I’ve been a fan of composer-instrumentalist Edward Givens for quite some time: arguably since his early days as an Oregon Shakespeare minstrel, but most definitely these past couple years and over multiple releases. As it was for many artists, Covid was an unexpected blessing for Givens. Moving away from being a composer-for-hire in theater, dance and video, he instead began recording and releasing his own full-length “concept albums.” A recent example is the excellent Terra. 

Givens has an amazing ability to create music that sounds both like a full-sized scoring stage and a remote mountaintop village. I rarely play his albums through speakers, as his stereo effects can be both subtle and stunningly direct. At different times (or often simultaneously) his music can sound ancient, modern or space-age. Perhaps confirming this, Givens calls this album’s style “Future Primitive.” Givens’ instrumental palette is seemingly infinite: “Micro-tuned zithers and flutes traveling through ever-evolving polyrhythms made of wood and skin…everything from telemetry to voices to tumbling stones… harps from Ghana to whole string sections of erhu/zhonghu from China.” Givens has been inspired by commercial artists like Jon Hassell, Jade Warrior, Tangerine Dream and Dead Can Dance, as well as minimalist composers like Phillip Glass and Terry Riley.

Givens performs all recording and mixing at home using Reaper, which is astonishing since it sounds like a location recording in someone’s dream: at no time do I suspect The Man Behind The Curtain. This all makes sense, as Givens is hoping to impart a magic or mystical experience through his blissful, peaceful melodies “with a slightly edgy, psychedelic undercurrent.” Honestly a lot of what Givens does is over my head, but I’ll stumble blindly forward!


In small waves, “Somber Meditation” immediately establishes the Givens sound: woodwind textures, strings, electronic pads and unique percussive sounds. There’s a high-pitched stringed instrument I can’t place, but it’s similar to the Japanese koto on David Bowie’s “Moss Garden.” All these elements undergo incremental changes, sometimes slurring in pitch, while engaged in a slow (you might say meditative) dialogue with each other. The energy and intensity slowly rise, while always allowing room for the percussive elements (including water droplets) to shine through.

“Rapid Eye Movement - a Dance” features a very distinctive woodwind sound, apparently processed through some kind of harmonizer. It’s the kind of sound only Givens seems to come up with, and suggests a locomotive horn on the Astral Plane. The “dance” section features deep skins playing rhythmic patterns of a time signature I can’t decipher, while still drawing in the listener and causing us to boogie. The main attraction here is the beat, with melodies carried by the woodwinds atop magical pads of unknown origin. Occasionally I hear an acoustic guitar with a cassette-like audio downgrade, which is thrilling in context. “The Void” evokes the tonality of Tuvan throat singers, followed by samples of female vocalists alongside Theremin trills (giving this track a dreamy retro vibe) followed by a spooky Sgt. Pepper orchestral rise. Breaking free of the Earth’s atmosphere (I’ve been imagining a rocket launch all this time!) the music thrills in the sudden freedom from gravity and the beauty of endless space and time.

“Terra Cotta” has a specifically Asian vibe at the start, with tuned bells and occasionally wet-sounding percussion. Givens’ woodwind sounds are back, possibly joined by a trumpet. Whether live or sampled, these organic-electronic sounds are again very much a Givens trademark. The foreground melodic dialogue is entrancing, but I find myself drawn to the drum rhythms that continue along at whim, seemingly in a universe of their own. “Hidden Well” follows the previous tropes but with a dramatic arrangement that would fit well as a Western (or Eastern!) movie soundtrack. “Arbos et Orbis” has an achingly beautiful backing chorus as compelling as the foreground winds. “The Impossible Honey Tree” features a flute-like dialogue which settles into a playful percussive scheme, with some sounds suggesting a cartoon clock. There’s a subtle time signature change halfway through, heralding samples of Asian vocalists that help ground the music, with stunning rushes of vocal choruses marking time throughout.

