The first fledgling spawned by Espers filled the air with the hazy glow of a
midday sun —
melodies hung like spiderwebs, delicate, glistening and barely there. One
after the
other, the pieces bathed in home-production techniques, flecks of dust that
drifted lazily in
the balmy air, and the inimitable warmth of bowed guitars, moaning cellos and
mossy
electronic oscillations booming throughout these expansive, open-ended
pastures.
Compositions such as "Meadows" and "Byss and Abyss" were sluggish, psychedelic
marshes of multilayered harmonies, rainbow-colored synth glissandos atop
which the
full-throated, lilting voices of Greg Weeks and Meg Baird sketched mournful
melodies.
There was something mystical about the droning, slightly smeared organ
chords;
something in the prickly guitar feedback and erratic, scribbling electronics
harkened back
to gothic architecture, blood-red moons looming behind chapels, gnostic
ceremonies,
and late-night tales of demons that dwelled in the woods.
For this six-song EP, these mystical undertones remain very much present as
the group,
now a six-piece ensemble, presents five covers and one original piece. Espers
sample
from disparate territories, weaving a nostalgic Nico song ("Afraid") alongside
a sullen
Durutti Column piece ("Tomorrow") and a silly, blithe jaunt by Michael Hurley
("Blue
Mountain"). What is most noticeable from the onset is the maturation that the
voices of
Weeks and Baird have seen, especially Baird who now often sings in a vibrato.
Both
vocalists seem more confident; their voices more robust and pronounced, they
are no
longer draped in the background like pleasing tapestries, but add stirring,
sensual
melodies and baroque harmonies that accentuate and, at times, guide the warm,
earthy tones, scrubs of electric guitar and thick throbs of gritty electronic
debris.
Previously, the band had been all but devoid of percussion, but with it now expanded
to a
sextet, a light clamor of percussion bounds through these psychedelic
brothels; drums,
even though they do not fashion much in the way of rhythm, permeate these
pieces as
well, supplying added weight or density to the textures. "Dead King," the sole
original
piece this work harbors, first finds Baird drawing a tale of lament beside
simple guitar
plucking. Near the halfway point the force that stems from a larger lineup
establishes
itself, as thumping drums, violin and flute are swathed with a soft coating of
distortion and
swell into darker, slightly sinister shapes. Not merely a morsel to tide
ailing adorers over
till the proper follow-up, The Weed Tree proves a worthwhile venture in and of
itself.
|
