Review Summary: Like snow at night...
There’s some solace in solitude. Solitude creates time for reflection, respite, silence that can be filled with whatever one is able to fill it with, without noise, without extraneity. Labradford have respected and evoked solitude and silence throughout their career, their musical expression one of ascetic minimalism that both obscures and reveals emotional and conceptual depth. Atmosphere is the primary palette with which Labradford works, and the atmosphere which they express with the barest possible elements is that of solitude, both its comfort and its unsettledness. On their 1996 self-titled album that atmosphere of solitude is perhaps at its peak for the trio, who would add more dynamic variation and cinematic touches to later albums, while still maintaining that feeling of chamber music, that intimate sense of quietude and ambience.
Labradford's self-titled, in spite of its minimalism and focus on atmospherics, is never at risk of descending into that kind of cozy ambient fluff that is as characterless as it is pleasant. That they are able to maintain this balance between sparseness and depth is due in great part to the undercurrent of anxiety and unease that runs throughout the album, that touch of alienation that instills a sense of mystery that borders on menace. The mood throughout is of something tranquil, still, almost to the point of desolation, that entices attention rather than demanding it.
Mark’s vocals rarely rise above an indecipherable whisper; what does emerge is often cryptic and fragmentary, like the remains of a handwritten note found shredded and mudstained on the ground. The music itself is patient, serene, as the delicate guitars and whispered fragments are brushed here and there with gentle gusts of noise and atmospheric tones that disrupt the soothing quality of the mellow instrumentation and lend to it a sense of indefinable unsettledness. There are a mere handful of musical elements deployed throughout any given track: guitar, sampled percussion, keyboard effects, vocals, a violin here and there, each within its own space, each standing and moving with the others with all the poise and timing of the planets in their movement. The effect is skeletal, static and serene.
The structure of the album is just as elegant: its 39 minute runtime allows for few overindulgences and the tranquil patience of each song’s progression makes each succeeding note feel like a natural outgrowth from the moment the track begins. It’s not as cinematic or dynamic as later Labradford albums would be; there’s not as much of a sense that this could accompany any kind of visual narrative, but rather it all feels more like an album in the original sense of a collection of individual songs united by a common theme. That said theme is expressed so sparsely, and yet with enough variation and exploration to make nearly every moment on the album feel necessary testifies to the success of Labradford’s execution, to their innate grasp of not just timbre and atmosphere, but also arrangement.
There’s some disquiet in solitude. Solitude forces reflection, silence that can be deafening without all the noise and hustle that gives us a sense of structure, a sense of who we are in the world. Solitude takes us out of that, forces us to look inward, peels back some of the comforting facade that daily life builds around us. Labradford have respected and evoked solitude throughout their career. On their self-titled album, that atmosphere of solitude is perhaps at its peak.
