Sleeping At Last - Atlas: Darkness

Sleeping At Last - Atlas: Darkness

Self-Released, 2013

8.0/10

*The following review was one I wrote a few months back for AbsolutePunk.net. Ryan O'Neal (the mastermind behind Sleeping At Last), has since released Light, the second part of the Atlas series. Check it out here.

As modern trends have begun to overwhelm the system of music distribution, washing away the old ways of doing things and moving further and further into the digital realm, artists have continually strived to do different things with their music. Radiohead famously offered their seventh LP, 2007’s In Rainbows, on a pay-what-you-want basis. Other artists have taken to kickstarter pages in order to launch recording projects, or offered free downloads in hopes of building a fanbase for their live shows. And keepsake physical formats like vinyl records—and, in some bizarre instances, cassette tapes—have been resurrected to suit the ever-shifting whims of listeners. But in many cases, the most important rules of the game have become accessibility, immediacy, and visibility. It’s increasingly rare for artists to take years off between releases and tours, and as a result, EPs, reissues, live albums, concert DVDs, and special fan-club collections have all become important tools for maintaining a foothold in the industry.

Within this swirl of modernization—even as the major record labels attempt to cling to the old rules—indie-folk rock outfit Sleeping At Last has proven to be one of the most interesting players. The brainchild of Chicago-based musician Ryan O’Neal, Sleeping At Last released four full-length records between 2000 and 2009, but never really caught my ear until 2011. And when they did, it wasn’t a full record that did the trick, but a series of short, conceptual EPs called the Yearbook Collection. Released between October 2010 and September 2011, Yearbook encompassed one EP for every month of the year, each with three tracks, and all covering a wide range of musical ground, thematic atmosphere, and varied musical landscape.

But Yearbook, offered on an innovative subscription basis through the band’s website, was more than just another musical project. It was an experiment in keeping listeners engaged for an entire year; it was a triple-album’s worth of material spread out over 12 months; and it was a reminder of why the actual sonic portion of a musical purchase is only a part of the experience. With beautiful artwork for each EP and constant blog updates providing insight into O’Neal’s artistic process, Yearbook was a perfect example of how an independent artist can thrive in the modern age. And as songs from the collection landed slots on various television programs, as O’Neal contributed a track to the oft-praised Twilight soundtracks, it was clear that his artistic experiment was working out fairly well

After taking a well-deserved break in 2012 (aside from a handful of singles, that is), O’Neal has returned to kick off another series of EPs, and this time, his vision has an even wider arc. Where Yearbook had an obvious end-date from the moment it was conceived, the new series, titled Atlas, will allow O’Neal the bountiful freedom of moving the goalposts whenever he sees fit. Atlas, as a larger series, will be an exploration of “the origins, emergence, and experiences of life,” and it’s easy to see how those concepts might be manipulated into a musical odyssey that lasts a decade. According to the songwriter, the first three years of the project have already been mapped out, with potential for more releases to follow.

Poetically, the first disc in the series is called Darkness. “Like all things, Atlas begins with Darkness,” O’Neal reasoned on his blog, following the announcement of the series. “The meanings behind the word “Darkness” are endless: beginnings, fear, blindness, the unknown, loss, even hope, and so much more.” Fittingly, “Overture” begins the set with the commencement of the universe, carrying us through the tides of human history as it goes. Over a bed of organic mandolin acoustics and an orchesis of musical flourishes, first swelling and then quickly receding again, “Overture” is a gorgeous introduction to the world that Atlas will undoubtedly continue to flesh out as it moves forward.

The pulsating intensity of “Woodwork” is even more interesting, with a flickering, Coldplay-esque intro and a soaring, guttural hook. In four minutes, O’Neal builds an almost apocalyptic atmosphere. He gives us a view of the world in chaos, of darkness falling across life, love, and civilization, but he also imbues that dire situation with an eerie calm. We feel like we’re watching the universe fall to its knees while remaining safe in the eye of the storm, while holding fast underwater because to break the surface would be to come apart. “It’s a cruel, cruel trick/How we lose ourselves when we find everything else,” O’Neal sings in the final verse. “Like a train wreck, the sound of your breathing hits my ears/Our world reappears and it breaks us new.” The imagery is rich and the message clear: we take the greatest things in life for granted until they are about to be taken away. We only cherish the light when the darkness has stolen it from us. And that’s a sentiment that appears time and time again throughout these five songs.

By the time the record reaches its final track, the heart-shattering climax that is “Uneven Odds,” it overpowers you. Of all the songs on Darkness, “Uneven Odds” may be the only one to address the concept of death directly. “I once knew your father well,” O’Neal sings at the outset, his mournful croon and a series of funereal piano chords distinguishing the mood. “He fought tears as he spoke of your mother’s health.” It’s a sobering beginning to song that rises from its tearful intro into a rousing, orchestral catharsis. The mother dies, the father leaves, and the child is left to battle a world of his own darkness. But the narrator is his guardian, a helping hand for the hard times whose parting words hint at where Atlas will give us next: “Darkness exists to make light truly count.”

One of my only issues with Yearbook was that each EP was only made up of three songs. No matter how good the highlights were, there was never an opportunity for O’Neal to really build any sense of thematic or musical tension, and as a result, each piece passed more as a snapshot of the month it was covering than as a meticulously composed portrait. Atlas: Darkness takes full advantage of its extra time though, constructing a radiant latticework of mournful energy and emotive force through its songs. The result is a weightier, more fully-realized work than anything O’Neal has tackled before, and with the Light EP on the way sometime this year and more pieces of Atlas to follow, I’m looking forward to watching this panoramic vision come into focus.