There’s so many individual parts carefully stitched within any Givens track, that when the album starts playing over from the start, I assume I’m hearing yet another amazing composition! I mean to say that this is the kind of music that’s instantly enjoyable but also rewards careful attention. Though I’d recommend any Givens album, this is a great place to start!

Vadim Militsin’s LOGICA ABSTRACTA returns with Amber, a four-track EP that continues to probe the meditative edges of ambient music while sidestepping the genre’s more passive tendencies. Though rooted in the language of stillness and texture, Amber doesn’t simply drift—it hums with friction, transformation, and the quiet tension of systems evolving in real time.

The titular track, “Amber,” opens like the first signal from a long-dormant satellite. Celestial swells stretch across a bed of tremolo, digital decay, and subtle interference. Militsin evokes stasis not as a lack of motion, but as a sustained emotional field. The composition never announces its shifts, yet you feel them—like cloud cover slowly revealing stars. There’s a sci-fi dimension to the track that doesn’t lean into cliché; it’s not referencing Blade Runner, but it shares its sense of awe in the face of the unknown.

“Different Lizard” filters that same curiosity through a more volatile lens. A pulsing sine wave snakes through layers of glitch and haze, suggesting both precision and disorder. There’s something molecular about it, like watching synthetic life take shape under a microscope. Out of that complexity, melodic fragments begin to shimmer—ghostly choral tones that feel half-sampled, half-summoned. The track moves like consciousness flickering between states, lucid and abstract at once.

With “Ecoton,” Militsin allows rhythm to surface—not in any traditional sense, but in the way sounds stack and interact with deliberate propulsion. Low-end arpeggios form a kind of unstable scaffolding, while sharper, crystalline textures slice through with clarity. There’s momentum here, but also restraint. It feels cinematic without gesturing toward soundtrack tropes—more subterranean labyrinth than widescreen spectacle.

“White Conjuring” closes the EP on a warmer, more organic note. Fragmented vocal textures hover at the edges, not quite intelligible, but unmistakably human. Militsin builds a cocoon of sound that flickers and breathes, inviting the listener into something tender and temporal. It’s a quiet high point, a closing gesture that feels less like an ending and more like a soft release of pressure.

Across these four pieces, Militsin doesn’t drastically shift his sounds and textures but his control of tone and pacing keeps Amber from ever settling into predictability. There’s coherence without sameness, variation without fragmentation. It’s ambient music built not just for atmosphere, but for attention—designed to be felt, studied, and inhabited. Recommended.

Fundamental Shift build music the way some people build fires—slow, deliberate, and with just enough chaos to keep things alive. The Adelaide duo of Andrew Muecke and Andy Rasheed approach sound with an openness that feels almost meditative. Their latest album, Incandescent Grace, isn’t interested in genre boundaries or neat conclusions; it’s exploratory by design, a collection of evolving moods and sharp turns that reward close attention.

The title track opens the album with a steady, groove-driven pulse. Bass and drums lay the groundwork while spoken word slips through the cracks, untethered and incantatory. Psychedelic textures swirl in and out, and the track simmers rather than explodes. It’s the kind of opener that doesn’t announce itself—it just begins, and you’re in it before you realize.

“You Know Better Now” moves in a different direction, quieter and more inward-facing. The guitars echo into open space, and the percussion is sparse, bordering on minimal. Reverb acts as a co-writer here, stretching every note into something elongated and ghostly. There’s a stillness to it that doesn’t feel stagnant—more like a deep breath being held.

Then comes “The Crux of Potential,” which doesn’t so much start as it lunges forward. A brief a cappella intro drops into a thick, gritty groove. The vocal performance is raw and elastic, tugging at its own boundaries in a way that feels improvised but intentional. A mid-song breakdown pulls the floor out before the rhythm returns with surgical precision, joined by the unexpected shimmer of a singing bowl. It’s a standout—unpredictable, alive, and completely locked in.

“I Really Should Do More Dishes” plays with texture and time. Warped guitar lines, reversed effects, and a loose vocal delivery give it the feel of a found tape from a parallel 1967. It’s playful without being messy, psychedelic without feeling nostalgic.

