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Richard Skelton, “Four Workings” (Aeolian, 2021)

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This latest album from Skelton seems intended to be a major new statement, though not quite a formal follow-up to last year’s These Charms May be Sung Over a Wound, as double LPs are a real rarity in the prolific composer’s discography. If it was not intended as such, it certainly has the ambitious conceptual framework and focused power of his strongest work. For these four pieces, Skelton used a self-devised divination deck of Proto-Indo-European word roots for inspiration, making the album the fruit of an occult-tinged and antiquarian word game. Skelton also maintained the same restricted palette and duration for each piece, yet the tone varies significantly between them, as he treated each composition as a meditation upon a single, unvoiced question. 

To some degree, Four Workings is an especially ambient-minded release, as the hypnotically repeating melodic fragments are reminiscent of Celer’s most loop-driven fare. The similarities mostly end there, however, as the billowing ambiance is often a smokescreen for a more sharp-edged and sophisticated undercurrent that slowly emerges from the murky depths. This is an unusually strong suite of compositions for Skelton’s current phase, and the first piece in particular is probably among his finest moments to date.

The opening “[ ken- ] commencement” initially takes shape as a slow, sad melody of distorted string swells that languorously unfolds. Notably, however, the notes start to accumulate a shimmering wake with a sharp metallic edge. That element ultimately steals the show, as it merges with some deep drones around the piece’s halfway point to blossom into a quavering crescendo of complex, bittersweet harmonies. It calls to mind a spectral orchestra playing an achingly beautiful slow-motion symphony of notes that lazily streak, quiver, and break apart. It is a damn-near perfect piece, as the central melody, dreamily fluttering core, and frayed textures all combine to leave a deep and haunting impression. 

The following “[ aus- ] radiance” is a bit more billowing and soft-focused, evoking the flickering play of sunlight across a bank of dark, slow-moving clouds. The third piece (“[ aus- ] radiance”) initially has the same aesthetic, but unexpectedly blooms into yet another album highlight. At times, it evokes a time-stretched recording of an organist soundtracking a silent horror film, but with a twist: the lovelorn organist unconsciously transforms everything into a wistful reverie. Gradually, it turns into an angelic yet steadily darkening haze that cocoons the oblivious organ melody. 

The closer (“[ ghƒì- ] releasement”) takes more time than usual to get going. What begins as a glacially see-sawing pulse weaves through a fog of quietly roiling noise to become a hazily remembered/half-imagined ’70s synthy space ambient album a la Tangerine Dream. While I wish that final piece was more of a dynamic culmination than a vaguely meditative comedown, the previous pieces admittedly set the bar unfairly high. If something like Four Workings is what results whenever Skelton makes up his own archeologically themed divination deck, I would see little incentive to abandon that strategy.

Samples can be found here.

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Richard Skelton, “Border Ballads” (Corbel Stone Press/Aeolian Editions, 2019)

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Each new Richard Skelton release is a bit of a surprise these days, as his aesthetic is in a permanent state of flux shaped by where he is living and what he is thinking about at any given time. For the most part, his more divergent and experimental forays tend to surface as digital-only releases, but this physical release explores the least expected direction of all: a return to the more melodic, song-based aesthetic of his classic Type LPs from a decade ago. 

Obviously, Skelton is quite a different artist now than he was back then, so Border Ballads not a return so much as it is a very different vision (“telluric, grounded, earthen”) rooted in a semi-familiar structure. Given that Landings and Marking Time were the Skelton albums that I first fell in love with, it is very hard to maintain any semblance of objectivity with this long-delayed sequel (of sorts). It feels like Border Ballads recaptures the transcendent magic of its predecessors only fitfully though, as its deep melancholy feels more like a somber, earthbound elegy than an ecstatic catharsis.

