback shortly before the four-minute mark and that fades back and forth through the last minute of the song feels purposeful and impeccably placed behind Scheidt’s soft picking. Really, it’s the pacing and, at the end, the drama in the spoken delivery that derails the beginning and forces the music to reclaim the momentum that “When Time Forgets Time” set into motion, which, thankfully, it does. (I’ll say here as well that in the two times I’ve seen Scheidt perform “Until the End of Everything” live, he’s delivered the spoken part quicker and more effectively.)

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Although still centered around the guitars of Evan Caminiti and Jon Porras, the second album from San Francisco’s Barn Owl through Thrill Jockey finds the duo beginning to further branch out of themselves. Lost in the Glare maintains the heady soundscapes of its predecessor, 2010’s Ancestral Star, but revels in deceptively complex “minimalism” that includes manipulated cassettes, bass clarinet, and (gasp!) drums, which serve as well-placed landmarks for the full-length’s eight tracks. There are still plenty of stretches where it’s just Caminiti and Porras, but the deviation from that formula is what gives Lost in the Glare its character, which nestles somewhere between Hex-era Earth’s Americana and the ethereal inaccessibility of SunnO)))’s amplifier overload. Barn Owl place themselves in solid company sound-wise, and don’t so much innovate the notion of what drone is as add their personality to it – I acknowledge that might be splitting hairs, but what I mean is that as evocative as some of this material is, it’s that evocation that’s most particular to what Barn Owl does, rather than the sounds themselves. There are a lot of people who plug in guitars and sustain notes for unreasonable amounts of time, feed through effects and loops and build impossible tension and crescendos therefrom, but far fewer who do it as richly as does Barn Owl on Lost in the Glare.

Still, especially for the material on which Jacob Felix Heule contributes drums, the principal point of comparison is Earth. Naturally, those tracks – “Turiya,” “Midnight Tide,” and “Devotion II” most prominently, though gong washes show up on “Devotion I” as well along with tanpura courtesy of The Alps’ Michael Elrod – come off as more structured than some of the others, but even opener “Pale Star,” which is among the farther-ranging cuts on Lost in the Glare, has some sense of progression to it, and when the abrasive feedback cuts out with just under a minute left, there’s a sense that the song is over and what you’re hearing is a sustained conclusion. Such is the method by which the album teaches the listener how to read it. Barn Owl follow “Pale Star” with the aforementioned “Turiya” and move briskly through the song at a pace set by Heule, with Caminiti and Porras playing distinctly off each other rather than working in tandem to create a general wash as they did on the opener. It’s not fast by any stretch, but “Turiya” is one of the album’s most active moments, with Heule keeping time on the ride and adding tom flourishes to the midsection. With the gradual development of “Devotion I,” the lushness of “Pale Star” is affirmed. The song starts with echoing guitar and moves gracefully into psychedelic melodiousness; the gong and tanpura giving a classic Western feel to classically Eastern ideas. Caminiti and Porras don’t so much step aside for Elrod as they did on “Turiya” for Heule’s drumming, but the fluidity of the former’s contribution and punctuating nature of the latter’s add to the overall versatility of the droning. It’s as peaceful as it is complex.

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Technically speaking, I don’t think I’m cool enough to even talk about bands like this, but the echoing tones of San Franciscan duo Barn Owl nonetheless get suitable visual accompaniment in the new video for the track “Turiya,” so I figured I’d post it. The song comes from Barn Owl‘s new album on Thrill Jockey, Lost in the Glare, which — by some bizarre cosmic coincidence — happens to come out today, Sept. 13. Imagine that.

Here’s the clip, directed by John Davis:

Got back a bit ago from watching Deep Purple and a 38-piece orchestra rock the Baby Boomer pants off a woefully sparse PNC Bank Arts Center here in Jersey. The lawn was empty, save for a few stragglers who decided to sit there I guess on principle or somesuch, and there were a few sections that had more vacant seats than full ones. Kind of a bummer to see, but the band was good and the people who were there seemed appreciative.

It probably would have been fitting, then, to close out this week with Deep Purple, maybe “Space Truckin’,” which was especially enjoyable at the show, but hell, I’ve done that before, and the White Hills clip above seems worthy of attention. Even before David D’Andrea mentioned them in the interview posted yesterday, I’ve been seeing their name dropped increasingly in advance of their new record H-p1 (a title I can get behind), which is out June 21 on Thrill Jockey.

Before I wrap the week, I want to say a special thanks to everyone who grabbed the podcast over the last couple days. Downloaded 151 times in less than a week is huge and much appreciated. I hope you’ve been digging it. I’ve gone through it a couple times, and it’s really long, but I’m happy with how it turned out and I hope if you’re one of those 151 downloading parties, or even if you just streamed it or whathaveyou, that you are too.

