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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, “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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The Inward Circles, “Scaleby” (Corbel Stone Press, 2017)

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This digital-only sister release to And Right Lines Limit and Close All Bodies is a suite of comparatively simple, warm, and straightforward drone pieces, which presumably explains why its companion warranted a physical release while Scaleby did not. That lack of fanfare makes sense, as Right Lines Limit is a far more complex and ambitious work that expands the limits of Skelton’s vision while this release is merely nine variations on a theme firmly within his comfort zone. 

I happen to be quite fond of that comfort zone though, as these bleary, churning reveries play much more to Skelton’s strengths than some of his more cosmic, universe-chewing excursions of late. While the recurring Inward Circles’ theme of obfuscation is still in full effect (there are no recognizable stringed instruments to be found), Scaleby nonetheless carves out its own lovely niche of languorously vaporous, dreamlike beauty beneath a patina of shifting crackle, grit, and hiss.

Scaleby takes its title and inspiration from one of Skelton’s favorite subjects: a body found in a bog. This particular one was clad in deer skin and was found in the small parish of Scaleby in Skelton’s beloved Cumbria. I am uncertain how great a role our stylish bog-friend may have directly played in the shaping of the actual music here, but Scaleby gamely continues The Inward Circles’ fascination with the themes of burial, decay, and transformation. In more practical terms, the consistent thread that runs throughout the album is that of gently undulating and blurred synth-like drones, though those drones undergo varying degrees of decay and disruption. 

Presumably, those tones were originally produced using bowed strings or something similarly organic, but they have since been smeared and smoothed into soft-focus unrecognizability. On early pieces, such as the brief “Scaleby, I,” Skelton leaves their placid languor relatively unmolested, which results in an aesthetic not unlike a gently rippling pool of murky, viscous liquid. Later, that changes quite a bit, imbuing Scaleby with a mysterious and deepening arc. 

Obviously, parallels to an actual bog are unavoidable here, as Scaleby feels like a slow descent from the surface to the depths, unlocking some dark and long-buried secrets along the way. To his credit, Skelton employs a light touch in that endeavor, avoiding bombast or gloom and instead allowing the darkness to gradually creep in as increasingly corrosive textures obscure and fray the central motif.

Given that arc, it takes a few songs before Scaleby begins to develop into something more substantial. That transition starts to become evident with “Scaleby, III,” as Skelton’s calm, slow-moving drones are veiled behind a sizzling and blown-out-sounding harmonic cloud. The equally brief following piece performs a similar bit of alchemy, gnawing at the edges of the hazy idyll with a shifting snarl of crackle and hiss. That said, it is not until the album’s halfway point (“Scaleby, V”) that Skelton truly begins to stretch out and shape his main theme into something deeper and heavier, as the calmly submerged thrum disappears completely to make room for an oscillating and metallic swirl of uneasily harmonizing overtones. 

That largely sets the tone for the remainder of the album, as the four successive pieces are similarly gnarled and shadowy variations, ranging from murky throbbing (“Scaleby, VI”) to heavenly chords swathed in pulsing static (“Scaleby, VII”) to a dense and shimmering fog propelled by a heavy rhythmic undercurrent of rumble and hiss (“Scaleby, VIII”). Curiously, that descent into darker and darker waters arguably comes to an end with the closing centerpiece, “Scaleby, IX.” 

Rather than being more extreme than what came before, it instead feels like Scaleby‘s recurring central motif is finally given a chance to stretch out and blossom into an immersive, fully formed soundworld (rather than just providing a fleeting glimpse of one). While Skelton admittedly does not have any grand statement hidden up his sleeve for the finale, Scaleby‘s final act is nevertheless a satisfying coda of blearily melancholy arpeggios and gently swaying ambience viscerally ravaged by harshly grinding metallic textures.

Naturally, Scaleby has some arguable shortcomings, but they are largely a matter of perspective and somewhat inherent in what Skelton is trying to do here. For example, a lot of these songs are quite brief and blur together due to their thematic similarity and constrained palette. If Scaleby were billed as a major artistic statement, I suppose that would be problematic for me, but it is perfectly fine for a modest, digital-only extended fantasia on a single theme. In fact, I quite like it. 

