Eluvium

Copia

(Temporary Residence)

Record Review

If the five-year-old version of me had been allowed to design a house, it would have borne a frightening resemblance to the palace at Versailles.  Vulgarity was a foreign concept to me.  Minimalism and abstraction were unthinkable.  Hell, the Vatican seemed like the apotheosis of tasteful decorating.

Since then, I’ve fortunately been on a slow but steady journey toward more modern taste.  At some point the aesthetically pleasing, by itself, no longer fulfilled my idea of beauty.  I became equally capable of finding transcendence in things that were unpleasant, terrifying, alienating, even hideous.  (Being no expert, I tentatively understand this to involve the philosophical distinction between mere ‘beauty’ and ‘the sublime.’)  The Western world at large followed a similar course, to such an extent that, at some point during the 20th Century, ‘beauty’ in art shifted from being its aim to being almost a liability.  ‘Good’ art generally had to be shocking, ugly, horrifying, or ironic.  Traditional beauty and harmony lost nearly all credibility, a phenomenon that became all too easy to support in light of the abomination that is New Age. 

Which brings me to Eluvium’s Copia.  It is, in a word, pretty.  Very, very pretty. 

Hence my minor internal crisis: does this overt, unvarnished beauty compromise its artistic integrity?  Is it too obvious, or worse, cloying?  Having made myself acquainted with Matthew Cooper’s accomplished third LP, the droning, meditative Talk Amongst the Trees, I wasn’t prepared to face this dilemma.  That album, with its structural simplicity and sonic richness, pairs repetitive, looping arrangements reminiscent of early ambient Eno with a certain amount of the hazy, dense, feedback-filled aesthetic that informs much abstract, ambient, shoegaze and post-rock.  Rather than keeping the listener alert, it encourages an almost trance-like state; somehow, by saying very little, it seems to say everything (especially, I discovered, around 4 a.m.).  Though it was a gentle offering, it stands as a worthy piece of fuzzy abstraction that no post-rock fan would be ashamed to own.

So what sort of album would your average discerning music fan be ashamed to own?  It seems to me that beauty is still okay if it is obscured (and, paradoxically, often emphasized) by some rough element: forceful percussion (Sigur Rós, Explosions In the Sky), static/feedback (Tim Hecker), or ear-piercing, lengthy crescendos (GY!BE, Mogwai).  Copia doesn’t really utilize any of these cred-boosting techniques; it is an unabashedly euphonic listen.  Moreover, it presents more developed song structures, increased clarity, and a much wider variety of instrumentation (the trusty guitar is conspicuously absent) than his previous album; it seems to have more to ‘say’.  It commences with stately, elegiac horns, while piano, keyboards, grave organ tones, strings, and if I’m not mistaken, woodwinds feature prominently throughout.  His classically inspired piano compositions are slightly simplistic, yet pleasant and played with admirable tact; some build into full-bodied orchestral songs, most notably on “Prelude For Time Feelers.”  He still utilizes repetition, though the songs are more dynamic and their melodies more developed, complimented by clear harmonies.  It’s an overall surprisingly traditional aesthetic, although there are a few brief aural surprises: tolling church bells, strange wind-like whistling, something that sounds like squawking seagulls, and, best of all, an explosion of fireworks on the final track which, to Cooper’s credit, is emotionally resonant without being remotely obvious.     

In the end, something is gained, and something is lost.  Cooper deserves points for evolution; it would be easy to linger with continued acclaim in Talk’s nebulous territory, and Copia is a fearless step forward.  Of course, the delicious ambiguity is lost.  By saying more, it leaves less to the imagination.  When he delivers the climaxes that his previous work seemed to promise but never fulfill, part of me wishes he hadn’t indulged me.  It’s almost too satisfying, and consequently loses some of its profundity. It’s ‘moving’ music, in that he strikes at that universal emotional core we all seem to have.  Occasionally it provokes the same annoyed feeling I get when a sentimental film score causes me to fight back tears.  It bothers me because it seems so common; it bothers me because I’m not above it.  Whether it is in good taste depends entirely on the listener: you could justifiably desire something more subtle and challenging, or you could embrace it, comfortable in the knowledge that you are simply human, after all.