The circumstances and inspirations behind Border Ballads are atypically simple and straightforward, as Skelton was primarily driven by the “hinterland topography” of a rural stretch of the England-Scotland border. He makes a particular point of mentioning the various watercourses delineating the region, which I found curious, as there is little about these pieces that suggests a spiritual kinship with liquid in any way. Rather, these twelves miniatures evoke the sense of the sun slowly rising over a stark and wintry landscape. There is a pervasive sense of isolation and sadness saturating this entire album that I cannot imagine originating during any other season, yet Skelton apparently worked on this album for two years. Perhaps this is a project that he returned to only during his darker moments though. 

In any case, the simplicity of the album’s inspiration is carried through in the modestness and simplicity of the pieces themselves, as Border Ballads approaches something like neo-classical chamber music. For most other artists, such a structure would not be a conspicuously modest avenue, but recent Richard Skelton fare has more closely resembled shifting tectonic plates or collapsing stars than it has a man playing a haunted viola melody over some minor key piano. Despite that newly human scale, however, Skelton remains more at home with geological time scales that human ones: the melodies of Border Ballads more closely resemble the slow-motion swells of drone music than they do any conventional string ensemble.

While it is admittedly quite a pleasant change of pace to see Skelton returning to melody and songcraft, his melodies were never the primary appeal of his work: the brilliance of those earlier albums lay in their visceral and dazzling execution. I had never heard anyone play a bowed instrument quite like Skelton, as his strings churned, heaved, shivered, and threw off sprays of harmonic sparks as if they were alive. 

Happily, some shades of that supernatural conjuring return here in pieces like “Altar Valley” and “Spur.” That former is especially wonderful, as any obvious traces of structure dissolve as the central theme lazily twists, undulates, and swells. Moreover, both pieces highlight Skelton’s singular talent for beautifully carving through ambient languor with sharp tones or vivid clarity at the right moments. I had missed that bite and crackling electricity, so it is a true delight to find it resurfacing on a handful of Border Ballads‘ highlights.

For the most part, however, Border Ballads feels like a deliberately composed album with melodic structures and chord progressions that do not feel supernaturally alive. There are certainly many fine moments to be found, but that approach does not exactly play to Skelton’s strengths.For example, the somber piano arpeggios of pieces like “Kist and Ark” and “Roan” feel like a bit of a regression to me. I suspect part of that is my own issue, as I have a potentially irrational hostility towards pianos. 

Nevertheless, some instruments are very well-suited for weaving illusions and some are not. For me, pianos fall into the latter category, as I have yet to hear a piano work so brilliant that it makes me forget that I am hearing someone playing a piano (though Arvo Pärt’s “Spiegel in Spiegel” may be an exception). With Richard Skelton albums, I do not want to hear chords and scales—I want to fall under a spell. The prominent presence of minor key piano patterns is like hearing someone who long ago figured out how to forge his own path go back to making music with the same rules and conventions as everyone else.

Thankfully, that statement is likely true only fleetingly, as Skelton is an artist who always seems to have a number of irons in the fire these days. For all I know, there could be another monster Inward Circles album on the horizon that will knock me flat. With Border Ballads, Skelton just felt like composing a suite of moody, comparatively straightforward violin and cello pieces. Some of them are quite good and they amount to a uniformly strong and thematically coherent whole, but this album does not scratch the itch I hoped it would. Alas. 

On the bright side, Skelton remains an eternal wellspring of gravitas and quiet intensity. Also, his craftsmanship and attention to nuance are focused as ever, as the strings in a pieces like “Fair Shining” moan, shudder, and leave spectral trails in all the right ways. In fact, Skelton is in fine form in virtually every respect, which makes it perplexing that Border Ballads feels like a comparatively minor album. It just has the curious feel of being a (good) soundtrack rather than a stand-alone work. And, in an abstract way, that might be exactly what it is: not a soundtrack to a film or piece of art, but a soundtrack for the landscapes of Skelton’s rural borderlands.

Samples can be found here.