While Scaleby may be a comparatively minor release for Skelton, it is nevertheless a well-executed and appealingly unusual drone album, as well as a very listenable, complete, and compact vision. Anyone hoping for another dose of The Inward Circles’ recent crushing epics of element force can probably give this one a pass, but most fans will likely find Scaleby to be an absorbing, simple, and pure oasis from Skelton’s more challenging and expansive fare.

Listen here.

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The Inward Circles, “And Right Lines Limit And Close All Bodies” (Corbel Stone Press, 2017)

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As a longtime Richard Skelton fan, I have been watching his recent trajectory with quite a bit of fascination, as he has been restlessly diving into increasingly varied and arcane territory while distancing himself further and further from his brilliant earlier work with each new release. While there are still some lingering vestiges of that vibrantly harmonic-strewn string work in his *AR project with Autumn Richardson, Skelton’s solo work as The Inward Circles is explicitly (and increasingly) intent on exploring an aesthetic of “burial, obfuscation and mythologization.” 

In fact, The Inward Circles often seems like a rather perverse name, as Skelton has seemingly ceased burrowing inwards and thrown himself into the epic, timeless, and vast. At times, that newly cosmic scope falls uncomfortably close to dark ambient (a genre that I am generally quite happy to avoid), but it can sometimes yield absolutely crushing and awe-inspiring results as well (Nimrod is Lost). This latest opus does not quite sustain the lofty heights of some previous Inward Circles classics, but it compensates with a slow-burning majesty that builds to a sustained and wonderful crescendo.

Unusually, this particular album does not seem focused upon a particular theme, though its digital-only sister release Scaleby centers around the discovery of a deerskin-clad “Ancient Briton” in the peat moorland of Northern England (a truly Skelton-esque inspiration indeed). For Right Lines, however, there is just a cryptic scattering of Nathaniel Tarn and Sir Thomas Browne lines that may very well be clues to nowhere. There is an unintentional theme to the album, however: it sounds better and better the louder I play it. 

The reasoning for that is quite simple, as its charms are generally not melodic ones. Rather, Right Lines seems to traffic in something approximating vast cosmic horror and existential dread, as early pieces like “The Soul Subsisting” are all about ominous, cavernous swells and gloomy, menacing harmonies—at least at first glance. At more extreme volumes, the textural richness begins to come out, as does the sharpness of some of the individual notes. 

Experienced in that engulfing and visceral way, the album’s seemingly weaker moments become kind of a crunching, grinding, and nerve-jangling nightmare. I have no idea if that was Skelton’s intention, but the immensity of his scale is scary regardless, as no one likes being confronted with their insignificance in the face of infinity or geological time. It may not necessarily be the sort of fare that I look to Richard Skelton for, but it diverges enough from artists like Lustmord to be relatively compelling.

Things start to get more inventive and lively with the album’s third piece, however, as “In An Hydropicall Body” is a shifting and oscillating cloud of feedback swells that would make Kevin Drumm proud. It even sounds like there is a processed high-hat or maraca in there at one point, conjuring up the surprising illusion that I am hearing an actual band of amplifier worshippers. Again, that is not traditionally Skelton-esque fare at all, but it is an intriguing experiment and it leads nicely into the trilogy of excellent pieces that comprises the real meat of the album.

The first is a brief exile from the Scaleby variations, “Scaleby, X,” a simple and perfect blur of woozily looping and quavering drones. The following “Nitre of the Earth” initially seems to reprise the brooding ambient gloom of the album’s earlier pieces, but it eventually blossoms into something more complex and gripping when a sharp and pulsing harmonic motif tears through the haze to give the piece some genuine bite and a wonderfully ugly cloud of dissonant harmonies. 

“Necks Was A Proper Figure” rounds out that hot streak with an aesthetic somewhere between “Scaleby” and “Nitre,” unveiling a muted and forlorn melodic loop that is disrupted by eerie swells and something that resembles a shuddering and garbled deep space transmission. As it progresses and obsessively repeats, it gradually snowballs in gnarled ferocity until it becomes quite a dense and vibrant howl of harsh textures and uncomfortable harmonies. 

Skelton could have safely stopped the album right there, but he opts to include one more substantial piece in the harrowing sustained roar “If The Nearness of Our Last,” which sounds like an dissonant mass of harmonically clashing choral samples over a layer of phase-shifting grinding. It is certainly heavy, but a bit limited.

