Sin Fang Bous | Clangour
Most Likely To: be the soundtrack to the next several months of your hyper-sensitive lovemaking.
Clangour is one of those lovely records that seems to appear, as if heralded by freckle-faced angels from mount on high, at exactly the right time and in exactly the right way so as to remind us all of where music as a living art should be heading.
That is to say that there is something alive within the confines of Clangour. It is a joy to listen to, a rare capture of an even rarer construction of a real and breathing spirit. For the most part, Sindri Mar Sigfusson (member of Seabear, flight-voiced mind behind Clangour, Icelandic as fuck) spends his time constructing acoustelectric vistas rich in layer and delicate distortion which, at their very best, have a transportational quality about them that more epic contemporaries still have trouble replicating authentically.
There are most definitely flaws. At times, Sigfusson can be positively frustrating in the aesthetics he employs or, rather, the lack thereof. In practical terms, Sin Fang Bous treads a careful line between a Sufjan Stevens (circa Seven Swans) and a Notwist without falling prey to the failures that have marked both extremes of the “whispery-voiced delta-male” genre. But really, if you have to fuck up your balance by tipping to either side, Sindri old buddy, why choose the more artificial of the two? Yes, Clangour does touch on moments of what can only be described as pure, thrilling reverie. When it gets tired of blowing your fucking mind, however, it seems quite content to shit out some failed Notwist b-sides on the listener’s chest.
I don’t get it.
That’s fine. Fuck it. I’m probably just feeding into my own carefully acquired snobberies to some extent here. I really should just be happy that what is done right (and that is most of the record, for the record) is so intimately satisfying. Sin Fang Bous is worth your time, worth all of our time. Listen to album closer “Lies” and feel better about everything you’ve fucked up in your life. It’s okay, Sindri understands your pain and my pain and the whole world’s pain; but when we think about it through his ears, we’ll probably be just fine.
Sindri Mar Sigfusson, give me a hug on your wistful Nordic mountaintop. Our forest is full of snow-hares.