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Richard Skelton, “Front Variations (One & Two)” (Aeolian, 2019)

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It occurred to me the other day that Richard Skelton’s artistic trajectory almost resembles the stuff of myth and folklore, as he was once akin to an enchanted bard who made achingly gorgeous and sensuously churning music full of life, heartache, passion, and darkly flickering light. Gradually, however, he became so disillusioned with mankind that he started playing for the moors, the hills, the earth, and the buried remnants of the distant past instead. Or, in his more ambitious moments, for the cosmos themselves. With the comparatively modest and exploratory Front Variations, however, Skelton is not straining for the stars nor focusing his elemental power to world-shaking intensity, but instead uses the disappearing ice sheets of Iceland as an unconventional muse for a pair of slow-motion feedback experiments.

Appropriately, the two “Front Variations” were both birthed in Iceland, as Skelton lived in Sey√∞isfj√∂r√∞ur during a residency back in 2016. The theme of the residency was “Frontiers in Retreat,” which seems to be one that Skelton took quite literally and adhered to faithfully. Front Variations is specifically inspired by the ice-albedo feedback mechanism, which is kind of a natural death-spiral of sorts: ice sheets reflect solar radiation, so as their surface area decreases, the earth absorbs more solar radiation (less is being reflected). Absorbing more solar radiation naturally means higher temperatures, which means more melting ice…which means even less reflection of solar radiation…and then even higher temperatures, less ice, etc. 

With these two longform pieces, Skelton gamely tries to replicate this phenomenon through a simple palette of sine waves subjected to escalating erosion from feedback, distortion, and ring modulation. The resulting sound art is roughly akin to dark ambient, as the decaying waves manifest themselves primarily as a murky, subterranean-sounding hum further clouded by shifting and dissonant overtones and ugly harmonies. Unlike drone or dark ambient music, however, there is an organic unpredictability that pervades the brooding thrum, as the changing harmonies create oscillations and throbs that continually blossom and dissolve. Also, the textures and the frequencies are similarly fluid, as the deep, seismic hum periodically breaks into an eerie whines, hollow ringing, or scorched and corroded-sounding ruin.

Given their identical foundation, the two versions of Front Variations share quite a lot of aesthetic territory, but there are some significant differences in their overall feel. The first variation feels like an ominous hum slowly rising from a wind-blasted and inhospitable arctic wasteland. At times, it coheres into a hollow pulse, yet any sense of structure or appealing melodic convergence seems to be entirely chance-based and ephemeral.The most striking moments tend to be those in which Skelton’s mutated sine wave unexpected transforms into a deep, slow-motion howl that feels like it is emanating from the bowels of the earth. 

There are also some nice textural touches that surface as well, as the blurred thrum sometimes approximates an eerily bell-like timbre or swells into ragged, blown-out signal overload. The superior second variation takes things a bit further: rather than sounding like some ageless horror has started to awaken deep beneath the ice, it now feels like the ice itself has started to menacingly shake and warp. Again, however, the unpredictable interplay of the feedback and the sine wave dictate the arc, so there is no focused and linear escalation towards a full-on ice-quake. Rather, the deep and hollow thrum endlessly twists, plunges, waxes, wanes, roars, and subsides on its own glacial timescale. The howling crescendos just happen to be a bit more shuddering and visceral this time around.

While the sine wave’s transformations are certainly quite intriguing and heavy at times, the comparative absence of Skelton’s compositional hand unavoidably makes Front Variations in somewhat minor release in his discography. It is more of a process-centric experiment than a truly satisfying aesthetic work, which I suppose was its intention: set up a system that mirrors the decay of a massive ice shelf and see what happens. The results of that experiment were certainly worth releasing, but I suspect they will be primarily of interest to serious fans of sound art who have a deep appreciation for the subtleties of colliding frequencies and their resultant oscillations. As for everyone else, Front Variations is memorable largely for (unintentionally) being the closest evocation of the Dyatlov Pass Incident infrasound theory that I have heard to date: this is the sound of an inhospitable frozen void that has unnervingly come to life with creeping subterranean menace.