The album draws to an unexpectedly quiet close with the muted “Scaleby, XI,” which feels a lot like a submerged version of its predecessor. It is a solid (if unexceptional) end to a solid (and occasionally great) album. Trying to maintain some semblance of objectivity when I am passionate about an artist is always hard, as I am unavoidably in the thrall of preconceived expectations and want every album to be better than the last. 

Richard Skelton, on the other hand, has completely different priorities than I do: namely, 1.) not repeating himself, and 2.) absorbing an eclectic array of new and often non-musical influences into his artistic vision. On those grounds, Right Lines is a very successful album, albeit one with a few weaknesses (an occasional over-reliance on the power of amorphous cinematic brooding, a few comparatively less inspired pieces, and a weaker thematic focus than usual). 

Those grievances are mostly eclipsed by the awe-inspiring elemental force Skelton unleashes when he hits the mark though. Also, a few pieces, such as “Nitre of the Earth” and “Necks Was A Proper Figure” easily stand with some of Skelton’s finest work. As “Scaleby, X” and “In A Hydrologicall Body” are not far behind, it feels apt to view Right Lines as a stellar EP that has been padded out with a few experiments that do not quite fully connect…or perhaps an extremely promising transitional album. Either way, there is a lot to love here, even if it does not quite add up to a fresh masterpiece.

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.
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*AR, “Memorious Earth” (Corbel Stone Press/Aeolian, 2015)

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Now thankfully available digitally (lavish packaging means lavish overseas postage rates), Memorious Earth is the film soundtrack from Richard Skelton and Autumn Richardson’s ambitious recent retrospective that involved a gallery show, a book of writings and photography, and (of course) a film. While I have not seen the film (it was only included in the extremely limited “archive box”), the album works just fine without its intended visual component, doubling down on the long-form aesthetic of predecessor Diagrams for the Summoning of Wolves for a single 44-minute epic with considerably more success. In fact, this is exactly the Richard Skelton album that the world needed: there are already plenty of wonderful distillations of his prickly, undulating brilliance around, but now there is a mesmerizing and slow-burning expansion as well.

For better or worse, one of the notable (and inherent) side-effects of Autumn and Richard’s earthy aesthetic is that they increasingly seem to operate on a time-scale that is considerably more geologic than human. In the short-term sense, that means that Memorious Earth‘s “Now This Terrestrial Sea” takes its time to get rolling, unfolding as a subdued and gently pulsing rumble for almost eight minutes before it begins to truly blossom. In a long-term sense, however, such an approach offers a deliciously simmering build-up of tension for those with enough patience to appreciate it. 

In fact, “Terrestrial Sea” feels a lot like the musical equivalent of time-lapse photography, as there is not much transformation at all from instant to instant, but the cumulative effect is ultimately quite powerful. It also feels a lot like extreme slow-motion footage of a catastrophic act of God like a volcano, earthquake, or tidal wave: an unstoppable creeping force that slowly consumes everything in its path as it swells in power and violence. A similarly apt metaphor would be a solar eclipse: a dark ominous mass gradually snuffing out all the light from the sky.

As hyperbolic as all that sounds, “Terrestrial Sea” more than backs up any comparisons to overwhelming elemental forces, as it is a masterpiece of engulfing, slow-building, and crushing density that demands to be played at window-rattling volume. In fact, that is the only real way to fully appreciate Memorious Earth‘s immense majesty, as what it offers is minimalism at its most apocalyptic and little else. 

There is no real harmonic, melodic, or rhythmic development to be found and there does not need to be—such frivolous fripperies would only be distracting and out of place here. Memorious Earth is nothing but vibrant texture and earth-shaking primal force executed perfectly: there is a pulse and a rumble and they just relentlessly grow in volume and fury for the better part of an hour. 

Well, at least in spirit—there are some timely oases of comparative calm throughout the album, but they only serve to set the stage for future resurgences. Without those periodic breaks in tension, Memorious Earth‘s power would gradually become numbing. With them, however, it continues to make a fresh impact again and again with each new plateau of heaviness.

Aside from being a start-to-finish stellar album, Memorious Earth is also curiously significant for lacking many of the overt traits that previously distinguished the duo’s work. For example, Autumn Richardson’s vocals are nowhere to be found at all. Also, Richard’s characteristic spray of sharp harmonics is absent (or buried) as well, as is any audible scraping or creaking from his various bowed instruments. 