“Just These Crumbs” pushes into more volatile territory. It’s jagged and immersive, driven by forceful drums and vocals that seem to scrape against the edges of the mix. Pads stretch and shift underneath, giving the song a fluid, underwater weight. There’s a tension in the way it deconstructs and rebuilds itself, constantly pulling between chaos and control.

“Broken from the Inside” is sparse and strange, leaving space for the voice to twist and hang. It floats in and out of structure, half-formed and haunting. “Pack for Mars” slides back into rhythmic focus, while “Phantasmagoria” explores fractured melodies and experimental sound design with a sharp ear for detail.

“From the Dream to Here” turns toward the celestial, full of swirling ambiance and suspended motion. The closer, “The Dream Is a River,” stretches across thirteen minutes without ever losing momentum. It moves like a long thought: shifting, revising, expanding, disappearing.

Incandescent Grace isn’t an album that lays its cards on the table. It’s ambitious without being showy, strange without being alienating, and full of moments that feel discovered rather than planned. It takes time—but it’s worth it.

Harpa’s latest single, "The End," straddles the line between pop anthem and rock ballad, but sidesteps easy categorization. It’s built on familiar architecture—verse, chorus, lift—but delivered with enough emotional conviction to feel like something more than just formula. The song opens with a tight guitar lick that leans slightly funky, paired with Harpa’s crisp vocal delivery that lands somewhere between yearning and resolve. As the arrangement fills in with keys and drums, the track begins to unfurl.

The chorus arrives quickly, bright and unabashedly motivational—less an emotional gut punch than a raised fist in the mirror. It’s the kind of soaring pop moment engineered to feel cathartic, even if you're not quite sure why. And yet, it works. Harpa leans into it without irony, and that sincerity gives the track its weight.

Rather than settling into a rinse-and-repeat structure, the second half of the song builds with intent. The piano takes a more central role, and subtle vocal harmonies start to flicker around the edges, adding texture without overcrowding the mix. By the final chorus, the full band is reaching for something grandiose, and Harpa belts out “the end of everything” like it’s both a warning and a liberation.

"The End" thrives on its dynamics—there’s a sense of motion and climax that makes it feel engineered for the stage. You can hear the light cues, the swelling crowd, the hands raised in a dimly lit room. It’s not reinventing the wheel, but it turns it with style.

Leeds-based trio Tillerman—anchored by brothers Jon and Tom Kulczycki, with longtime collaborator Shaun Mallia—operate like a band that never had to learn how to speak the same language. With over 20 years of shared musical shorthand, their work feels less constructed than remembered, as if each song had been waiting quietly to be found again. They pull from the warm hues of '60s and '70s rock, brush against the lacquered cool of Britpop, and carry the gentle ache of UK indie—but never with the posture of revivalists. Their music seems to breathe in its own time.

"Room to Breathe," their latest single, is aptly named—a slow, deliberate exhale that’s been a decade in the making. Written, shelved, revisited, and finally released, it plays like a reverie stitched together from faded memories of adolescence, love, and the blurry space in between. The structure resists pop convention: no clean-cut chorus, no dramatic hook, just a patient build that leans into feeling over form. It opens with a fleeting sample of children singing—gone in seconds, like a half-remembered dream—before sliding into dusky guitars and ambient pads.

There’s a subtle elegance to the arrangement. The guitar strumming pairs with vocals that echo early Pink Floyd at their most meditative, all quiet melancholy and soft glow. The rhythm section doesn’t clamor for attention—it simply holds the ground while the song stretches upward. There’s a slow intensification, a long crescendo that never quite peaks, just rises and expands, like watching the light change in a room.

The accompanying video mirrors the song’s ethos: performance footage interwoven with grainy, nostalgic clips that feel pulled from someone’s attic—scratched home movies, filtered memories, the kind of images that hit harder because they’re imperfect. It’s a gentle but affecting release from a band that knows the power of subtlety, of leaving space for the listener to fill in the blanks.

