The title for Caul’s latest release, which has been released under the Creative Commons License for the Dark Winter netlabel, takes its name from the term for so-called “negative theology”.  That is, an attempt to discern the nature of God by investigating and delving into what God is not.  Such obscure theological ruminations are nothing new for Brett Smith, the man behind the Caul moniker, who has incorporated religious themes and concepts into such previous releases as The Sound Of Faith, Reliquary, and Light From Many Lamps.

Folks describing dark-ambient music often resort to such imagery as ruined cathedrals, haunted monasteries, and long-forgotten rituals (even though, interestingly enough, a good deal of dark-ambient music also incorporates occult and decidedly non-Christian).  And yet, as pretentious and clichéd as those comparisons can be, there is something to them.

Despite, or maybe because of, its incorporation of difficult sounds, which are often as foreboding as they are lovely, and its obtuse, challenging nature, there is something about dark-ambient music that enables it to convey impressions of deep, numinous things.  And that’s especially true of Caul’s music.

Part of that probably lies in Smith’s own religious beliefs.  While he doesn’t call himself a Christian per se, Smith does view his music is an attempt for him to have a “dialogue” with God.  Which lends it an intimacy and emotional warmth that is unique amidst many of his peers.

But it’s never an easy thing, this dialogue, and that’s very true of Apophasis.  For starters, the album is actually a single 40-minute track.  And unlike much of Caul’s work, which is often relatively song-oriented and possesses a strong sense of melody, Apophasis is almost pure drift.

Static crackles along the event horizons of cavernous drones that seem to be emanating from the coldest reaches of space.  High-pitched radio signals occasionally ring out, sounding all the more like distress calls or desperate attempts for communication given the blackness surrounding them.  Tribal drums thunder off in the distance.  Long stretches of near-silence pervade the album, and yet they do little to comfort the listener, the barrenness only proving to be more unsettling.  And that’s just the first half of the track.

If Apophasis is an attempt by Smith to examine what God is not, and given the dark depths that he plumbs throughout the track, the conclusions he reaches by the end of what God is must be of a most glorious kind.  And yet even the darkest, most unsettling and alien moments hold a certain reverence about them.

But it’s not all horror and night.  Moments of respite occasionally shine through the nebulous, oppressive drones, taking the form of silvery, angelic synths and lighter choral pieces.  And the very last thing we hear before the disc ends is a soft, pensive synth melody and that most intimate of sounds, a heartbeat.  As with all of Caul’s work, there can be beauty, reverence, and warmth, even in the darkest and most foreboding of places and sounds.

My first exposure to Hidden came while I was going through some galleries on File Magazine‘s website, specifically Bob Stevens’ “Sublime Spaces”.  If there’s one genre that lends itself especially well to soundtrack-like moments and cinematic thoughts, it’s dark ambient when it’s done right, and Brett Smith (who has been recording under the Caul moniker for a number of years) proves once again that he does it quite well.

While listening to Hidden single 59-minute track, Stevens’ photos of ordinary vistas and scenes—an electrical tower at the edge of an empty field, an aluminum shed in the middle of an orchard, four strange structures off in the distance on some hills—though beautiful in their own right, took on a strange, otherworldly cast.  Despite being shots of ordinary American vistas, they came to more closely resemble something out of Tarkovsky’s Stalker or Attila Janisch’s After The Day Before.  (Indeed, many of the distant rumblings that serve as Hidden‘s foundation immediately brought the amazing sound design of Janisch’s film to mind.)

It’s always amazing to me how much an enveloping sound can completely alter your perspective.  Chances are, even a picture of some cute little puppies would suddenly seem ominous, alien, and foreboding were Caul’s music playing in the background.

Some may be turned off by the fact that Hidden is a single, nearly hour-long track, and I can’t blame them.  They’re probably imagining an hour of mindless drones, perhaps a few monk chants, some ominous factory rumbles, maybe a horror movie sample or two, some bone-rattling low end frequencies, some disturbing samples—you know, the sort of stuff one might expect from a, well, dark ambient disc.  Smith does employ many of those elements, to be sure.  There’s hardly a minute on the disc that isn’t awash with blackened waves of drone and drift, eerie scrapings and ringings, and whatnot.