Normally, such a suppression of an artist’s defining characteristics would be recipe for disaster (or at least disappointment), but such a vanishing act seems weirdly appropriate and inspired in this context—it is only natural that such a massive and roiling juggernaut would subsume its creators. The trick, however, is that only *AR’s superficial traits have been erased: their deep understanding of timing, texture, and dynamics has never been more masterfully focused. This is a stone-cold tour de force.

Listen here.

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The Inward Circles, “Belated Movements for an Unsanctioned Exhumation August 1st 1984” (Corbel Stone Press, 2015)

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I can always count on Richard Skelton to find the strangest and most unexpected inspirations for his albums and he does not disappoint me with his latest: Belated Movements is largely based upon the “Lindow Man,” a well-preserved body found in a peat bog in the ’80s. As far as ancient bog bodies go, Lindow Man surely ranks among the most hapless, having met a violent (possibly ritualistic) death by being strangled AND having his throat cut, then getting freeze-died and displayed in a museum two thousand years later. Given that base material, it is hardly surprising that Movements is a much more sadness-steeped affair than any of Skelton’s other recent work, resembling nothing less than an atypically industrial-damaged and time-stretched requiem.

I have to admit that I was a bit caught off-guard by this album for a number of reasons. The primary one is that it plunges wholeheartedly back into the free-floating melancholy that characterized much of Richard’s earlier work. His more recent work has not exactly been cheery, but his career trajectory has thus far largely been away from gloom and towards something more timeless, vibrant, and organic (albeit with some exceptions, of course). Also, Belated Movements does not particularly sound like an evolution or continuation of The Inward Circles’ debut; rather, it feels kind of like an unrelated one-off project. The only real thread linking the two is that they focus on Skelton’s more long-form compositions. In fact, Belated Movements even raises the bar in that regard, dividing its hour-long running time into just three pieces.

The first and longest piece, “Petition for Reinterment,” is the album’s funerary centerpiece. Structurally, it is deceptively simple, as it is based primarily upon an endlessly repeating two-note cello or double-bass drone, though that framework eventually dissolves completely (just like the skeleton of a bog man!). Later, however, it reappears somewhat changed and essentially carries on to form the basis of the second piece (“To Your Fox-Skin Chorus”) as well. 

The stated theme of “Petition” is “decay and renewal” and those transformations are largely where the piece’s beauty lies: not much happens melodically at all, but the glacially ebbing and flowing swells undergo some fascinating dynamic and textural changes over the course of the nearly 30-minute running time. I was actually expecting an escalating rotting and rusting dissonance a la Michael Gordon’s deeply unsettling score for Decasia based upon Skelton’s own description of the album, but instead Richard’s bowed strings get increasing overloaded and blown-out sounding, as well as embellished with some grindingly metallic textures and quavering dissonances. It all gets quite heavy and nightmarish by the time it reaches its crescendo. That said, it is quite a slow-burning and nuanced piece, so it takes some focused attention to fully appreciate its dark majesty. Without headphones or high volume, it loses a lot of its power.

The shorter “To Your Fox-Skin Chorus” is not radically different, but sounds a lot more metallic and industrial: there is a constant looping throb and some of Skelton’s bowed strings have an atypically harsh and more reverberant texture, like they were recorded in an empty parking garage or factory. Those more menacing elements are balanced by something that sounds like recurring classical horn loop that makes the piece feel like a Ravel performance bleeding into a noise show held in a sewer or cavern, which is quite an appealing niche. 

Eventually, “Chorus” segues into the closing “Canis, Lynx, Ursus,” which makes Belated Movements feel like one single epic piece rather than three discrete ones. “Canis” ultimately divulges quite a bit from the rest of the album, however, as its slow-motion bowed strings gradually blossom into a somber, descending piano motif. To my ears, Skelton lays on the sadness a bit too thick for his own good, but he almost overcomes that fundamental problem by embellishing the central melody with a periphery that is a singularly Richard Skelton-esque tour de force: a churning thicket of moaning and howling strings and sharp harmonics that gradually swells to a roaring intensity. Sadly, it never gets quite loud enough to fully drown out the piano, but it is still quite a visceral and beautiful way to end the album.

