For the longest time I saw Souvlaki as Slowdive’s middle-child.  It felt lost between the expansive, rainy day atmospherics of Just For A Day and the minimalist melancholia of Pygmalion.  As such, I relegated it to the status of an “introductory” album—a beginner’s album with training wheels, if you will.

But if that’s the case, then why do I find myself reaching for this album more than any of their other efforts?  Perhaps it’s because it feels so mature.  It was only the band’s second proper album, but it’s imminently more listenable than Just For A Day.

Songs like “Machine Gun”, “Melon Yellow”, and “Altogether” are languid masterpieces, drawing in the listener and settling around them like newfallen snow.  “Souvlaki Space Station” sounds like something piped over the PA of crystalline spaceships; Rachel Goswell’s voice floats around like splinters of sunlight glinting off satellites.  The album’s closer, the acoustic “Dagger”, may just be one of the most heartrending and honest songs Neil Halstead ever penned.  American fans even got an extra 4 songs that spotlighted the band’s excursions into techno and trance music, and those aren’t half-bad either.

Perhaps some might argue with me on this one, but Souvlaki may be greatest dreampop album ever written (next to Loveless).  Although I still consider Pygmalion to be the band’s finest moment, it was also the album that drove the band apart.  As such, Pygmalion ultimately feels a bit like a side-project.

Souvlaki is Slowdive’s best collective effort, funnelling the atmospherics of their previous efforts into a more cohesive package.  Souvlaki is still the best introduction to Slowdive.  Not because it’s a lesser album, but because it’s the best at showing Slowdive in all of their radiant glory.

Every once in awhile, you purchase an album that makes you completely reconsider everything else out on the market.  For me, one such album is “Eating The Sea,” the Projekt debut from Soul Whirling Somewhere, a band out of Arizona.  Everything about this album, from the music to the lyrics to the packaging(lovely aquatic-like photography which really helps set the mood) is exquisitely created by Michael Plaster, the sole member of Soul Whirling Somewhere.  The album begins with the instrumental “One Of These Days Some Eyes Will Be Opened,” a song which sets the musical groundwork for the album.  Soft, gentle, minor-keyed synth washes that seem to roll over and through eachother, such is the formula that is used to perfection by Plaster.

The music is consists of primarily gentle, spiralling synths, but also features soft acoustic guitars and very minimal percussion on some tracks.  Above all of this soars Plaster’s youthful and powerful voice, adding an almost innocent, choral quality to the music.  Plaster wears his heart on his sleeve, but instead of dangling it in front you, he invites you to see it with some of the most powerful and personal lyrics I have ever heard.  On “Wish” he intones: “If a word could have changed where I am now/Would I’ve wished if it were?/Dreams hand in frailty and glimmer out of reach/The threads of imagination—thinner than air.”

On “Landed”(my favorite track), these words are sung powerfully and gently: “And I had said the few things I’d wanted/That, we all agree, frees our soul/Because no one every wanted/A memory to chain them to a word left unfulfilled.”

The songs are sparse yet warm, like Plaster is inviting me to hear revelations of his deepest anxieties and feelings.

I cannot recommend this album highly enough.  I find it to be the perfect album to listen to at night, with the lights off and the blinds closed.  This is powerful, introspective music and means a great deal to me; it’s very rare to find an album that does that.  “Eating The Sea” never ceases to amaze or inspire me everytime I listen to it and this, in my opinion, is what music has always been meant for.

The first stumbling block people are likely to encounter when they listen to this album will be the vocals of Stina Nordenstam themselves.  Imagine a younger, more girlish version of Björk’s cooing mixed with equal doses of Alison Shaw (The Cranes) and Liz Frazier (The Cocteau Twins), and you might be getting close.  Now, if that potential combination intrigues you, than you’ll probably have no objection with her voice, though you might with the music (more on that later).

On the other hand, I can completely sympathize with people who might find Nordenstam’s voice annoying and even grating.  At times, her voice becomes almost too precious and mousy for its own good, sounding like a frail, coquette-ish girl trying to win over the listener with too-breathy sighs, bashful looks, and batting eyelashes.

But even if you find yourself getting intoxicated on Nordenstam’s vocals (as I do), her musical selection is likely to give you yet another pause.  Although consistently lush and polished, parts of Memories Of A Color drift off dangerously deep into light jazz/contemporary AC pop.  I got a few odd looks and comments from my roommate and a visiting friend when I had this on the stereo, as these are sounds not normally heard in the apartment.  I’ll be frank, some of the songs can be a bit groan-inducing at times.  Sax and fretless bass-laden numbers like “The Return Of Alan Bean” and “I’ll Be Cryin’ Over You” almost drown in their own sappiness, especially when combined with Nordenstam’s cooing, which is at its breathiest and most unintelligible here.

When I first heard Nordenstam sing, oh so wispily, “‘Cause it’s so hard to return from the moon” over a wailing saxophone, I wondered if I’d made a mistake buying this disc.  There are still times, even now, when I find myself grimacing at some of the musical arrangements, which seem better primed for the likes Celine Dion.

But what redeems the album and makes it such a compelling listen—so much so that it puts even some of the disc’s cheesier moments in a new light—are the melancholy torchsongs that appear throughout.  The playing and arrangements are as slick as the other material—just check out the piano bridge on “His Song”—but the strings and horns are delightfully restrained and intoxicating, as are Nordenstam’s vocals.