However, despite the fact that Hidden isn’t as “focused” or “song-oriented” as some of Caul’s other releases, this isn’t merely a case of Smith leaning on his synth keys for minutes on end or just slapping on some evil-sounding samples here and there for creepy effect.  Listen closely, and you might hear a few surprises.

Occasionally light does pierce through the clouds.  Lighter, flute-like melodies can be heard slowly emerging during the first 5 minutes or so, as if seeking to bolster the listener before they begin traversing the darker territories of the next 50+ minutes.  About midway through the disc, a solitary cymbal begins measuring out a solemn step as reverent atmospherics drift all around.  As is the case with much of Caul’s music, the mental picture conjured forth is that of ancient religious ceremonies performed in ruined, ivy-covered temples—the cymbal setting the pace, the atmospherics drifting about like incense.

The mournful synths reappear in the disc’s final movement.  Reminiscent of Les Joyaux De La Princesse’ Die Weisse Rose, they’re undoubtedly sorrowful and yet, there’s something slightly off about their sadness, something distant and alien that leaves you as apprehensive as you are soothed.

Although, given its running time, it’s unavoidable that the disc occasionally meanders and loses focus, it’s these little details and nuances that I’ve always enjoyed about Caul’s music, and always make his discs a compelling listen.

It’s a good time to be a fan of dark-ambient music in general, and of Brett Smith’s work in particular.  While Smith probably made the biggest splash of his career with the release of Blackmouth, a collaborative project with former SWAN Jarboe, he’s been releasing stellar solo work under the Caul moniker for years now.  Recent days have seen the release of a trio of Caul titles (one of which is a three disc collection itself), with more on the way. 

First out of the gate is Muein, a single hour-long piece of music released by Grinder Tool and Die.  A followup to last year’s Hidden, Muein is a dark, swirling atmospheric piece of music, all mood and texture.  Smith’s work is typically quite hard to describe and this is no exception, but let it be said that he is very good at what he does and is definitely on top of his game here.  This is the type of work that would make a stunning score to one of the Alien films or to David Fincher’s more atmospheric work, if only the film studio types were smart enough to go down that path.

Up next is Swan, an extremely limited edition custom release stunningly hand-packaged in a fold out linen paper cover.  Here, Smith collects nine shorter tracks previously available only on various compilations.  His shorter work is no less complex and rewarding than his long pieces and this release gives fans a chance to pick up music virtually impossible to come by otherwise.

Finally, from Eibon recordings—also home of Caul’s absolutely stunning Reliquary—comes A Golden Epiphany, a three disc collection of Caul’s first three releases.  Up until now, these had only been available as very limited edition cassettes which have long been unavailable, and here, have been remixed and remastered by Smith himself. The packaging, also by Smith, is equally impressive.

Written by Chris Brown.

As I’m writing this review, I’m listening to the CD on my TV. You see, I’m in the process of moving, so my Sony Playstation is doing double-duty as a CD player (ain’t modern technology grand?). However, as Light From Many Lamps playing behind me, it’s playing tricks with my mind. I have to keep reminding myself that there’s not some Andrei Tarkovsky film playing in the background. I have to remind myself that it’s just the new Caul album, however filmic and cinematic it may sound.

The opening track (“I Will Awake The Dawn”) immediately sets the stage, and if you’ve never listened to Caul, quickly prepares you for what is to come. Starting off with the sound of wind, it evokes images of a desolate wasteland. Slowly, various fragments of sound start to chime in, like the motes of sunlight filtering over the horizon. With a loud, resounding tone, the song finishes on a powerful note that’s nonetheless alien and forboding.

The thing I like about Caul’s music is the fact that, for dark-ambience, it’s often very melodic and song-like. Although his music is rife with dark drones and forlorn waves of sound, Caul uses those in the background as a foundation for the melodies he uses as the song’s focus (“The Saint And The Seraph”). Sometimes middle-eastern, sometimes medieval, sometimes classical, and often a little bit of all three, they move the songs along without diminishing the weight and power behind them.

At times it can get a little much, especially if you are lacking in patience. The album, at 15 tracks, lasts over 70 minutes. Out of those 70 minutes, the only track that doesn’t work for me is the Dead Can Dance-ish “Midnight’s Tongue.” Musically, the track has a very strong Middle-Eastern sound to it, but the spoken word is distracting. Also, Caul works with a pretty limited palette, sonically and melodically; the synth sounds get a little overused (“The Mirror Of Simple Souls” leaps to mind).