As far as recent Richard Skelton albums go, this is solid, but it falls a bit short of his truly top-shelf material: there is nothing on Belated Movements that comes close to rivaling pieces like the instantly gratifying, stone-cold brilliance of Nimrod‘s “Two Opposed Leaves” or Succession‘s “Relics.” Also, the oppressive sadness of “Canis, Lynx, Ursus” drags down an otherwise spectacular piece—if not the entire album, given how the three sections blur together. 

That said, Skelton has long been one of my favorite artists, so I basically expect him to exclusively churn out masterpieces forever, which is completely unreasonable. While I do not expect that mindset to change anytime soon, I can certainly accept that it colors my judgment somewhat pessimistically at times. Despite my grumblings, Belated Movements is a perfectly fine album and takes an ambitious stylistic detour, as this is an unusually long-form and melodically minimalist album and I always love to see Skelton trying new things rather than repeating himself. New fans would be better served by starting elsewhere, but longtime fans will definitely find plenty to enjoy here (if “enjoy” is truly the right word for elegiac meditations on the fox as psychopomp or the extinction of the lynx).

Listen here.

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*AR, “Diagrams for the Summoning of Wolves” (Corbel Stone Press, 2015)

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Being a rabid Richard Skelton fan, I was initially heartbroken when this release sold out before I could get my hands on it, but now that I have the digital version I feel quite a bit better. As far as Skelton albums go, this is a comparatively minor one. Also, it sounds weirdly like a solo album: while collaborator Autumn Richardson is present in name, her usual vocals are nowhere to be found. Consisting of just a single 27-minute piece, Diagrams is a likeable, if very slow-burning, drone work built upon a characteristically groaning, melancholy string motif that casts off a (characteristically) glittering spray of harmonics. 

Compared to last year’s The Inward Circles album, Diagrams admittedly feels like a step back into somewhat well-trod territory. However, it is territory that Skelton basically owns and he ratchets up the intensity a bit more than usual this time around, so fans will probably still find plenty to enjoy about this brief dispatch.

As is traditional for Skelton and Richardson, Diagrams for the Summoning of Wolves has some very deep conceptual roots. Like Wolf Notes and Succession before it, Diagrams is inspired by the dwindling wildness of their home turf of southwest Cumbria, but with an interesting twist. Whereas *AR’s previous albums were intended as meditations upon what was lost and what someday might return, Diagrams is almost exactly what its title suggests: a ritual to summon back the departed wolves. 

Sadly, no information is provided as to where this ritual originated or its historical success rate, only that Richard and Autumn somehow transformed the hand gestures, scents, and markings of said ritual into music. When viewed in that light, the music actually makes a lot of sense: “Hand Gestures, Scents, and Markings” feels much more like the gnarled, steadily intensifying soundtrack to an ancient pagan ritual than a mere modern composition (which would presumably get to the point somewhat quickly rather than purposely simmering in relative stasis).

The music itself generally sticks to Skelton’s expected aesthetic of somber, droning bowed strings amidst a prickly thicket of creaks, squeals, and sharp harmonics, but there are some fresh divergences. For one, “Gestures” is certainly longer than any other single piece previously recorded by *AR and its long, slow build is also something of a departure from the duo’s usual fare. 

Also, Skelton and Richardson augment their normal sound with some field recordings this time around, most notably with the distant wolf sounds that periodically drift into the quietly brooding opening minutes. When it finally fully blossoms (after 15 minutes or so), however, “Gestures” exhibits a surprising degree of both density and ferocity—there are quite a lot of heavy, grinding metallic textures bolstering Skelton’s churning strings. For a duo as contemplative as Richard and Autumn, Diagrams unexpectedly feels like an album meant to be played quite loud, as only then does it seem like a beautiful, violent catharsis rather than an atypically stretched drone-piece.

Notably, it took me a lot longer to warm to Diagrams than either of *AR’s previous releases, as it occupies a curious sort of no-man’s land for an album: it is too slow-moving to quite work as a headphone album and too fixated on a single motif to quite work as a “song.” Instead, it just kind of feels like ambient music until it fully catches fire: easy to ignore for quite a long time, then gloriously, unexpectedly, and attention-grabbingly heavy. The pay-off is certainly quite powerful and satisfying when it eventually occurs, but it is not quite rapturous enough to surpass either of the duo’s more concise and instantly gratifying previous albums. As such, Diagrams is an EP that will primarily only appeal to the already converted, though I ultimately enjoyed it quite a bit myself (as one of those converts, of course).