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With "Long Time Comin'," M.Spano threads the needle between vulnerability and propulsion, capturing the emotional vertigo of entering something new and potentially life-altering. It’s a song about the raw, flickering nerves that come with the start of a relationship—the hesitations, the sparks, the quiet what-ifs.  

The track opens with intricate guitar picking, intimate and inviting, before shapeshifting into a tighter, more muscular groove. A fresh riff arrives like a second wind—bass and drums lock in, and Spano’s vocals come forward, worn and expressive without veering into melodrama. The production is confident, letting each instrumental layer breathe: syncopated bass pulses beneath a canopy of lush, reverb-soaked guitars, and the song gradually accelerates into a hybrid of indie rock clarity and pop-punk energy.  

The standout moment comes with a soaring guitar solo that hints at Joe Satriani’s melodic flair without falling into self-indulgence. It’s a flash of virtuosity that doesn’t overshadow the song’s emotional arc—it enhances it. There’s a real sense of movement here, both musically and emotionally: hope laced with reflection, momentum tempered by doubt.  

Paired with a gentle, heartfelt lyric video, "Long Time Comin'" feels like a quiet anthem for anyone who’s stood on the precipice of new love, uncertain but ready. 

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Inal Bilsel is an award-winning composer-producer from Cypress who’s just released a concept album titled Once Upon a Cloudtop Meadow. This is a fairy tale-inspired work that’s basically Alice in Wonderland in the Sky. Bilsel utilizes filmic soundscapes, experimental textures and intricately arranged compositions to build his score. Different genres including jazz fusion, classical and ambient also make their mark. Cinematic orchestration rubs shoulders with playful experimentation, found sounds and ethereal textures. 

Bilsel’s day jobs include composing scores for short films, creating immersive sound design for art exhibitions and performing at festivals with his band Nostalgia For The Future, as well as solo. 

Aside from the composing and performing, this is album was also a labor of love in creating the best possible sound for the music. Mixing took over a year, with an ear toward audiophile listeners (though Bilsel says the music will work with simpler setups!). The tracks were mixed in 96kHz audio with mastering by the esteemed Bob Katz, ensuring an impeccable dynamic range. The album was purposely mixed more quietly than the norm, “allowing the quietest moments to breathe and the climaxes to soar.” The album can be downloaded on Bandcamp and most streamers, or heard in its entirety on YouTube.

I played this album mostly on a new set of Koss headphones, and a little bit on my car’s Bose system. As expected, it sounds amazing, like the soundtrack of a movie in a state-of-the-art theater. An epic in every way, it runs over an hour and features 14 tracks along with a continuing story you can read along with. Rather than go track by track, here are some overall impressions.

Though there are no musical credits aside from Blisel, I would be shocked if most (if not all) of this work wasn’t recorded on a scoring stage with a full compliment of strings, horns and percussion. Obviously keyboards play a huge part in driving the melodies forward (I can hear piano, analog and digital synths, virtual instruments and even theremin!) and I sort of imagine Bilsel seated at the center of the studio, creating his sound while directing the other players.

The music has no vocals per se, but starting from the beginning and peeking in throughout are bits of dialogue from an Alice in Wonderland-type girl speaking in Croation. Bilsel approaches most sections in a similar fashion, starting with gentle, ambient chords with transparent arpeggios. The main melodies are often played with quavering Moog-like patches. Percussion generally feels orchestral in nature, with a tasty stereo spread. As the compositions develop, there’s early Genesis-like synth improvisations. Strings (virtual or real, I can’t tell!) seem to dominate the earlier sections (“Meet Cloudman”), with horns introduced toward the middle tracks.

