Over the past decade or so, Scott Cortez has been delivering some of the purest shoegazer sounds on the planet via his band Lovesliescrushing. Lovesliescrushing’s music essentially boils down to two things: the ethereal, wordless vocals of Melissa Arpin and Cortez’ effects-riddled, overdriven guitars. And when captured by Cortez’s Tascam 4-track, those two elements have converged over the years to create what is essentially shoegazer’s logical end, a glorious, blissed-out cacophony that is as delicate, fragile, and heavenly as it is ear-shatteringly loud.

But that was then. Chorus represents a significant shift for Lovesliescrushing, if not sonically, then at least foundationally. For this latest album, Cortez has set his Fender Jaguar aside—don’t worry though, his other band, STAR, is giving him enough of a six-string fix—and has focused solely on both his and Arpin’s voices, running them through all manner of digital effects and processing.

The results don’t sound all that dissimilar from past Lovesliescrushing albums on the first pass—Chorus still contains the same otherworldly beauty that you find on, say, Glissceule. If anything, though, the music is even more spectral, ghostly, and haunted because the sole instrument—the human voice—is one that is normally so familiar and yet this time, is so far removed from its normal range.

Cortez performs all manner of sonic alchemy on the vocals, bending, stretched, looping, and processing them until they contain only vestigial remains of humanity and instead, sound pretty alien. But enough familiar-ness is there that the sounds still resonate on at least a primal level, even on a track as distant and cosmic as “Merr”.

There are moments where it’s difficult to believe that all you’re hearing are just processed vocals. Whether it’s the buzzing drones that form “Zrint”‘s backdrop, or “Jomm”‘s gloomy, metallic-sounding rhythms, or the ghostly flute-like melody that loops itself around “Rhuv”‘s angelically forlorn vocals, they sound complely inhuman. Indeed, on any other Lovesliescrushing album, you’d chalk them up to Cortez’s skill at manipulating and manhandling his guitar. This time around, though, the sounds are testament to both Cortez’s skills as a sonic manipulator and to the malleability of the human voice.

Unfortunately, Chorus has not been officially released here in the States—it’s only been available directly from the band (and as far as I know, has only been officially announced on the band’s MySpace page). But it’s certainly worth tracking down, both by longtime fans of the band and by those looking for something a little different from the shoegazer/dreampop scene—or from ambient/experimental music in general.

As beautiful as they can be, there are times when shoegazer’s constant layers of gossamery guitars and glossolalia can get a little staid. Thank God, then, for a group like Lovesliescrushing who is always willing to shred the genre’s envelope and push things to extremes that few can withstand, all without sacrificing any of the music’s beauty or fragility. The results may not always be the easiest music to “get into”—even among diehard shoegazer fans, Chorus might be something of an acquired taste—but it’s never less than fascinating.

It doesn’t feel quite right to say that Lovespirals is merely the new incarnation of Love Spirals Downwards, even though it’s pretty obvious why folks (myself included) would say that—and not just because of the name similarities.

While founder/songwriter Ryan Lum has largely eschewed the gothic/darkwave overtones of his previous band, there’s still no denying that the ghosts of acts such as the Cocteau Twins still haunt their way through Lovespirals’ Long Way From Home. One need only to listen to hazy guitar strums or shimmery effects on “Empty Universe”, “Treading The Water”, or “Sundrenched” for that to become readily apparent.

And then there’s Anji Bee’s vocals. Bee—who, according to the band’s bio, possesses the “the sexiest voice in podcasting”—lets her voice drift and sway through the album’s ten tracks in a manner recalling Love Spirals Downwards’ previous vocalists (such as Suzanne Perry), Liz Frazier (minus the glossolalia), and even Tracey Thorn (Everything But The Girl). You know what I’m talking about: a manner that is seductive, not so much for its sultriness and smokiness, but for its ethereal and otherworldly nature.

All that being said, however, Long Way From Home is far more straightforward than anything Lum (and his various collaborators) has done to date—especially when compared to the Projekt days. While there are certainly echoes of those early darkwave records, replete with their Victorialand influences, Long Way From Home also blends in more forthright pop, jazz, Americana, and even blues for good measure.