Listen here.

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The Inward Circles, “Nimrod is Lost in Orion and Osyris in the Doggestarre” (Corbel Stone Press, 2014)

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Richard Skelton has a long history of shifting monikers, unusual concepts, and stylistic evolutions, but this latest project still came as a bit of a surprise to me, as it does not particularly sound like a Richard Skelton album at all. Not at first, anyway. Rather, it sounds a bit like a warmer variation on classic Lustmord or one of Steve Roach’s space-themed albums—a far cry from Skelton’s vibrant and organic signature blend of bow-scrapes and rich, shimmering harmonics. 

After a few listens, however, it becomes evident that Skelton’s aesthetic is still perfectly intact, but has been slowed down and stretched to something approximating geologic time (appropriate, given his well-documented non-musical interests). While Nimrod is definitely not representative of what Richard historically does best, it is nevertheless a deep and absorbing listen, boasting at least one piece that is probably as great as anything in the space music canon.

There are many aspects of Skelton’s artistry that I find endearing, but one of the less obvious ones is that it feels like his recent music is only the tip of an intriguingly cryptic and deeply personal iceberg. I also appreciate that he only seems to surface these days when he has something new and unusual to say. Exactly what he is saying, of course, usually remains a pleasant mystery to me, but he certainly cannot be faulted for failing to provide enough supporting information. 

As with many recent Skelton efforts, Nimrod‘s music is closely intertwined with text—in this case, an evocative book of re-purposed literary quotations (Da Vinci, Christina Rossetti, Rilke, etc.), close-up photography of bark patterns, and word-collages rooted in detourned forestry documents. Surprisingly, given the album’s title and the actual music, the writings are mostly a fairly earthbound (albeit eclectic) series of meditations on trees, light, shadow, the sea, and solitude. The album and song titles, on the other hand, are all tied to the writings of English polymath Sir Thomas Browne, so I suspect everything ultimately traces back to him in some way.

Musically, Nimrod generally resembles a Richard Skelton album being played at a much slower speed and deeper pitch. I have no clue how the album was constructed, but there is little that can be readily identified as violin or bowed guitar, though the sounds could have certainly originated from either (and then been laptopped into unrecognizability). 

In a more specific sense, most of Nimrod sounds like warm, layered, slow-moving drone swells made from a cello or double-bass. That is certainly pleasant, but the album’s best pieces merely use that as the starting point for something a bit more unique and mesmerizing. “Ancient Arithmetic of the Hand,” for example, augments its dreamy thrum with a ghostly, quavering haze and a deep, insistent throb, while “Glimpses Of The Empyreal Light” sounds like an older-style Skelton piece beset by ominous, subterranean shudders.

Nimrod‘s two highlights are even more radical in their transformation of Skelton’s aesthetic. “Two Opposed Leaves At The Root” is the album’s masterpiece, weirdly reminding me of Aphex Twin’s wheezing, lurching NIN remix (in name, at least) “At The Heart Of It All,” which is not at all something I would normally expect to be referencing in regards to a Richard Skelton album. 

Remarkably, Skelton manages to one-up Richard James though, as the pulse of “Two Leaves” transcends mere rhythm to sound like something enormous and metal being endlessly bent and crushed by powerful exterior forces. I have never heard anything else quite like it and it is absolutely beautiful in its context. “And In Their Groves Of The Sun This Was A Fit Number” is not quite that stunning or unique, but works on a similarly grand scale. In fact, there is even some similar crunching, but it is quite distant and strangely soothing as it is slowly enveloped by the piece’s warm, engulfing roar.

I would not necessarily say that there are any weak pieces at all on Nimrod, but the album’s lengthiest work (“An Art to Make Dust of All Things”) seems comparatively uninspired to me, as its cold emptiness and deep metallic swells seem too much like the territory of previous space-minded ambient artists without any substantial improvement upon the formula (though it was bit surprising to hear a (buried) percussion loop). It is a perfectly fine piece, but it just does not feel like it belongs on this particular album by this particular artist. In all other respects, however, Nimrod is an absolutely wonderful, beautifully realized, and unexpected album (and “Two Leaves” is easily one of the finest pieces in Skelton’s entire discography).

Listen here.

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