Occupying terrain somewhere between phantasmal and lovely, this hubby+wife+Swans percussionist+part-time femme-choir crawl and soar towards a sort of ramshackle basement bliss, fuzzy tape-tronics and mantric stomp-n-pierce riffs and dusty-crusty acoustics anchored by the forever breathy and clarion dreamghost vox of Emily Cross i.e. 'wife'. The ramifications of which being somewhat reminiscent of a Phil Elverum project: a prevailing sense of tenderness and soundscapes that can convey psych-laced desolation and toweringly epic majesty with persuasion and character, scrappy as they may be. But for my money, this kinda has the upper hand -- it's concise, for one thing.
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