Formlessness comes in many forms. There is a loose category of music that seems to shift without any noticeable movement, that gathers in dark pools or drifts in gaseous clouds, and we tend to call that music ‘ambient’. But ambient covers a lot of ground these days: beatless music often displays psychedelic or folk influences, elements of musique concrete, field recording or free improvisation. It’s less a genre and more a kind of abstract moodboard, and as such its practitioners are sometimes guilty of a lack of focus, of throwing too much at the wall, or else too little.
But in the right hands, it can be incredibly potent. Gayle Brogan, the mastermind behind Pefkin, understands the fluidity and adaptability of ambient music better than most. A prolific career has seen her approach her practice from a number of different angles: straight-up electric psych-folk with her band Meadowsilver, ritualistic trad drone with Burd Ellen, combinations of glitchy synths and watery location recordings with Greenshank, and vocals-forward weird folk with Alison O’Donnell.
As Pefkin, Brogan’s work ranges from long-form synth-scapes, like last year’s The Soul Wants to be Wet, to more organic works featuring a wealth of instruments, including violin, melodeon and aeolian chimes (2023’s The Light Bends Inwards). Unfurling is her fourth release for boutique Belgian label Morc, and it ranks among her most beautiful work. She is an expert at capturing the dark and light tonal qualities of sound, and at deploying them for balance and contrast. Unfurling’s opening track, Green Bound in Ice and Snow, begins with a mournful viola over a slow, ominous rhythmic pulse. Over eleven minutes, there is a kind of thawing effect, and with it a widening of horizons, as the strings become thicker, more expansive and more full of life.
This first track establishes the album’s mode of practice, which includes sparing use of vocals (often echoed or double-tracked), and sense of circular, indirect growth, a swirling and eddying form of progression. It seems both unhurried and inevitable, its surface gentleness hiding dark currents. On Sun Flecks, a song that feels like liquid gold, it’s sometimes hard to tell where the singing ends and the instruments begin. It’s not unheard of for an artist to use their voice as an instrument of ambience, but rarely does it feel so natural, so synergistic. The Dissonance feels like an ancient folk song, slowed down. Listen long enough and melodic strands begin to emerge, and it’s at these points that Brogan’s music hangs perfectly balanced between atavism and modernity. There is a certain uncanny aspect to this balance, as if we are hearing things we weren’t necessarily meant to hear.
On Unfurling’s second side, Brogan begins to make greater use of field recordings. The Sun of the West is bookended by lapping waves (a common theme in her work) and features an eerie drone played off against higher notes, again hinting at ancient-sounding melodies. The lengthy My Breath the Sea emits a deep electronic rumble alongside a folky sigh of song. Occasional glitchy interruptions add to the haunted feel, and atonal elements pull at the edge of hearing. Though the component pieces are minimal, they are layered so subtly that they create complex musical tapestries without you ever noticing quite how it’s done.
Seabird calls – another favourite theme of Brogan’s – lend a wildness to the closing track The Moon Unveiled, which plays soaring strings off against a shimmering drone, before it swells and masses into a glassy, bright crescendo in its final minute. Once again, it showcases Brogan’s exceptional understanding of timing, contrast, and particularly texture. Her music is never quite as formless as you think; its many drifts and folds and layers are expertly curated, and consistently beautiful.
Source: klofmag.com