Samples can be found here.
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Richard Skelton, “Towards a Frontier” (Corbel Stone Press, 2018)

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Billed as Skelton’s most ambitious composition to date, Towards a Frontier is a 66-minute epic that is part of larger multimedia project assembled during three trips to rural East Iceland. Characteristically, this is an album very much shaped by the natural environment that Skelton was immersed in as this piece was gradually conjured into being. More specifically, Towards a Frontier draws its primary inspiration from the changing seasons as experienced from an Icelandic mountain range. While less instantly gratifying than some of Skelton’s other recent works, this album has a masterfully paced slow-burning majesty and mesmerizing elemental power that gradually reveals itself with repeated, attentive listens. Notably, nature does not seem particularly benign here, but Skelton keeps the mood intriguingly ambiguous as the piece unfolds, hinting at the primal, cosmic horror of our insignificance while simultaneously evoking something akin to religious ecstasy.

The epic scope of Towards a Frontier unexpectedly took me some time to get fully acclimated to, as it seems to unfold at a glacial pace more akin to a geological time scale rather a human one. For example, it takes roughly two minutes before the slowly swelling and blurry drones finally cohere into form (in this case, the languorously see-sawing pulse of an endlessly repeating two-chord progression). If listened to casually, it initially feels like Skelton is on autopilot and is simply treading water with his melancholy string swells. If I pay closer attention, however, it become immediately apparent that there is considerably more happening, as the two chords gradually start to bleed into one another and the underlying thrum steadily darkens and grows more menacing.  

In fact, much of the brilliance of this piece lies in how imperceptibly Skelton changes the mood and amasses increasingly complex and dissonantly oscillating harmonies: the snowballing power builds so subtly that it is impossible to pinpoint the moment where Frontier stops feeling like business as usual and starts feeling transcendently heavy and mesmerizing. What was initially a distinct and constant pulse sneakily becomes something quite different altogether: a distended and slowly churning simmer. Even the crests of the initial chord progression begin to submerge at a certain point, leaving a tense and murky river of mingled drones that gradually births a bleakly elegiac melody of sorts.

That feat of production prestidigitation alone would be enough to make Frontier a compelling and distinctive addition to Skelton’s sprawling discography, but the piece unexpectedly breaks open into a whole new vista around the halfway point, as Skelton’s shivering melodic swells begin to overlap and intertwine to cast a spell of quivering, epic melancholy. Soon afterwards, an even more dramatic transformation occurs and the contrast between the various textures intensifies: the droning backdrop takes on a harsh, almost icy tone while the strings become deeply groaning and immediate, like they stopped being a bleak abstraction and suddenly became an actual human somberly bowing a double-bass just a few feet away from me. 

That is the point where Towards a Frontier makes the leap into something truly magical, as the cold washes of sound begin to swirl together with moaning bass swells and a warm haze of flute-like tones. Once reaching such a lushly immersive heaven of rich textures, complex harmonies, and heavy pulses, Skelton wisely decided to stick around: this section is Frontier‘s big centerpiece and would be a wonderful place to linger indefinitely. Eventually, however, the piece moves on, revealing that Skelton improbably had yet one more trick remaining up his sleeve. I suspect this begins the “spring” portion of the seasonal voyage, as the piece takes on a somewhat brighter tone, albeit one disrupted by some surprisingly harsh and howling crescendos.

Curiously, there is also a pointillist motif of brass (or woodwind) whimpers and pulses, which takes the piece’s final act into quite an unexpected place indeed. In fact, it sounds a lot like one of Philip Glass’s Errol Morris soundtracks (Fog of War?), albeit slowed waaaaay down and torn apart with viscerally grinding snarls (nature, unlike Philip Glass, is not mannered and meticulously ordered). It is different enough to not feel at all derivative, yet similar enough to feel like Skelton has repurposed the modern classical aesthetic into something more primal, physical, and raw. 

That crescendo is probably the most radical and striking passage in Towards a Frontier, as well as a fascinating convergence of some of Skeltons many guises. In fact, the entire piece feels like a seamless and unhurried trip through much of his recent evolution, touching on deep drones, vibrant bowed acoustic strings, heaving displays of immense elemental power, and soundtrack-like gradual shifts in mood and atmosphere.

