|by Nitrous Oxide|
|Released||5 April 2010|
Dreamcatcher is Nitrous Oxide's album. Released in 2010, this was the fourth artist album released on Anjunabeats.
|2.||"North Pole (Album Edit)"||4:54|
|8.||"Come Into My World"||5:15|
|13.||"Amnesia (Chill Out Mix)"||5:52|
Every incepting hibiscus of an album has a majestic style to set the tone. Alderaan bristles with the warmth of halcyon haze, already glossing unearthly honey, more unspoilable, which represents Dreamcatcher well. Pianistic aurifluity dominates the terrain of this doomed sphere. But the ontology will always be held by Pretkiewicz's consistently Ozian streams, watering Tree 3 & Yggdrasil. Without any explosion, this is sadder & more memorable than any number of Alderaan terminations ever could be.
Halfway through, this begins. But does it ever truly begin? NP was never tolerable. This edit changes nothing.
The electronic wolf's howl announces a thrill no game can shock. Hitting that ultraconscious nerve again, Krzysztof splayed spine-aurating sounds, the tears whisked away by an air-slicingly fierce cut into electronicism. This floor-smashing seism joins a suspicious, nemorous eeriness before they recede for N2O's threnodic mind: refined aurum, gilded with refined aurum. The floor becomes tinier pieces when the electrotrash ramps up, culminating in epiphanic mind amplitude. The tan waves nearly break the walls of the universe here.
Sadly, between the bursts of extrahuman achievement lay lassitude in buckets. Excavating buckets. Fugacity in body & mind, these songs are a musical Atacama, plus chloroform for that extra kick of expired Nepenthes. Come Into My World, Far Away, Amnesia, North Pole, they mire us all. FY appear to be that at first, but thankfully this rainbow fish flies above the toxic mud. Stygophilia & musicolagnia, yin & yin.
Maori for lagoon, Muriwai already beauties when innerest ambrosia spills onto your face: this piano isn't soft at all, slashing hearts & frying them in a mango lemon myrtle paste. Another top Oxide oxic.
Technofunk never blissed so fully: the tune bursts during the fun oleaginicity, already making this creation's creation, astrally gliding across the illimitable expanses of the mind. The tune's material apperance is a purple firefall, stacked 10 Angels' & full of 50 Niagaras. A brief recursion to grit ultimately combines the grinding with the abyssolith, windingly stupefactive in every tenth of a breath. Pitiful that Far Away' got the extension & not this or Mirror's Edge.
Dreamcaught hyperfusion marks this ur-mind amrita. The Sun's downforce can't compare to the bilita mpash hunter himself, N2O. This album mix begins to melt with an alternating ghost choir Robespierred (split) by a syringe of vantablack stabbing in, setting the mood right for the Pretkiewiczesque bassline. Then this lust devil gashes into the transcosmic crepuscule that is this tune, before receding for the introduction of: the piano.
This instrument makes it all bounce like cranberries. The jaunty, piezoluminescent scintillae hyperpower Downforce again, the ultravast climax immeasurable, unthinkable, unforgettable.
Come Into My World
CIMW is not one of the greats. This is not anywhere near Downforce or Alderaan. His subterranean ichor is absent. In its place flows melted pine. The electrotrash is forgotten, & the tune is nothing special, or rather, just nothing. The vocals are where all drops of joy can be found. Although barely sphygmic, it's worth a listen, & barely detracts from the album.
If any song deserved title-tracking, it's this. Or Downforce, or Muriwai, etc. This is quintessential N2O: his acoustical anomalies, his unleashed trash tonitruating at soul walls, fusing divinity into our time, & all this style in service of the leviathan tune, behemoth thrashing with it in one for posterity, & now.
His tune glaciates rapidly, hunting & catching bilita mpashes, silken chords & nectared pads flowing & bumping alongside, a veneration of KP even before the extra synths fly in like Gabriel, but better.
By no fault of Aneym, though she adds nothing, FA is more shriveled than a grape in the Sahara. These piano keys were chosen by drunk computers. This corpographia did not deserve remixes.
This did. The French for endorphin starts with a familiar but worthy tune, a simple repeat-repeat-down, like There's Always A Road; but elevates with original, waterfalling lately but enough to make this top cream. This piano sparkles more violently than any firework, freshly pleochroising in oneironautics so thaumaturgical, that it seems unrelated to the baser tune, which is could be & still merit the title, which it didn't until now. So ignore everything that happens before 3:44 & you'll be murderously iridesced.
Returning to his deluxe in size & mind electrics, KP weaves his MK ultraprecise sorcery within his bouncing, rough trash. The hexapterous Pole saved his most lemniscatic for penultimacy: it deserves the name 'Supra'.
The violescing vocals are only the mellitic maraschino on the realisation of human worth eviternity- though they blend & interdependently bolster each other, the electrical current returning to illiquate endorphinergic & adrenergic frontiers. Multitudes of cinerea-lighters immerge, from the electrotrash, to the frenetic threnetic autumnality abounding & rebounding, to the heliacal vocals & much, more more. Till death do us part.
Lacking originality, this is exactly what it sounds like. There are no changes or improvements, which it sorely needed.
- Even Leia didn't care.