Tomorrow night you’ll find me sloshed and gone mad watching a Black Sabbath cover band at my local townie, the Boonton Ave. Grille, and Sunday there’s a bastard lot of work to be done, so I’m on that. Monday should provide suitable relief when it shows up. And by relief, I mean more work. Nonetheless, next week, we’ll have an interview posted with Witch Mountain, whose album you can stream here, and reviews of Elvis Deluxe and three or four others I can’t remember at the moment. I look forward to The Obelisk being what gets me through these long summer afternoons.

Hope you have a safe, enjoyable weekend. See you back here Monday, or on the forum in the meantime.

The hype surrounding Aesthethica, the second full-length from young Brooklyn black metal outfit Liturgy, has been near-suffocating. The album, released via the chic and diverse Thrill Jockey Records, traces through 12 tracks and varying levels of self-indulgence, concocting a brew of brightly-toned black metal with a post-rock influence, at times feeling like the four-piece took the most memorable aspects of what Wolves in the Throne Room have done over the course of their several records and injected it with a sub-tech progressive edge and youthful vigor. Album opener “High Gold” sets the tone for much of what’s to come with an abrasive intro followed by driving blastbeats, tremolo picking, largely indecipherable screams, and a brightness in the guitars of Bernard Gann and central creative figure/vocalist Hunter Hunt-Hendrix, responsible for both the lyrics and music on the album, which was recorded and mixed by Colin Marston at his Thousand Caves of Menegroth studio. Drummer Greg Fox consistently provides technical highlights throughout Aesthethica, and that begins as soon as “High Gold” gets underway and continues well through “True Will” and the more prog-feeling “Returner.”

Those abhorrent of musical pretentiousness can pretty much stop reading this review right now. Liturgy more or less carve their name in a style of black metal that’s more geared on artistic exploration than the sheer anti-accessibility of the genre’s roots, and they know it. They’re young despite having been together as a band for six years now, and there’s a young player’s arrogance about Aesthethica, which mostly serves the album well in achieving its lofty stylistic goals. You can do it if you know you’re already doing it, and so forth. Hunt-Hendrix’s innovation, if it is one, is in adding the relentless prog feel to black metal’s given genre elements, but it’s innovation that comes at the price of meandering and sometimes over-thought songwriting. “High Gold” and “True Will” both start with an intro that has next to nothing to do with the actual song. “High Gold” begins with a kind of ringing click fed through effects, and “True Will” with vocal droning from Hunt-Hendrix that also shows up toward the end of Aesthethica for the full three and a half minutes of “Glass Earth.” Listening, I thought that was going to be the pattern for the whole album, but “Returner” begins almost in medias res with its turning, stopping/starting guitar riff and impressive runs from Fox.

Oddly, the two instrumentals on Aesthethica provide some of the album’s most interesting material. “Generation,” which follows “Returner,” is seven-plus minutes of insistent progressive riffing that, unlike much of what’s come on the three tracks prior, feels like it wants to bring the listener along with it. Not very black metal, but Liturgy seem only concerned with stylistic confines only insomuch as they can toy with them to provoke a reaction. “Generation” chugs, twists and displays a tightness between the four players in the band – bassist Tyler Dusenbury will get his high point performance later – through its repeating riff cycle that feels lost in the morass at other points on Aesthethica, the lack of vocals allowing the instruments to both breathe and make the most of a structure that, were it not so intricate and obviously thought out, one might be tempted to call a jam. Again, it’s Fox making the song. His snare hits have a consistent sound that makes me wonder if they’re triggered or replaced, but even if they are, it’s done remarkably well and doesn’t detract from his actual playing.

“Tragic Laurel” doesn’t offer much that “Returner” didn’t already give, and with “Sun of Light” right after, Aesthethica seems to dip where it really should be hitting its stride, leading to the conclusion that at 12 tracks and 68 minutes, the album is simply too long and that Liturgy, for all their creative will and clearly-expressed drive, are still lacking an editorial voice in terms of realizing the ground they’ve already tread and when pulling back might be the more effective move. If Aesthethica is taken in three-song movements (as the back cover art seems to suggest, splitting the track-listing as though onto the four sides of a double-LP), then that beginning with “Generation,” which seems like it’s going to be the most fascinating and engaging, is ultimately the most redundant. The last minute of the “Sun of Light” is silence, as though to allow the audience time to process what they’re heard, but with “Helix Skull” essentially serving as an intro to the second half of the album, they’d have that time anyway before going into “Glory Bronze,” which instead of capitalizing on any momentum that might have been built previously, has the task of renewing the fascination of the opening few tracks. “Glory Bronze” might be a highlight of Aesthethica for its contemplative yet riotous feel, but again, the album has basically had to reset itself before getting to it, and much of the forward movement has been lost.

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