The chord is never correct. It squirms and mutates forever. Frequencies burrow into silence like earthworms; others wriggle into audibility in their place. Can we call the 25 minutes of “Aurea” a continuous drone when it so actively decays and rejuvenates itself, like evolution sped up a trillion times over? I’m not even sure about the instrument of origin; either it’s an electronic instrument rendered lively by the failing medium of old tape, or it’s a strange, spiritually conjuring acoustic instrument I’ve never heard in my life before. As a premise it’s so simple – a tilted chord, pulsating and winking like a strobe on dying batteries – and yet I have so many questions.
Second side “Opium” ignores my queries and poses further conundrums instead. It’s a lower drone, with overtones occasionally catching my ears like lens flare. The only consolation I can take is that it sounds tonally at rest – the lubricated motor of a giant machine doing exactly what it should, emitting a throbbing low hum as it revolves at speed, maintaining balance and stasis. And where many continuous sounds fade into translucency in my conscious mind, settling into my peripheral awareness like ghosts, there is just enough activity on Saigon to keep my ears flicking back. A chest rising and falling during sleep. I stare into the dancing noise. What are you?