Some tracks (like “Sleepwalker”) seem to contain multiple parts and moods, practically a movie in themselves. Vocal choruses sometimes appear, adding yet another layer to the tracks. The found sounds I’m hearing are mostly birds, bells and winds, though there’s other things I can’t quite identify. Certain melodies have a childlike musical box quality (“A is for Aga,” “Berceuse for Lulu”). 80’s-like synth pulses also pop up from time to time (“A Night at the Cloudtop Imaginarium”). In “Berceuse for Lulu” I was surprised to hear what sounded like a saw blade played with a bow! Bilsel is also not averse to sprinkling in a few backward sounds here and there. Though mostly instrumental, the track “K’yango’s Lament” does feature a chorus of childlike voices. Marimba or xylophone stands out in a track like “Our Time Together.”

To say I’ve only scratched the surface here is an understatement. Every track contains multitudes within multitudes, and is presented with creativity, taste and skill. The only thing left to do is listen!

Phillip Patton is a cinematic rock artist who records under the childlike moniker “peejmudd.” However you won’t find any playtime music here, as Patton is “deadly” serious about his music and concepts. Following up his 2021 release when you find my body, call me by my name Patton is back with his newest album titled fight to keep from sinking. The music is described as a blend of post-rock, neo-classical and ambient.

Patton’s collection intends to weave a story without words, exploring themes of struggle, resilience and acceptance. As a listener I’m actually dealing with these issues right now, and I can affirm that Patton’s music bypassed my defenses and touched every one of those sore spots. Patton blends strings, textured ambience, field recordings and dark piano to created “an unflinching exploration of hopelessness” with influences like Ólafur Arnalds, Sigur Rós and M83. Not always a comfortable listening experience, I was ultimately won over by the breadth of his melodies and arrangements. 

Patton wrote all the songs (with one co-writer credit) and plays most everything except live drums, which are performed by Sasà de Seta. Recording and mixing took place at Pichikin Recordings with mastering by Wez Clarke AI.

“staring at a brick wall” is a short, stuttering introduction with grinding tones, shortwave radio interference and an overall feel of foreboding. After just one minute it cuts directly to “echoes wake” which cleanses our ears with ringing, echoing keyboard chords and picked guitar. It’s a lovely construct, though again there’s a somewhat unsettling pulse underneath. Patton adds instruments along the way like random objects picked up along a seashore.

“this day is ours” is the lead single and centerpiece of the album, featuring a collaboration with post-rock artist “They Danced Like Programmed Angels.” Aside from co-writing, Programmed Angel Jon Wolper plays additional guitar and piano along with production. The opening chords almost sound like they’re being played by a windstorm! The lead melodies are performed on Wolper’s piano with compelling, circular patterns anchored by powerful bottom notes. The strings have an assertive movie soundtrack quality, along with a good share of darkness not unlike scary composer Cucurbitophobia. This track seemingly has one dramatic crescendo after another, each one deeper than the last. Drums and guitars are also strong. 

“essex (burning bright)” has what sounds like an electronic bullroarer, nicely detailed percussion and waves of glorious rock guitar. “to break the sky” changes things up with upbeat, hopeful-sounding melodies birthed on piano and brought home by wall-to-wall guitar. “beneath the waves” blends Black Sabbath riffage with John Carpenter-like piano.

“tearing me apart” features searing, heartbroken lead riffs against a John Bonham-like stomp. “a quickening pulse” is exactly that: a jumpy, jerky stew of beats, pulses and electronic waves, both crazy-making and serene (don’t try that at home!).

Though fitted with a creepy title, “broken body, broken mind” has an expansive prog rock energy like early Crimson or ELP, though at a more leisurely pace. The final track “I remember nothing” seems to be a response to “I remember everything” which concluded GOOW’s 2023 album Vintage Rainy Day. It begins with a field recording that’s probably some kind of announcer, but is so indistinct and unnerving that it could be the welcome station in Hell, with a pass of synth chords bidding us a sad farewell. 

​Sometimes I take for granted that not all ambient electronic music is mellow or soothing. There’s some of that here, but on the whole this album is a bit more challenging yet ultimately rewarding. Good work!