This approach does lend the album a light, deft touch that feels something like a crisp spring breeze in both its tone and electic-ness. The duo pull the music off effortlessly, with Lum’s lush production and guitar effects providing a gorgeous, sunlit backdrop for Bee’s vocals.

Occasionally, though, there is a stumble, which mainly occurs when the duo attempt to inject a little grit into their music—e.g., their cover of the classic spiritual, “Motherless Child”. Bee’s voice is better suited to flitting and floating, and so the more soulful approach here just doesn’t quite work as well. But those moments are few and far between, and oftentimes, are brushed aside as soon as the next lovely swell or ethereal vocal harmony comes wafting from the speakers.

Some folks might also dismiss Lovespirals’ music as too light and airy to be of any substance. And while it may be true that you won’t find anything soul-shattering on the album, that rather misses the point I think.

Ultimately, Lum and Bee are all about creating a mood with their music, a relaxed and blissed-out vibe that should be no stranger to fans of dreampop, chill-out electronica, and atmospheric pop. This is music for both late night sessions and noon daydreams, for both listening to at work when you need to escape the pressure of the day and at home when you simply need to unwind with a good book and a glass of wine. From that perspective, Long Way From Home succeeds pretty well.

So much of the electronica-laced indie pop that I hear these days seems to strive for some measure of whimsy or childlike wide-eyed-ness. But oftentimes, it comes off as the sort of trite pop that may be catchy and neat to listen to, but offers little more after the first few listens. Minikon‘s Hope avoids that for the most part.

To be sure, Minikon’s music—which sounds like one of the more electronica-minded folks on the Darla label (e.g., Jonas Munk) taking a stab at remixing and covering Sufjan Stevens, with maybe a hint of Joy Electric’s analog bubbliness thrown in for good measure—is oftentimes cute and bubbly, and may not seem all that revelatory or groundbreaking. But there is a certain mixture of joy and melancholy, of frivolity and darkness throughout the album that is rather beguiling.

“Family Mountain” drifts along gracefully on strummed acoustic guitars, wistful flutes, and crunchy electronic beats, and conjures up a mood that is nostalgic without the navel-gazing. Meanwhile, the aptly titled “Fun” and “She Makes Me Happy” are packed with whimsical programming, 8-bit bleeps and bloops galore, and some subtle-yet-affecting melodic shifts.

The album’s highpoint, however, does contain an unmistakably revelatory moment or two. “Forever Loves” begins with gently swelling ambient textures and drum n’ bliss beats a la classic Color Filter or Junior Varsity KM. The track builds so easily that you don’t even realize it’s building at all, that is until the gorgeous climax of trilling flutes and exultant programming.

It’s the sort of moment that could sound trite if it weren’t actually so darn earnest, bright-eyed, innocent—and well-played. And the track’s mellow denouement is a nice touch, a reflective moment that lets you down nice and easy, a fine example of Minikon’s attention to those little details that provide the otherwise light and fluffy music with a surprisingly engaging amount of emotional heft.

You’d think that by now, we’d have grown tired of Sigur Rós’ “schtick”. That we’d have grown tired of Jónsi Birgisson’s wailing, weeping falsetto, be it wailing in the band’s imaginary Hopelandic or weeping in Icelandic; tired of the tidal swells of bowed guitar and strings that permeate nearly every track the band puts to tape; tired of the orchestral climaxes that the band bursts out into, nova-like; and tired of the uncanny mixture of pretense and naiveté that the band pulls off so effortlessly.

Be that as it may, the band’s effect still held sway over me as I listened to Hvarf/Heim. I had braced myself, armored myself with a wee bit of cynicism. After all, I’ve heard it all before. And yet, as it turns out, that doesn’t matter. I still found myself with a bit of a catch in my throat, with the hint of a tear in my eye at almost the very moment that Birgisson’s arching falsetto emerged from the band’s ethereal soundscapes. Hvarf/Heim is more of the same from Icelandic’s beloved sons—and that’s not a bad thing.

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