There’s a phrase that gets tossed around sometimes: strange beast. And for the life of me, I can’t think of a better description of this record.
It’s as approachable as it is esoteric, as subdued as it is grandiose, as domestic as it is wild, as patient as it is frantic. It feels almost like a big huge fluffy bear-like beast that you want to snuggle up to, even though you know it might rip your head off.
Right off the bat, this record sounds like nothing else I’ve heard, but it grabs ahold of reference points that have no business being mixed together: I’ve described it as if Anathallo was Godspeed You! Black Emperor, but it also has several moments of Efterklang, Bon Iver, and Flying Saucer Attack.
The songs—if you can call them that—often feel like the musicians are spontaneously playing, unaware of anyone’s presence in the room. A single musician might play a repeated figure that others harmonize or antagonize as they come and go. Ragged acoustic guitars and strings and horns meditate on phrases like mantras, so tranquil that not even squalls of electric guitar and clattering drums can break the spell. It feels so organic that you might believe that the entire record was improvised on the spot—except for how meticulously it’s crafted.
The game they play is seen most completely on “Skydiving onto the library roof.” The song opens with a simple pastoral verse before the strings take over with a two-chord progression that they repeat for several minutes, swelling to the point of chaos with scraped electric guitars and drum fills that have no concern for tempo or rhythm. But at no point during the eight-minute run time does it sound monotonous. Even the most conventional track, “Good Morning (red)” feels impishly playful.
It presents itself as a tranquil record, and there is certainly a sort of low-stakes docility to it. But that lack of pressure creates a space where anything goes—with anarchic results. In fact, every time I put it on—often in the morning—my wife will say, “what the hell is this chaos?”
As chaotic as it gets though, it remains non-threatening. The bursts of guitar feedback and drum frenzies and violin squeals are more mischievous than violent, an expression of almost childlike joy rather than anger. The more time I spend with caroline, the more I realize that for all of its fangs and claws, it’s a far more benevolent beast than a malicious one, like Falcor from Neverending Story or Ludo from The Labyrinth. And like those friendly creatures, this record is far more likely to snuggle back than hurt you.