Motion to Rejoin – Brightblack Morning Light
Rarely rising above the sound of a somnambulistic crawl towards a whispered oblivion, Brightblack Morning Light’s Motion to Rejoin is, nonetheless, a patient talisman filled with calm bliss. That isn’t to say that one doesn’t develop a touch of the tired head nod during the journey. Living within this dreamy realm is often intoxicating, and occasionally claustrophobic, making Motion to Rejoin a surreal yet lumbering psychedelic trip.
Melodies float, percolate neath the liquid horizon, rotate up for a breath, and sink under the surface, as one is lost in the spell of one track leading to nother in this nine-part suite. There are neither stand out tracks, per se, nor highlights, as the bubbling cauldron of sonic soup languidly lingers near the edge of these melodically-alliterative tunes. Yet, one is hard-pressed not to feel pulled to its center, its strange Joycean omphalos. And that center can be a difficult thing to define. Sure, one could be lazy, and state “wellenjoyed meself, but had a bit of a lie down durin’ the sleepy middle bits,” or “uhyeah…I’m upwhawhat time is it? what were you saying? Fuckturn the lights off.”
Then again, as eight of the nine tracks stretch out and allow themselves to fully develop (with an introductory fanfare of subdued melancholia cleverly titled “Introduction”), kinky country soul tempers the scenery (“Hologram Buffalo”), an ambient waltz tethers one to the nocturnal bedpost (“Gathered Years”), and smoky-hued mirages evaporate (“Oppressions Each”), while CSN jumps the loop with Traffic in a slow psychedelic stroll down the rabbit hole of some poet’s abyss (“Another Reclamation”).
More ruminations: a keyboard-drivenuh, check that, keyboard-wheelchaired tune softly and quietly and wait for it slowly moves through the corridors of your neighbor’s nightmare (“A Rainbow Aims”); a hoofless hoof that, however, holistically hooks the head honks nearby (“Summer Hoof”), and an old school dusty record effect on a CD/mp3 track which almost carries an enhanced pulse but wisely never shifts gears into raucous (“Past a Weatherbeaten Fencepost”), collapses into a 70s cityscape tinged in tweaked blazz that hasn’t found its way into a modern era (“When Beads Spell Power Leaf”).
Sure, I enjoyed the spell of the record. What the fuckI live the weirdo dream, I abide, and I also stand by any hippies living in northern California, and recording in a solar-rigged studio in the New Mexican desert. And yet, one needs to pull out the caveat emptor card from time to time to say that said weirdo would be hard-pressed to recommend the entire feast to the more action/adventurous. Instead, one slumps towards the headphone-inclined on a long ride through some terminal train tunnel on the tracks to pretty much nowhere, but someplace quite unique, peaceful, and yes, restful, too.