Outliers From an Outlier
Encountering the Ambient Works of David Sylvian
At various nervous-making moments during this pandemic year, I’ve turned to ambient music. Just for solace, or a way to change up the energy, or, perhaps, as an ignorable environment of audio calm. Surprisingly, this hasn’t always been easy: It turns out not all ambient music attains the desired bath-balm level of tranquility. Some is too sleepy. Some atmospheres are interrupted by random plinking noises, the kind that make you wonder if the phone is sending you an urgent new alert.
To dive into ambient music is to realize that the usual descriptors for music – does it soar? does it sing? does it feel good? does it tell a story? – don’t necessarily apply. Success is more about the music’s ability to spread a feeling of calm and (overused phrase alert) “well-being.” Even when, especially when, actual well-being may be a longshot.
So, wallpaper. Who makes good wallpaper? Brian Eno is a pioneer and remains a category leader; he’s an excellent starting point. For some reasons I don’t fully understand, electronic musicians from Japan are masters. (Later this week I’ll share a playlist tour to spotlight some of them.) Speaking of Japan, another underappreciated master is David Sylvian, the singer-songwriter-leader of the inventive ‘70s art-rock band Japan. Here’s a characteristically vibey (yet not exactly ambient) slice from from his 1985 solo effort Alchemy: An Index of Possibilities.
I became curious about Sylvian’s non-narrative work through a press release about a deluxe edition of Japan’s third album Quiet Life (1979), a gem of Roxy Music-influenced New Wave that’s out this week. There was a mention of his post-Japan solo career. That reminded me that Sylvian collaborated with Eno’s longtime foil, the guitarist Robert Fripp, on a series of ornate, deeply grooving art-funk records beginning with The First Day in 1993.
That led me to Approaching Silence, a 1999 compilation featuring works Sylvian created for art installations – the title track, which involves Fripp, marinates in synth-and-guitar lushness for 38 minutes. You might think that music operating without traditional ear-catching elements (like melodies!) would become tedious at such duration. Instead, the ear is lulled into an ever-unfolding sound world of slowly cresting chordal waves. This is the nearly unnoticed wallpaper in a serene dream.
And that led me to the albums that are Sylvian’s peak atmospheric works, the late ‘80s collaborations with Can co-founder Holger Czukay -- Plight & Premonition and Flux & Mutability.
These arthouse titles are markedly different, underscoring the range of expression lurking under the catchall “ambient” banner. Plight’s world is desolate and almost haunted, a menacing drone enlivened by the super-slow dance moves of ghosts and shadows. Flux has a (slightly) more conventional setting, with vast majestic vistas enlivened by occasional pattering hand drums. Gently oscillating synths occupy the foreground without demanding attention; they provide foundation for delicately sloped sighs from a choir of pitch-bending guitars.
It’s swerving and mesmeric, and arguably more consistently engaging than many of the ambient albums that have been lately been making the recommendation-list rounds. Check it out the next time stillness feels unattainable.
Yes, we have a fancy digital suggestion box. Share your favorite Underloved/Overlooked records here: echolocatormusic@gmail.com.
Please consider subscribing (it’s free!). And…..please spread the word! (This only works via word of mouth!)