Review Summary: Korean instruments you've never heard of → atmospheres you very much need
Park Jiha fills a singular, significant space in the intersection between neoclassical New Age, minimalism, and quote-unquote world music. Instantly recognisable as any or all of the above (and amenable to whichever ambient or chamber jazz frameworks you care to cast her in), she's made a name for herself with her pensive atmospheres and intricate approach to minimalist composition, performed on traditional Korean instruments as remarkable for their range as for her being the only musician credited for playing them. Her debut
Communion garnered acclaim for its imaginative, at points clamorous fusion act, but, perhaps controversially, I was more than happy to see Jiha abandon that album's progressive structures and bold overtures in favour of the cyclical, New Age-ish meditations of her last two records —
Philos played with all the hazy sentimentalism of a half-faded photo album, while
The Gleam's extended reverie pared her sound back to its most mystical fundamentals and carried her ear for atmosphere to new heights.
Her latest record
All Living Things picks up where the patience and nuance of
The Gleam left off, but it's also the closest she's come in years to
Communion's relative dynamism. Give it a cursory inspection and it will play as a healthy compromise between all three of her records: midway highlight "A Story of Little Birds" boasts one of her busiest arrangements and most intricate structures to date, while "Grounding"'s winding yanggeum (Korean dulcimer) motif recalls the skeletal style of composition she honed on her middle two albums. As far as balancing acts go, it's hard to imagine admirers of any of her past output coming away disappointed with this one.
However,
All Living Things' greater accomplishment is the newly organic quality it introduces to her sound. True to the title, these tracks are packed with nourishing ambience and hints of emerging life, whereas her chief appeal once lay in how she froze individual moments beyond the reach of life, death, or time itself. Park Jiha has claimed her aim for the album is to capture a more animated state of flux and growth (
the cycles and continuities of life that help to process feelings of uncertainty with hope). At points, this comes through in arrangements so fluid and vitalised that they may as well contain whole ecosystems ("A Story of Little Birds", "Bloom"), but I'm especially drawn to how she works it into her more ceremonial side. "Growth Ring"'s solemn reed tones and "Blown Leaves"' Dead Can Dance-esque gothic shimmer both suggest a keen sensitivity to the transient qualities of the vitality that blooms on the album's earlier tracks, and it's hard not to hear them for their fatalistic overtones as such; "Breathe Again" goes further still, threading one of Jiha's trademark yanggeum progressions through a decidedly wintery soundscape of assorted electronic and acoustic layers, only for the whole lot to be overpowered by swelling reeds. For such an impressionistic artist, Park Jiha conveys a rare sense of dignity at her most mournful: her aesthetic lends itself perfectly for frigid atmospheres, and it's to her great credit that these often show her at her most affecting and humane (pay close attention to how the icy detachment of "Eternal Path" yields midway to the intimacy of her wordless vocal contributions — it's a characteristically understated touch that makes for one of the album's most moving twists).
It's the pathos she threads through the album's deathbound stretch that ultimately sticks the landing for me, though credit where it's due to the gorgeous intricacy with which "A Story of Little Birds" holds itself together at the peak of its parabola. Park Jiha underpins her take on the life cycle with stoic dignity and sentimentalist pangs alike; this record may not be traditionally hopeful, but it's no less inspiring for how it draws out presence and vitality from even its most downcast movements. It's pretty enough that you could recommend it to anyone, but there's a refinement here that pays increasing dividends across repeated listens (I've scarcely listened to anything else since it released). The jury's out as to whether it will stand as her 'best' record – she set a high standard with her innovative approach to milking
The Gleam's narrow palette for all it was worth – but it's quite comfortably the most complete start-to-finish listening experience she's set out across a single album; I anticipate refracting all manner of emotions and experiences through it over the rest of the year.
