What's a Listening Log? Well, the idea is quite simple. It's a weekly segment that consolidates all the mini-reviews Dozens Of Donuts has given on RateYourMusic over the past week, split between the Past and Present. A straightforward grading scale has been put in place, ranging from A+ to F-, with C acting as the baseline average. There is no set amount of reviews per week, just however many I get around to reviewing. And don't expect week-of reviews. I wait one month - with at least three listens under my belt - before I rate and review an album. Enjoy!
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2019 | Psychedelic Folk | Listen
WOODEN MASKS, BURNING STAKES, AND A MYSTICAL LITURGY
Mere days before 2019 passed the torch to a new decade, Big Blood maintained their undisclosed, yet entirely betrothed truism: A project a year since their inception in 2006. It's a feat, given the staggering quality and boundless altruism of Big Blood's discography, that deserves praise no one person, or community, could bestow. With more than two dozen albums, two hundred songs, and infinite memories, it's about time I stop beating around the bush: Big Blood is my favorite artist. Deep Maine didn't solidify that on its own basis. The fact I teared up with overwhelming excitement at the mere thought of its surprise existence did. There's something magical about Colleen Kinsella, Caleb Mulkerin, and now daughter Quinnisa that will forever be impossible to define. Yet proof prevails time and time again. Big Blood is no fantasy; They merely represent it through the lens of lost Americana folklore. Deep Maine, more than any album since 2010's Dark Country Magic, permeates that cabalistic essence with unsettling atmosphere and disarming black magic.
What's most notable about Deep Maine's aesthetic, like the demented, retro-futuristic Sci-Fi of Operate Spaceship Earth Properly that came before, is the bottomless expanse of isolated psychosis permeating the air around Kinsella and Mulkerin's vocals. While none of the songs are on the level of 'Song For RO-HE-GE,' 'The Birds & The Herds,' or 'Destin Rain' in terms of spotlighting Maine's eccentric Folk via accessible means, the rich tapestry of atmosphere-building that spearheaded some of Big Blood's best work is on full display. On songs like 'Hail The Happy Hourlings' and 'The Queen & Her Court II,' one feels as if they're seeping into the fabric of Maine cultists, estranged from societal norms. The former, plucked from the knotty surrealism of Alice In Wonderland, the latter, a Grimm fairytale told through an incantation at a ritual seance. As per usual, the variety is astounding given Big Blood's pledged Folk background.
'A Message Sent,' a duet between Kinsella and Mulkerin over a sparse piano elegy, is perhaps the best example of spacial ameliorating Big Blood has ever achieved. It's not their best - in fact, it's one of Deep Maine's worst - but the discomforting enlargement of strings, Noise, and hieroglyphic samples transudes, and adds to, Big Blood's aesthetic like none other. The seamless song transitions, reminding me once again of Dark Country Magic, add that extra touch of total immersion. Speaking of setbacks, 'Baby Eyes' is easily the LP's worst cut on account of palpably-stale ideas. We've heard this exact tone - that of festival conviviality - with numerous other Mulkerin-led tracks like 'Echohead,' 'Spit Shine,' 'In The Shade,' and 'Sister.' All executed better, mind you.
It wouldn't be a respectable Big Blood record without standouts, and Deep Maine has three. To most artists without such high standards; four. Kinsella's jaunty naivety and the unnatural sound design of 'Hail The Happy Hourlings' is one, an excellent introduction to Deep Maine esoteric ceremony. 'Time Is Coming' bears the LP's single Rock flavor, feeling most comparable to their recent works Daughters Union and Operate Space Earth Properly. It's also spellbinding and fearless, going so far as to include Progressive Folk influence like Grateful Dead through an epochal Post-Rock lens. The outro even draws similarities to Boards Of Canada. Go figure. At a whopping ten minutes, 'Serpent Skies' stands as a matchless triumph of ethereal insouciance, presenting an intoxicating perspective on the Drone formula. The stray Velvet Underground-esque guitars and subtle build to mythological rapture only help 'Serpent Skies'' wayward trajectory.
Deep Maine's fourth standout is the lonely, melodic 'James Bay.' Here, Kinsella bears her soul in what's likely the closest Big Blood will ever get to Contemporary Folk or conventional Singer/Songwriter. Similarities are drawn to 'The Archivist & Archeologist.' It is a gorgeous and serene finale, one that welcomes the dawn of a new day after the unhinged bacchanal of 'Serpent Skies.' Misty dew drips off each echoing piano stab, as Kinsella's vocals drift into the silent ether. To the surprise of no one - though we should never not be grateful - Deep Maine contributes admirably to Big Blood's storied narrative and boundless collection of distorted folklore.
B+
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2019 | Contemporary Folk | Listen
WORSHIPPING THE SUN, BAKED IN THE CALIFORNIAN HEAT
It doesn't get more Southern California than this. Night Of The Worm Moon is a record seemingly burnt into existence by the sun, baked into the crackling crust of the Mojave desert. The aesthetic is top notch, though one you'd expect to hear more in the mid-70's than 2019. Linda Perhacs' Parallelograms comes to mind, with its psychedelic infestation of Contemporary Folk byway of exposure to the sun. Stuporous concoctions arise in the distant mirage, shaking and splintering on the horizon, spurred onwards by a mind gone hazy. Four songs directly reference the sun and the power it bestows ('Face Of The Sun,' 'Invisible When The Sun Leaves,' 'The Fireball,' 'Solar Creep'), giving credence to Cleveland's lost-in-time vibe.
All this from an artist most known for crafting thermal Surf Rock with backing band La Luz. The transition to Singer/Songwriter is more natural than you think, given the relative proximity of the deserted land with the sultry sea. However, despite the aesthetic success, Night Of The Worm Moon rarely achieves heights worth reinvesting in. Cleveland's baked so vicariously through lethargy that she never fully takes off, finding beauty in agrestal plaintiveness, as seen best on 'Face Of The Sun,' 'Night Of The Worm Moon,' and 'I'll Never Know.' Like the deserts arid expanse, much of Night Of The Worm Moon merely exists in a state of inertia. Typical for most Singer/Songwriter, though Cleveland receives a pass by acclimating such a stylization to a distinct setting that fits. In terms of transporting you to an anachronistic world, Cleveland's debut ticks all the right boxes, except the one that'll bring you back.
C-
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