I’ll admit it, I had to look up the meaning of Syzygy. And even when I had done so wasn’t entirely sure how any of its various meaning relate to the album I’d just put in the CD player in terms of the music it contained, or the note on the sticker attached to the shrinkwrap it came in. No matter, a detailed knowledge of obscure poetical terminology, Greek comedies, astronomy or philosophy is not essential to the appreciation of Lucretia Dalt’s new album, which is, incidentally, very good.
The music is sparse, and veers between bibbly electronica and thin, tapering strings and drones, with soft supple swells of sound by way of a backdrop to Lucretia Dalt’s hushed (trilingual) vocals, which are as much an instrument as a provider of meaning.
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The sounds often carry a subtly sharp edge, the tones uncomfortable on the ear as they rise in both volume and pitch… and her voice, barely there, soft, fragile, delicate, threatens to not only be buried, but crushed by the machinery…
The soft acoustic pickings of ‘Soliloquios’ (not easy to read the track titles given that they’re all listed backwards) are countered by an undulating whistle and hectic bubbling blip that runs in rings to a completely different time-signature, with a dizzlying effect, and elsewhere, Dalt wanders lost through a bleak and otherworldly soundscape. Haunting, and utterly compelling.
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