Nordenstam’s delicate vocals drift across a languid guitar melody on “Another Story Girl”, tinted the right shade of heartache for a song about trying to take the place of a lover’s ex-girlfriend—and seeing why she left in the first place.  I’ve already mentioned “His Song”, which is bookended by string arrangements so lovely I half-expected to see Craig Armstrong’s name in the liner notes (as it turns out, Nordenstam herself did all of the arrangements).  “Alone At Night” is the album’s most surreal moment.  Nordenstam’s frail voice creeps about surrounded by haunting strings and ghostly loops that half echo/half mock her as she sings of haunted houses, stranded spacecraft, and futility.

However, the linchpin of the album is the heartwrenching “Soon After Christmas”.  Nordenstam sounds like she’s on the verge of tears throughout the song, and it often has to pause so she can regain her composure, take a deep breath, and continue on.  Barely supported by a delicate piano melody and slight, achingly beautiful strings, her oh-so-tiny voice practically shivers with desire (“Every inch of my skin is crying for your hands”) and vulnerability (“You’ve got me slightly disappointed/Just a bit and just enough/To keep me up another night/Waiting for another day”).  It’s an absolutely spellbinding track, one that makes you stop whatever you’re doing and just listen.

I almost wonder if Stina wasn’t trying to do a bit of a switcheroo on this album.  As Memories Of A Color progresses, it gets increasingly abstract and melancholy, until it’s a far cry from the jazzy, contemporary pop-lite that characterizes the first half.  I think it’s safe to say that, should you find yourself a bit puzzled and/or dismayed when you first start listening to Memories Of A Color, there’s a good chance that Nordenstam’s music will have you completely bewitched by the time the album has begun winding down.

Gavin Bryars is not a rock star. He is a modern classical composer, well-known for his albums based upon unusual themes. For example, he released as album based upon the legend of the Titanic’s string ensemble that played as the ship was sinking, an album that came out several years before the movie came out. This particular album is entirely based upon a recording of an English tramp singing this simple chorus: “Jesus’ blood never failed me yet/Never failed me yet/Jesus’ blood never failed me yet/There’s one thing I know/For He loves me so…”

This chorus is looped and played over and over again for the entire 74 minutes of the album. However, Bryars creates a beautiful string arrangement that develops slowly underneath the recording, a string arrangement that is sparse, yet serene and nostalgic. As the album progresses, the strings grow more powerful and in tune with the tramp singing, as more instruments join in. In the end, the tramp is joined in his singing by Tom Waits. Some people will probably be put off by Waits’ voice. At times, he sounds like a drunken sailor. However, his voice holds a strength and grit that the tramp’s warbly and thin voice lacks.

It might sound boring, listening to the tramp’s voice over and over again like that, even with the string arrangements. However, I have listened to this album many times and I still do not find it boring or repetitive. I find it to be quite peaceful and relaxing; I often listen to it when I go to sleep. Maybe it’s the off-kilter way the tramp sings the chorus, or the very words he’s singing. Bryars does an excellent job with this album, writing pieces that strengthen and bolster the tramp’s voice without overpowering it. His arrangements are subtle, restrained, and dignified, letting the spotlight shine on the tramp. More importantly, this album does not trivialize what the tramp is singing. The words he is singing are never presented in a mocking or derisive way. They are presented as is, and the listener can derive from them what they want. However, Bryars does include an example of the power contained within the tramp’s singing. In the liner notes, he says:

“When I copied the loop… I left the door of the recording studio open… while I went downstairs to get a cup of coffee. When I came back I found the normally lively room unnaturally subdued. People were moving about much more slowly than usual, and a few were sitting alone, quietly weeping. I was puzzled until I realized that the tape was still playing and they had been overcome by the old man’s unaccompanied singing.”

We could argue why people find this recording of a tramp singing this chorus so powerful. However, it most likely has to do with the fact that this man, utterly destitute by the world’s standards, still has the faith in his Lord and Saviour to sing these words.

It brought tears to my eyes while writing this review.

This review originally appeared on the Campus Impact homepage.

Seefeel was probably one of most criminally unknown bands of the whole shoegazer era in the early 90s.  Overshadowed by groups like My Bloody Valentine, Slowdive, Ride, and Swervedriver, Seefeel released Quique in 1993 and it’s probably accurate to say that this album best bridged the gap between dreampop, techno, ambient, and jungle.

The beats and basslines on “Industrious” are laid down with mechanical precision, like assembly lines where Steve Reich is piped in over the PA, and “Imperial” is living proof that you can use words like “swirling” to describe ambience and not sound cliched.  But it’s on the album’s mellower tracks where Seefeel shines.

Tracks like “Charlotte’s Mouth,” “Through You,” and “Signals” are the ultimate “bedroom ambient” songs.  “Charlotte’s Mouth” has one of the most sensual basslines ever heard in ambient music, underscoring hovering, quasi-jazz atmospheres and subdued drum loops.  On “Through You,” glassy specks of sound float around a slowly shifting mass of sound, like My Bloody Valentine’s “Loveless” slowed down and left to float over basslines recorded in the Chunnel.  And the glacial layers of sound on “Signals” seems to stretch on forever, with beats that sound like satellite transmissions from somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy.

If this isn’t the music for late night zero-g trysts, where everything is bathed in various shades of blue and hours seem to stretch out until they no longer move, then I don’t know what is.