From the Mouth of the Sun - In Wind or Dust

A Closer Listen

Composed as the score to a dance production, In Wind or Dust recaptures the excitement of early works from Aaron Martin and Dag Rosenqvist (From the Mouth of the Sun), while adding some unexpected twists.  As recommended on the release page, it is best listened to as a whole, the majority of pieces blending together in an uninterrupted suite.

The album features two extended builds, one at the beginning and the other in the center.  For the first five minutes all is sombre and subdued, setting the literal stage for what is to come.  Martin’s cello arrives as a surprise, at a strikingly higher volume than the preceding music, accompanied by subtle chimes, instantly increasing the listener’s interest.

This is followed by a remarkable pair of movements, bringing to mind Jasper TX’s “They’ve Flown Away and Left Us Here,” from 2009’s Singing Stones.  The static-heavy “Vibrating Memories” is full yet forlorn, suggesting radio frequencies and unanswered calls.  Agitated voices surface and are suddenly silenced, paving the way for the gorgeous piano of “He Left Alone.”  A palpable sense of loneliness is present; it’s hard to imagine what the dancers are doing at this point, although it’s safe to suggest that their movements are slow.  The chimes reenter, more active this time, battling with the static charges like opposing mindsets, one mechanical and numb, the other hopeful and alive. And then there is silence, a breath before the plunge.

“The Warmth of Two Hearts” sits at the center of the album like a pair of lovers sheltered from the storm.  Easily the most romantic piece, overflowing with emotive strings and ivories, the track also represents a first finale.  And then the album returns to its beginning, with a very slow-growing drone.  This is perhaps the album’s only misstep, although it may have been effective in the dance performance; the first seven minutes (of nine) undulate and expand, interrupting the emotional momentum of the home experience.  The payoff comes when the piece peaks and topples into “The Last Shepherd,” which contains the surprising vocal choruses of The Shepherd’s Choir.  The wind of the album’s title whips around the performers, threatening to undo them, but they huddle together and vanquish the threat.  And then the second silence.

The title track reflects on all that has come before, the action retracting, the dancers spent, the sounds of nature seeping in.  The bucolic atmosphere is enhanced with the warmth of solo banjo, sorrows forgotten in the glow of a new day.  On the cover, in the midst of the crimson dust, a lone figure stands tall.  (Richard Allen)