Muse - The 2nd Law

Muse - The 2nd Law
Helium 3/Warner, 2012
3.5 stars

I’ve personally never really cared for Muse, either in regards to their bombastic arrangements or to singer Matt Bellamy’s endlessly histrionic wailings. And it’s not that the band’s fusion of Queen, Radiohead, electronica, and classical music is particularly off-putting, but rather that their albums, especially 2003’s Absolution (considered by many to be their best) grow exhausting in their attempt to keep the emotional intensity at a fever pitch throughout.

It is in this relatively neutral state that I come to Muse’s latest record, an ambitious, pseudo-conceptual piece called The 2nd Law, which, in its 53-minute runtime, wanders from a 007-flavored introduction (echoes of the famous spy theme float through the background of “Supremacy”), to imitations of Achtung Baby-era U2 (the album’s first single, “Madness,” is a dead-ringer for many of that 1991 album’s big dance-rock hits), all the way to a bizarre dubstep suite (the two-part title track, which encompasses segments called “Unsustainable” and “Isolated System.”)

Make no mistake, this is an ambitious record, an album that flits between styles and sounds with no warning whatsoever. The versatility is welcome, of course, but for some (die-hard fans yearning for the band’s initial sound, most likely), the shifts will prove jarring and almost laughably self-serious. Case-in-point is “Panic Station,” an infectious piece of funk-pop that lands somewhere between Stevie Wonder and Michael Jackson, or “Survival,” which starts out sounding like a freaking Mika song, adds a baroque choir within the first minute, and bursts apart with a Queen-sized guitar solo halfway through—all without the slightest trace of irony.

The 2nd Law is at its best when the band tones down those indulgences. “Madness” is a perfect example of this, surrounding listeners with an atmospheric back-up vocal groove and allowing Bellamy a chance to drop his usual over-emotive tendencies in favor of his best Bono impersonation. When a funky and spontaneous guitar solo crushes through the texture towards the end of the song, the feeling is both quirky and euphoric.

The U2 influence rears its head again on “Big Freeze,” another nostalgic eighties/nineties radio rock hybrid which parallels Achtung Baby’s deep album tracks just as “Madness” reaches for its singles. Considering the still-fascinating qualities of U2’s most successful musical left turn (an album that celebrated its 20th birthday last fall), it’s no wonder that Muse turned to Achtung for inspiration as they cultivated their own grand departure. Bellamy and company joined U2 on tour last year for the 360 tour (the most successful concert tour in history), and clearly, they took a few things away from that experience.

“Follow Me” is another one of the album’s strongest cuts, beginning with a spacious gospel-flavored vocal solo, transforming into a dance-pop disco swirl (complete with a driving beat and a wall of synthesizers), and climaxing with a ringing guitar cascade that would make the Edge himself proud. “Animals,” on the other hand, puts everything in reverse, an atmospheric keyboard-based number which re-states the band’s prevalent Radiohead influence and which, cut across by a nicely spacey electric guitar line, feels positively otherworldly.

Results are decidedly more mixed when Bellamy hands writing (and singing) duties off to bassist Christopher Wolstenholme on the album’s penultimate duo, “Save Me” and “Liquid State.” The former is a hazy, dreamy piece of nineties balladry, readymade for a climactic moment in some cinematic romance. The song feels notably out of place on The 2nd Law, with decidedly earthbound ambitions and an overall sound that genuinely feels like a different band. Still, the change-up is welcome, and “Save Me,” with its lovelorn sweep and its gorgeously swelling arrangement, is one of the best surprises here. The grungy scratch of “Liquid State” falls completely on the other end of the spectrum, functioning, at its best, as a less effective version of “Supremacy” and, at its worst, like a piece of turn-of-the-century alternative rock (Three Days Grace and Staind certainly come to mind).

Muse’s overblown ambitions reach the point of hubristic downfall on the album’s grand finale, the aforementioned two-part title track. Part I, “Unsustainable,” never feels like anything more than an experiment gone wrong, mixing orchestral elements with robotic sounds, dubstep explosions, and Bellamy’s overdramatic cries. Part II, “Isolated System,” works out a little better, with a ringing, minimalistic piano intro hinting at a climatic build. Unfortunately, the song never makes good on that promise: Muse add in some electronic distractions towards the end, but on the whole, the composition never does anything the least bit exciting, and it serves as a disappointing fade-out to an uneven and often frustrating album.

But even despite the fact that The 2nd Law burns out two-thirds of the way through, it’s not a bad album. I applaud a band, especially one with as much mainstream publicity as Muse, willing to go as off-the-wall crazy as they do on this record. The 2nd Law is the sound of one of the world’s biggest rock bands throwing everything at the canvas and seeing what sticks, a band giving themselves over to their indulgences and influences without reservation or pulled punch throughout. That mentality doesn’t always beget the best albums, and it certainly doesn’t create the most cohesive ones (see The Killers’ Day & Age), but it also rarely fails to deliver at least a few fascinating moments, and The 2nd Law has one or two of those up its sleeve. That an album like this (a band given budget and larger-than-life production values to indulge their every quirk and fancy) even exists in this modern age is interesting; that one can sell almost 130,000 copies in its first week is even more baffling.

And while Bellamy may have pointed towards Achtung Baby as his band’s primary influence here, The 2nd Law is more reminiscent of that album’s follow-up. 1993’s Zooropa remains, to this day, the most misunderstood album U2 ever made, a disjointed collection of pop songs that injected even more electronic influence into the band’s sound and wandered further from the mainstream than their label had ever anticipated. From its atmospheric nineties leanings to Bellamy’s consistently on-the-mark channeling of Bono, it’s not too hard to imagine The 2nd Law having a similar legacy ten or twenty years down the road: not a great album, but an adventurous one.