If Towards a Frontier has a weakness, it is only that the first third seems deceptively uneventful as Skelton slowly and quietly sets the stage for the piece to blossom into epic and achingly beautiful full bloom. As a result, this album asks a bit more patience and sustained attention from listeners than much of Skelton’s other work, but the long, slow build makes the sustained pay-off feel both well-earned and hugely satisfying—this album could have taken no other shape. 

To my ears, Towards the Frontier is easily one of the more essential releases in Skelton’s oft-stellar canon, as it is both a unique entry compositionally and a wonderfully substantial, powerful, and absorbing tour de force. This feels like the sort of album that an ascetic hermit would obsessively compose (or, more likely, channel) over a frantic, sleepless week after witnessing the face of God in the clouds (presumably dying from exhaustion/rapturous joy seconds after recording the final note).

Listen here.

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*AR, “Earth By Means of the Currents” (Corbel Stone Press/Aeolian Editions, 2016)

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Richard Skelton was atypically quiet in 2016, as he and Autumn Richardson seemed to be focusing primarily upon their publishing ventures, poetry, visual art, and Skelton’s esoteric and multifarious research projects. Fortunately, however, the duo managed to release this EP in December to accompany a series of collages they completed during a month-long residency in the Orkneys. While it only clocks in at a lean 20 minutes, Earth by Means of the Currents is one of the more focused and powerful releases in the duo’s collaborative oeuvre, featuring both a solid foray into their warmly beautiful drone comfort zone and a buzzing, gnarled plunge into its negative image.

In classic Skelton fashion, the residency where this album was birthed was both hyper-specific and geological in nature, as this work is part of a commission for ØY, a “festival of island magnetism.” Since this EP is not a radical divergence from typical *AR fare, it is unclear how much that commission directly shaped the couple’s musical decisions, though there are apparently field recordings from Papa Westray used throughout the album. I suspect most of them are well-concealed and subtle textural touches, however, as I could only pick out the sound of waves washing up on a shore in the opening “The Primary Menstruum or Mother-Liquid.” Much more evident is the commission’s impact on the song titles, as “primary menstruum” was Evan Hopkins’ description of the ocean in his 1844 book On the Connexion of Geology with Terrestrial Magnetism. That book was the subject of Skelton and Richardson’s collage series.

To the duo’s credit, “Primary Menstruum” certainly sounds appropriately oceanic, albeit far more like a calm and sun-dappled bay than a raging sea. It is quite a simple and organically flowing piece structurally, built from warm and slow moving swells of strings embellished with a Siren-esque nimbus of Autumn’s hazy, wordless, and cooing vocals. While it is a strong motif on its own, a lot of secondary appeal lies in the piece’s nuances (such as sneakily massing harmonic overtones) and subtle dynamic shifts (the gently churning and throbbing undercurrent). The undulating harmonic cloud that it leaves in its wake as it fades away is especially beautiful. 

Beauty was presumably not the intention for the following “The Winding of a Galvanic Wire” though, which seems to be inspired by Hopkins’ theories about the world being turned by a powerful current. Naturally, the piece feels suitably like a deep and terrestrial electrical hum, as its core motif is a densely buzzing and oscillating bed of shifting drones from a tone generator. There are a few ominous and cavernous sounds in the periphery and some twinkling, buried, and fried-sounding strings to give the piece a bit of an epic and massive feel, but the meat is primarily just the mass of thick, buzzing drones. It is an enjoyable and effective piece as a counterbalance to “Primary Menstruum,” but it would not stand with the pair’s finest work on its own, as Skelton has previously channeled crushing elemental force far more viscerally on The Inward Circles’ Nimrod is Lost in Orion and Osyris in the Doggestarre album.

Given that Earth by Means of the Currents was created to coincide with a series of visual works, it is probably not entirely fair to judge it as a stand-alone work. However, that is presumably how most people are going to experience it, aside from those who snapped up the limited edition booklet. Happily, it holds up quite well to that unintended scrutiny: it is certainly a rather modest release, but quite a strong one too. Both pieces flow nicely and feel like they have been painstakingly chiseled down to their clutter-free essence. 

