Every so often something drops which leaves your mouth wide open in astonishment, your concept of space and time in a state of erratic semi-permanent flux, the cup endlessly overflowing and drowning everything gravity will allow. Manchester’s very own Borland do this and just a bit more.
The first part of their proposed 120 minute quadrilogy, Omar bristles and seethes snake-like through a dizzying terrain of moods and textures; deep gothic electronics bathing hypnotically amongst acre-long reverb, minimalist piano figures tapping incessantly upon the soul, tortured vocals effected into a cryptic, stirring, abstract realm. In places it’s reminiscent of Brian Pyle’s Ensemble Economique output, inhabiting a similar kind of deconstructed and haunted sphere – only stranger, harder, more lucid, emphatic even.
As much as the deep subs drag proceedings violently towards the concrete, the unhinged emotions strangle and asphyxiate, there is still light amongst the shade; moments where, as if dusk meets night meets dawn, the horizon conspires to reveal the billions of miles of space left to discover. We’re only a quarter of the way in – a quarter – and we’re already verging on the conclusively seminal.