Sirens Of The Sea (Album)
|Sirens of the Sea|
|Released||21 July 2008|
Joining Mat Zo's Damage Control & Tritonal's Painting With Dreams, this album is ceaseless seraphic supernova blasts in your ears & soul. This is more acoustical than Tri-State.
It is devastating that not every song in this is properly remixed.
Click here for the remix LP.
|2.||"Sirens of the Sea"||5:56|
|3.||"If I Could Fly"||5:09|
|7.||"On A Good Day"||5:57|
|9.||"I Am What I Am"||4:46|
|12.||"On the Beach"||4:45|
|13.||"Breaking Ties" (Flow mix)||6:11|
This is the spark that sets the inferno. The memorability of each track is not from duration, but innate fulgour. This is consummately conveyed in this in every way colossal prelude of the bacchanalia to come. The hadalpelagic violins, the effulgent vocals, the deathly tune: these are classic Anjunabeats.
Every second is fulgurated beyond oneirism. Who can listen & not cry? Arbitrarily highlighted by naming (because the rest of the album is also superb), every yoctosecond is a fierceness that will corrodes the soul. The Wolf-Rayet stelliferous pads, the suaviloquence oozing with atrament & neuronautical dulciloquence, the ultrahumanity of it all: this is completely deserving of the title.
If I Could Fly
Switching gear, this is a more tropical side of inframundane heat! Worsd have not been invented for this, though I may try. There is a fuliginous bridge, & that also escapes even my oceanic vocabulary. But no ocean can drown you enough times to replicate the fatal odyssey that is this heavensend.
The guitar, a minimally versatile instrument, can be used well. Here is an example. Without missing a beat, this only furthers the album. Mostly homogeneous, this is especially adhesive to your brain. Incessant proclivities & sentimental vocals form another scintillation.
This is no overrated earworm: the piano ensures that.
There is no musical style more or less apposite for this, but the acoustical methods suggest a more 'natural' motif. The lyrics are boldy explicit, which is proper. The tune is melancholy though not atramental. The lyrics don't circumlocute: it's unfiltered & audacious. "It's too easy to bow your head & pray" is an especially valourous line. The contemporaneous Pope, Benedict 16, was no hope. Francis is trying to keep the church relevant, & religion is no salvation. As always for SOTS-era OceanLab, the entire song is divine.
It ends with woahs lapping back & back again, like waves on a beach. Miracle is only another luculent success in this glorious album.
This is another blockbuster expedition through neurotica. This innovative ecstasy ab initio does to your soul what Google did to searching. Each integrant is a waterfall of carborane acid. Caeli enarrant gloriam Dei.
There is no end to this album's acmes. It's the Himalayas of albums. In K3, each hiemal trough coruscates in this super-Colossus, from the rotating, heavenising vocals, to the water-clock plinks, to the final quarter of the tune, which challenges the depth, & breaks out strong. The punchy shadows deinsolate the already tearworthy lament, Johnston on high.
It's as if someone gathered Rheasilvia, Olympus Mons, Boösaule Montes, Ascraeus Mons, et al & painted them smooth. This is another Everest, emphasis on the hard E, for electrifying. Another proof that drugs are unnecessary for psychonautics, this is another inevaluable tragedy of the remixless.
I Am What I Am
It's a red carpet of eidola. Perceptibly the slowest song of SOTS by far, this is no exception to the procession of successes. SOTS has none.
This one, despite its somniferous style, is resplendent enough to triturate the air it is carried on.
The most electronic song from the seraph's hymnbook is an antimony pentafluoride fountain; a brazen bull of burning umbriferous profluence that spares no nanosecond of epiphany. The sole SOTS song with an intro & outro, the electricness is hyperabundant in every sense. At one point in this Sillas, a one-time melodic descent plummets & crashes through your heart. Fluvial ascension also exospheres this wonderpiece.
The climax transliterates the orgasm. Bridges in climaxes are a nectareous idea.
Songs of this album are dualist: they are made of two unrelated songs jammed together without respect for concordance or sense. That doesn't dim the magnitude of Secret, though, because this penultimate pulchritude bestows a Promethean, igniferous upon humanity. Tragically, it is repeatedly defiled & brutalised by an inferior mess that doesn't even begin to enter the same galaxy as the opening tune. However, once the floodgates of atrament are netherlanded at 2:54, it begins a climactic journey that eventuates in violin ingravescence. It holds not one spark to the infinitely calescent eta carinae deluxe that plays from the beginning to 1:23, & 1:58-2:54. So hot, yet so dark.
On The Beach
Any of these could have been used to close. Nevertheless, this eo nomine concluder is the sonification of the coast of northern Western Australia. The beginning interlaces brief ambient travel noise with introductory singing. & it never stops layering of the engastration of whale shark upon basking shark upon Greenland shark upon beluga (sturgeon) upon great white. With a dash of octopus, there's nothing more to be asked for in this platter of aligerous bullions.
OTB is a fitting bow upon this Polyhymnian dispensation.
The de facto closer is a lethal chillout mix oozing with atrament & originality. The slow tempo kills nothing but stolidness. The fall from the crest to the trough can kill. It ends with 50 seconds of wave-like noise. It is monumental.