After an atypically lengthy hiatus – mostly due to the Christchurch earthquake of February 2011, which destroyed his studio besides spawning dramatic tragedies in the area where he resides – Peter Wright released the last album he made prior to that event on vinyl, although buyers can download a digital version once cuddling the product in their hands. The customary coordinates are all there: a calm, almost subdued beginning, the measured intensification of the sonic strength until sharp splinters of electric guitar start slashing the general entrancement, the stabilization of the humming-and-buzzing mass into a fluid lava replete with melodic micro-organisms, the utilization of superb whistling blackbirds together with other kinds of field recordings, nearly a symbolization of the continuation of existence despite the sufferance. This time, though, Wright appears a little more cautious in spreading the components of the acoustic spectrum too far. The lingering sense is one of amplified reclusiveness, the frequencies amassed in charged clusters and restricted regions without an actual “opening”, but with lots of subsonic movements (facilitated by the composer’s reclamation of a bass after seven years of dust-gathering). This is not a detrimental feature, just a slight amendment in the design; it also means that the record necessitates many consecutive listens before a reliable understanding of its impact. It’s a bit like being the addressees of a series of speculations and conjectures about the state of things in an environment that has been radically altered, the plans already present in the rebuilder’s head but not yet implemented. Mesmerizing music, informed by the same tension of a post-traumatic agony, probing the immobile waters of inquietude with the archetypal class of this established master of the droning game.