While making a virtue of a necessity, Analogue is the somewhat perplexing soundtrack to a disorienting, buried-alive ordeal.
For Analogue, Grzegorz Bojanek eschews all things digital (he broke his laptop) in favor of the earthier sound of guitars, flutes, objects, pedals and field recordings straight onto four-track tape recorder. The mishap seems to have made him think of music itself broken, rusted, clawing through rubble. While a piano shuddering with notes it will not let escape and a guitar absentmindedly strummed is reminiscent of a sitarist falling asleep at the wheel in one instance, a hippie lost in a circular jam in another, the whole album seems to have been dragged through the dirt or buried deep enough in the soil for the worms to get at it. A freer, lighter tune punctuated by striking a triangle breathes Celtic air, indeed a Celtic aire. “Cut the Tape” seems rather to cleave through all four of the elements and the geomagnetic field, too. An accordion snuffles and struggles to wheeze up whole clods of soil and clear its airway. It seems to succeed, finally breaching surface like a whale. While making a virtue of a necessity, Analogue is the somewhat perplexing soundtrack to a disorienting, buried-alive ordeal.
Analogue available on Twice Removed.