On the other hand, “Oh Thou Bright Crown Of Pearl” is absolutely haunting in its slowly unfolding beauty. The piano melody on “The Saint And The Seraph” is set against a slowly spiralling array of bell-like tones and strings. As the song progresses, the original melody fades away, giving birth to new ones that continue to spiral onward and upward. “Crux Est Mundi Medecina” is one of the strongest tracks on the album. A distant piano melody winds its way through a haunting menagerie of atmospherics and choral samples reminiscent of Steve Scott’s work, before giving away to harsher noises. Imagine a slightly heavier, rougher version of Vidna Obmana’s “The River Of Appearances”. The overall effect is more muted and less dramatic than much of the other music on the album, but much more haunting and personal.

Like his previous work, the outstanding Reliquary, Caul’s music is replete with Christian themes. Song titles like “O Thou Bright Crown Of Pearl” and “At Midnight I Arise To Give Thanks To Thee” (taken from the book of Psalms) sound like passages from an Orthodox hymnal or “The Cloud Of Unknowing.” There’s a very solemn, graceful air to his music, but also a profound sense of awe and religious ecstacy.

Dark-ambient music tends to be dramatic by its very nature, and can often feel forced and artificial. Caul’s music doesn’t sound forced at all. And unlike some ambient music, his doesn’t fade into the background. There’s a great sense of intimacy and warmth here, which sounds odd compared with the often bleak and frightening sounds Caul uses. Perhaps it’s the religious and Christian imagery that strikes a chord with me. And even though I don’t listen to Caul’s music with great frequency, I know that each listen will require a full engagement.

I once read a review of The Gift Of Tears by the Revolutionary Army of the Infant Jesus in which this quote, by C.S. Lewis, was used: “Holy places are dark places.” IMO, this quote is more accurately applied to Caul’s work. Reliquary, the third album by this dark-ambient artist, once again evokes scenes of long-abandoned cathedrals in the wasteland, Christian ceremonies carried out in the catacombs, black-robed monks carrying out their sacred duties. Immediately, comparisons to Cold Meat artists like Raison d’Etre will be made. That may be justified, at least thematically. However, Caul’s music is much darker and bleaker than Raison’s, and ultimately more interesting.

The first thing that struck me were the Current 93-esque song titles, such as “The Measure Of The Stature Of The Fullness Of Christ” and “Lights In The Firmament Of Heaven.” It’s a good thing that Caul’s music is instrumental, because no lyrics (short of those penned by David Tibet) could match these titles. They sound more like entries in some lost religious tome, titles of religious movements and rituals.

Like his previous album, The Sound Of Faith, I find this to be a difficult album to sit all the way through at times, but not because it’s bad. Sure, there is repetition and points of monotony - the tracks all flow together, and at times, it’s hard to tell one song from another. But it’s mainly that my spirit can only take so much crushing. The atmospheres generated are extremely oppressive, like a black cloud hanging over you - not evil, but just solemn and overwhelming. I haven’t heard stuff this dark and massive since, well, the last Caul album.

The opening track, “Christ Altogether Lovely,” quickly sets the mood and tone of the album. Slow, spiralling drones rise out from the sounds of rain. A simple and stark piano melody, along with bells, moves the piece. It’s like the soundtrack to a religious procession, watching the priests march up the aisle to the altar, the censer swinging before them and soft chants slowly filling the hall. It’s at once haunting, sad, and eerie, like all of Caul’s music.

“The Measure Of The Stature Of The Fullness Of Christ”‘s slow, bell-like tones sound out against a backdrop of crickets and other outdoor noises. A gentle string-like melody plays, filling the piece with a sense of loss and emptiness, the soundtrack to wandering through some blasted land. “Lights In The Firmament Of Heaven” is one of the brighter tracks, but “brighter” is a subjective term with this kind of music. Out of more dark and swirling atmospheres emerge a simple musicbox-like melody eventually joined by a children’s choir. A gong sounds and the choir sounds in full force, like the angels themselves have joined in. It’s probably my favorite Caul song.

As the rest of the album plays, you are actually inside that ruined cathedral, those torchlit catacombs, the ambience of the place and the ceremonies once performed there overpowering you.