I’ve come to the simple conclusion that I can, and probably should, only listen to Harold Budd’s music in short doses.  Notice I said “listen”, not “stand”.  There’s a subtle difference.  Budd’s music, with its lush, riverine piano lines, largely improvised structures, and delicate string and horn arrangements, is lovelier than lovely, and I have no problem listening to it in almost any (quiet or decently subdued) occasion.

However, the loose, dreamlike nature of Budd’s compositions means that they A) often lapse into the backdrop as soon as something even slightly more insistent comes across the listener’s awareness (which means this album should probably only be listened to in big, empty houses, preferably by candlelight), and B) sometimes veer a bit too far into “New Age” territory, and as such, the drifting compositions just, well, drift on by, with little lasting impact.

I suspect that much of that is due to circumstance, and given the right circumstances, the whole of Avalon Sutra is, undoubtedly, mighty affecting.  But in reality, such perfect listening circumstances are hard to come by, which has the unfortunate result of rendering much of the album aural wallpaper.  Mighty lovely wallpaper with intricate and exquisite detail, but wallpaper nonetheless.

However, listening to Avalon Sutra (or any of Budd’s music, for that matter) in shorter doses has another benefit aside from preventing the music to drift away from you.  It highlights and emphasizes its most interesting and arresting quality; its illusory, ephemeral nature.  Short snippets bring you to the gates of Budd’s musical world and give you tantalizing glimpses of the beauties contained therein, but the music isn’t given long enough of a time to wear out its welcome or fade into the backdrop.

Continue reading…