Son Lux / At War With Walls And Mazes

Anticon

At War With Walls and Mazes is a stunning debut wrung from classical precision and good old human gut-wrench. Son Lux's first is a heady collection of songs breathing the same air and sharing the same space; painted from the same palette but set apart still--each is a distinct region of one broad, heaving sonic landscape. From afar, it's an environment characterized by would-be contradictions: the austere grandness of chamber music undercut by undulating electronica; the intricately orchestral assembled via hip-hop collage; a day-plain pop ease silhouetted by deep soul. Up close, it's clear that these contradictions are what hold the entire work together.  The prologue begins with the warm quaver of harmonica and a cold, androgynous breath: "Put down all your weapons/Let me in through your open wounds." There's a burst of drum, a piano hit that overwhelms the ears, and we're on At War's terra firma. "Break" is quiet and composed, punctuated by stabs of chaos--reversed instruments, errant electricity, an angry crowd--and given moody depth by the voice of Son Lux, which returns raw and whisper-pretty like Will Oldham's. "Weapons" flows in and out itself, building static, crystalline keys and thick bass into a pile of sharp edges that bounces like a rubber ball. Conversely, "Betray" lays a slinky Portishead sulk for its bedrock, then morphs into a laidback, flute-textured upbeat.  The picture is always shifting--songs starting on a blast or ending in a whirling climb, occasionally dwelling in a single mood, but never succumbing to traditional structure. Son Lux's lyrics don't distract from the journey; rather, the one and two-line snippets wind their way through the album's space like mantras to be picked up or passed at will. As various permutations of voice, music and noise emerge, one imagines The Notwist's Markus Acher lost in the bowels of Radiohead's "Pyramid Song."  After its undeniable apex, At War With Walls and Mazes approaches a quiet close. "War" is a sleepy overture to Son Lux's wide embrace, glowing warm and full until white light gives way to the epilogue, and the album's only outright motif: the "Weapons" melody, first heard with the prologue's opening line. Then, Son Lux asked us to drop our weapons and let him in; now, leaving this place, his apparent plea seems much more like an invitation.  UPDATE: His re-mix of Beirut's "A Sunday Smile" was the lead track on Pitchfork's Forkcast recently. 

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