This is the kind of record you want to turn up loud and just let it wash over you. It’s two tracks, each just under twenty minutes, of glacial Buchla 200 drone. It hums and it shimmers and it throbs and it crackles gently. Sometimes the changes snap in and out abruptly; other times they happen so gradually that you find yourself realizing that it’s changed completely without you ever quite noticing when or how. There are moments where the music feels slightly claustrophobic, pressing in on you, before somehow turning everything inside out so that now it’s a shimmering thing floating inside your head and and radiating outwards. It ends in transcendent mode, all swirls of half-hints of melody in the upper registers. This is a record of subtle intensity that makes a profound impression on me and then half an hour later seems to have faded from my memory like a dream — but the traces it leaves behind are strangely reassuring.
(The digital versions come with a bonus track, a seven-minute collaboration with Klara Lewis which is an altogether pulsier affair. It’s nice, but a little jarring: I might have preferred it as a palate-cleanser between the tracks rather than at the end.)
(Jobin says that she was influenced by the deaths of Mika Vainio and of three members of her own family. I hope that the process of making this helped her.)
I bought this from Jobin’s bandcamp page.