![]() ![]() The Secret Assembly is a wondrous beast that ends on “Angel”’s drone-caught vocal eddies to discordant sax from Evan Parker, a cicada limping into a synthesised hum and scrawling sax return sinking in strung-out medolics. “Espiritu Santo”‘s chorusing megrims and snorting farmyards funnelling into a distorted voice warning: “He is coming” (a Nazarene-less visitation, no doubt). The scissored umbilical of Fovea Hex snakes disquietly through, torn from another time and tied to the warping enquiry of a cranked radio dial, the echoey recoil of a piano’s innards scattered amongst church organ drones, prophesying voices and recounted dreams, all gestating expectation, nocturne-clipping their wings on a naked flame. This is unsettling, bountiful: “The Hunt Of The Unicorn” chambering a Dead Can Dance possessiveness, its piano shivers caught on lost girl murmurs. The sonics full of shadowy intent as “Reynardine”’s folklore fingers creep up your spine ( Fairport Convention never sounded this eerie). The harsh industrialised exorbitance that rears up occasionally, musing over romancing vocals, the condenser mic swirling the cigarette spirals of some smoky club plucked from a vanishing memory.
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