While “Galvanic Wire” is a bit of a departure, the stronger and more characteristic “Primary Menstruum” is the EP’s true centerpiece. As such, Earth by Means of the Currents unavoidably feels a bit like *AR treading water creatively and perfecting familiar themes between more substantial endeavors, but they certainly manage to do that beautifully: Skelton and Richardson’s instincts, craftsmanship, and attention to detail remain in peak form.

Listen here.

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The Inward Circles, “I have heard a music and it is delirious” (Aeolian/Corbel Stone Press, 2015)

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At this point, it is quite clear that The Inward Circles project is the home for Richard Skelton’s darker impulses, dealing primarily in brooding ambiance, churning violence, and grinding horror. The big difference between Skelton and similar artists, however, lies in his scope and intensity. This latest EP, a soundtrack to Skelton’s short film Beyond the Fell Wall, does not disappoint in those regards, as Skelton essentially creates an melancholy and spectral world, then ferociously rips it apart. 

Unfortunately, it does not quite scale the heights of either The Inward Circles’ debut or Skelton’s amazing previous soundtrack (Memorious Earth), being a bit too short, bombastic, and single-minded to offer much more than a satisfyingly heavy catharsis. It is still a solid and worthy release, but it is not quite “Richard Skelton” good.

The film Beyond the Fell Wall is haunting series of black and white images of desolate landscapes, stones, and trees accompanying a portentous naturalist fable that describes how rivers built the world and how the power of the rivers and their successors was eventually usurped by men (who are now, of course, dismantling the world). 

In that context, I suppose I have heard a music works fairly well, providing the voice of Don McCorkindale with an eerie backdrop of deep, menacing drones and ghostly, melancholy snatches of melody. Essentially, the film is an elegy and a tour of desolation and ruin, despite its reminiscences of singing rivers and happy birds, so the unrelentingly dark tone is appropriate (if laid on a bit too thick). Taken by itself, however, I have heard a music is a bit too heavy-handed, back-loaded, and monochromatic to stand with Skelton’s better work.

The main problem is just that there is not any real beauty to be found, as it is essentially built upon little more than a hollow and ominous loop that gradually snowballs from “dark ambient” territory into a fearsome apocalypse. To borrow the grammar of film criticism, the stakes are simply not high at all here, so the gathering storm does not elicit any emotion from me nor does it feel all that threatening. Skelton just quickly transitions from melancholy brooding to an eruption of demonic fury. 

While I certainly appreciated the eruption, I did not miss the brooding at all. The least bit of beauty, tenderness, or fragility could have made that climax considerably more meaningful. Thankfully, there is a consolation prize: it is still quite a spectacular show of nightmarish force, as well as an impressive bit of sound design. When I have heard a music breaks open, it sounds like hell itself has opened up to consume the world with infernal entropy. The 8-minute mark is especially horrific, evoking nothing less than the creeping approach of giant, grinding rusty blades.

To its credit, the few issues that I have with I have heard a music are somewhat unusual and relative ones. For one, it feels weirdly condensed and rushed at only 19 minutes. I like what it ultimately becomes, but it feels like it gets there too quickly to amass the necessary tension. Also, it feels curiously undecided about whether it wants to be a soundtrack or not. The first third is very minimal and all atmosphere, serving as a very effective backdrop for a film, but not quite compelling enough to be satisfying on its own. The rest of the piece, however, would easily overpower any film (and consequently is mostly omitted from said film). It feels like Skelton reworked the musical component of a more ambitious multimedia statement (there is also a “Beyond the Fell Wall” book) in hopes of creating something that could stand on its own and only succeeded partially. 

I have heard a music is also the victim of its timing: had it come out five years ago, I probably would have loved it. Instead, however, it is released in the wake of several career-defining triumphs, so my expectations have been considerably jacked-up by this point and I am quite a bit harder to impress. Skelton fans will still undoubtedly enjoy this EP, as it showcases his rarely surfacing “grinding cosmic horror” side and offers some rewarding headphone listening, but it is ultimately a fairly minor release within his discography.

Listen here.