Goldenwest

Album Reviews

Spencer Owen

I like making movies and watching them. And even though the amount of attention I pay to music and sound is unparalleled to virtually everything else in my life, it's not often that I cease to create visuals along with it, whether I'm receiving them through my eyes or my mind. When I hear music, it almost always invokes imagery. Sometimes the imagery is vague—perhaps colors or shapes, floating in the distance or surrounding me. Sometimes the imagery is so vivid that I can describe it detail by detail, linking it either to memories of the past or to something altogether new that I have yet to see materialized outside of my thoughts. Other times, only pieces of these pictures can be translated into language, and sometimes none at all.

Most of my favorite music does this to me. It's this kind of music that fits my definition of “cinematic.” This description doesn't limit itself to dramatic, orchestral instrumental music such as Mogwai and Godspeed You! Black Emperor, although they often apply. It's limited only to sounds that create such pictures for me. This is the term I most closely associate with perfection in sound. Any genre can create its own brand of cinematic music. Each person's definition varies with taste and personality, of course, but certainly it exists for everyone somewhere.

With the title track of their debut LP, Goldenwest, Ester Drang have created a truly cinematic song in my own personal sense of the term. It begins with a cyclical chord progression on the piano, looping upon itself, as subtle hisses creep into the mix. A pounding bass drum announces itself, and suddenly organic beats start and stop without warning, with different meters and tempos each time, always fitting the rhythm of the piano's repetition but constantly changing it. Synthesizers creep in, some chiming, some bubbling and echoing; guitars weep and soar, harmonizing with wordless, reverberating male vocals. As it ends, the looping piano arpeggios finally fade away and humming electronics bring me down.

Visually, I imagine bits and pieces of specific images. The most recurring image is of a time-lapse film of the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean, as a solitary helicopter, seemingly defying time and space, gradually sinks lower and lower until it penetrates the water, fragmenting in impossibly slow motion into a floating mass of broken machinery. Perhaps this is just a product of my overactive mind, but when I hear a song this gorgeous, it comes across to me as naturally evocative. Aurally, while the song is playing, I feel as if there's no reason for it to end; when it does, it ends gracefully and begs for a repeat.

Alas, the rest of the tracks are hit or miss. The most notable success is “Repeating the Procedure,” which applies the Scottish Beta Band aesthetic to a shoegaze track. The follow-up to the title track, “Song for Jonathon,” begins with a promising crystalline guitar riff and fragmented rhythm, but its chorus brings a keyboard phrase aping the Edge's guitar in “Where the Streets Have No Name,” distinctive echo and all. Unfortunately, the second half of the record applies possible Dark Side of the Moon influences too liberally. Tracks six through nine all employ the official Pink Floyd ballad tempo and tone, and the effect is not comfortably numbing.

If only I could recommend the rest of Goldenwest as highly as the opening track, it might be a perfect record. If there were a song of the year category at Pitchfork, I have no doubt that “Goldenwest” would rank in my top ten. It's just as perfectly cinematic as they come. The sad thing is that even the best of the remaining tracks pales in comparison. Viewed as a $15 single, it passes with flying colors; viewed as a full album, it doesn't quite make the cut.

— Spencer Owen

David Devoe

Do you remember the commercials where the guy with the chocolate bar ran into the girl with the jar of peanut butter? He tripped, and his chocolate bar ended up in her peanut butter jar—and the two great tastes tasted great together. That's what happened here. Someone dipped their Dinosaur Jr. indie-rock bar in the sonic goodness of Slowdive's sweeping shoegaze butter, and out came Ester Drang. Full of delays and droning goodness, it's sure to be a hit.

“Goldenwest” begins the album with a supercharged Slowdive-like infusion of sound. Bleeping delayed keyboards set one drone among many, and the guitars weave a fabric of complex sonic threads. The bass line keeps the song moving, but the beauty lies within the space of the sounds. “Song for Jonathon” is built around heavily delayed guitars and rough-edged drumming; its guitar work recalls the Durutti Column. The music eases up on “Is Nothing New,” creating more space and less texture. The drum tracks sound lo-fi, and the song turns its attention to ambience. “Repeating the Procedure” is a melancholy drone built around a B-3-like organ, drawing the ear with its sounds and complex rhythms.

Turning to the My Bloody Valentine school of noise, “That's When He Turns Us Golden” is a beautiful track with dynamic breaks and layers of guitar. “Words That Cure,” Parts 1 and 2, begin with more direct pop music, interesting instrumentation and creative grooves. Theremin and vibraphone keep things interesting while organ and drums hold everything together. By the end of Part 2, the songs have fallen into noise and drone. “How Good Is Good Enough?” gives us our first readily intelligible lyrics, allowing the voice to stand out yet keeping it in place as one instrument among many. “Felicity, Darling” ends the album with vibrant violin solos and a moody, more traditional feel—if one considers Codeine traditional.

Ester Drang, with a little help from Chris Colbert, have crafted a remarkable debut in both songwriting and sonic architecture. The adept use of delays and vast palette of sounds would be impressive from an established act, even more so from a new talent. The lyrics, in true shoegaze fashion, are hard to make out, but that only adds to the beauty of the record. Burnt Toast has unearthed another musical treasure.

— David Devoe