Dark Ghosts understand the theatrical weight of nostalgia—not as an accessory, but as a vehicle for catharsis. On 1983, the duo of Blaine Vogt (vocals, guitar) and Matt Dunn (multi-instrumentalist) dial into the frequency of classic metal and arena rock with near-uncanny precision. Their transatlantic collaboration bridges Salem, Oregon and Cardiff, Wales, but the emotional coordinates are firmly planted in a time when guitar solos cracked like lightning and synthesizers dripped with menace.

The album opens with “The Second Coming,” a synth-laced prelude that feels plucked from a lost reel of VHS horror. It’s a moody, slow burn that dissolves into a massive, riff-driven eruption—less an introduction than a possession. From there, 1983 charges headlong into its title track, where a tightly wound bass groove and glossy synth lines form a chassis built for maximum speed. It’s a sound engineered to be blasted from blown-out speakers, unapologetically bold and muscular.

“Masks” offers a moment of instrumental showmanship, nodding toward the melodic shred of Joe Satriani, while a female vocalist adds spectral tension to the chorus, offsetting the song’s pyrotechnic edge with something more ethereal. “Silent Scream” is pure arena dynamite—straightforward, hook-laden, and begging for a crowd to scream it back.

Across the album, Dark Ghosts thread their fascination with horror films into the songwriting without overplaying the reference. “Don’t Blame the Movies” doubles as both commentary and aesthetic cue, while “We’re On Fire” barrels ahead with swagger and defiance. “Be My Devil” slows the tempo, revealing a bruised vulnerability beneath the distortion. The haunted theatrics continue on “The Night He Came Home” and “Dark Angels,” both of which pulse with adrenaline and dread in equal measure.

“Hold Hands With God” delivers some of the most arresting guitar work on the album—soaring, melodic, and surprisingly tender amid the thunder. Closing track “Welcome to the Wallow” shifts into ballad territory, a moody comedown that feels like a lone figure walking away from the wreckage as the credits roll.

What makes 1983 land isn’t just its aesthetic accuracy—it’s the commitment. Dark Ghosts don’t dabble in retro signifiers; they build entire worlds out of them. Each track is steeped in atmosphere, but never at the expense of emotion. The album doesn’t feel like an imitation—it feels like a transmission. One that’s been buried, unearthed, and delivered with startling clarity.

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GOOW is a Russian experimental music artist with a new EP titled VISIONS. These three tracks blend ambient and post-rock with intricate sound design, with most elements recorded live on real instruments, or virtual instruments played on keyboard. The tracks are designed both for active or background listening. GOOW “…experiments with different genres and approaches to make the most satisfying music.”

Mr. GOOW didn’t supply much info, except to say that this music is “Inspired by Kandinksy’s compositions.” I had to look up Kandinsky: he was a visual artist deeply influenced by music (especially Schoenberg) and his abstract paintings are often described as “Painted Music.” GOOW hopes to “flip the concept” by creating sonic landscapes, instead of translating visuals into music. 

“You Finally Go Out for a Walk on a Warm and Sunny Spring Day” (I love these song titles!) feels exactly like the title implies. It starts tentatively, as if you’re feeling the morning sun hit your face as you walk out the door. The synths start with a kind of sunbeam tinkle, with live-sounding bongos or congas played near the edge of the drum. The keys play a simple but slowly enveloping pattern, featuring that gloriously unsteady analog synth quality. The track flirts with being danceable, though GOOW decides not to stick with this aspect for long.

“You Notice Something Strange and Watch Until You Realize That You’re Standing on the Verge of a Fascinating Discovery” is the logical middle section, a direct progression (without pause) from the first piece. The initial chords become arpeggios, then build to an unexpected drama, like a tea kettle suddenly exploding into a rainbow of colors. Again the mixture of clean sounding patches, sketchy analog sounds and dramatic effects paint an amazing audio picture. Toward the conclusion there’s one of my favorite sounds: a Mellotron-like vocal chorus. The concluding track “You Look into the Sky. Nothing Makes Sense, but You Don’t Care Anymore” definitely feels like a page turned, with a deeper, more introspective sound and a heartbreaking lead melody.

Overall a short but compelling slice of electronic musical art, with beats that actually make you move. Coolness!

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