All Hands Bury The Cliffs At Sea
Dutch duo Wanderwelle allow the climate crisis to inform their latest full-length, using a ruined Scottish church organ to eke out dying drones for trying times.
Phil van Dulm and Alexander Bartels looked at maritime mythology when they were writing "All Hands Bury the Cliffs at Sea", and they came across the legend of Aspidochelone, a sea creature so big that at one point it was mistaken for an island. Legend has it that sailors docked on what they assumed was an island and lit a fire before it ducked into the sea as if the land itself had collapsed. The Amsterdam duo thought this was an appropriate metaphor for the climate-related erosion that has ravaged the coast of Scotland; they were traveling the area when they came across a church that had been ruined by the receding coastline - a nearby cliff had collapsed into the sea and ruptured the building's walls. The pipe organ inside had been almost destroyed completely, but Wanderwelle were allowed to fiddle with it and extract all the tones they could, sounds that formed the foundation of the album.
Swelling their palette with drones from antique cavalry trumpets, piano, cello and synthesizer, they attempted to mimic the sea's constant erosion of the land it interacts with. The result is a careful, considered set of low-profile flotilla that hovers between the distant disintegration of William Basinski and Tim Hecker's 4K "big ambient" gestures. Creaks, damp sloshing and foghorn blasts make up the majority of the record, but each sound is manipulated in such a way that there's little friction. The mood is dark but the sounds are surprisingly frothy, lapping at the feet rather than drowning the listener in cold truth. If it's an album that's about the grim reality of climate crisis, maybe they're telling us to sleep it off.
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Dutch duo Wanderwelle allow the climate crisis to inform their latest full-length, using a ruined Scottish church organ to eke out dying drones for trying times.
Phil van Dulm and Alexander Bartels looked at maritime mythology when they were writing "All Hands Bury the Cliffs at Sea", and they came across the legend of Aspidochelone, a sea creature so big that at one point it was mistaken for an island. Legend has it that sailors docked on what they assumed was an island and lit a fire before it ducked into the sea as if the land itself had collapsed. The Amsterdam duo thought this was an appropriate metaphor for the climate-related erosion that has ravaged the coast of Scotland; they were traveling the area when they came across a church that had been ruined by the receding coastline - a nearby cliff had collapsed into the sea and ruptured the building's walls. The pipe organ inside had been almost destroyed completely, but Wanderwelle were allowed to fiddle with it and extract all the tones they could, sounds that formed the foundation of the album.
Swelling their palette with drones from antique cavalry trumpets, piano, cello and synthesizer, they attempted to mimic the sea's constant erosion of the land it interacts with. The result is a careful, considered set of low-profile flotilla that hovers between the distant disintegration of William Basinski and Tim Hecker's 4K "big ambient" gestures. Creaks, damp sloshing and foghorn blasts make up the majority of the record, but each sound is manipulated in such a way that there's little friction. The mood is dark but the sounds are surprisingly frothy, lapping at the feet rather than drowning the listener in cold truth. If it's an album that's about the grim reality of climate crisis, maybe they're telling us to sleep it off.
Dutch duo Wanderwelle allow the climate crisis to inform their latest full-length, using a ruined Scottish church organ to eke out dying drones for trying times.
Phil van Dulm and Alexander Bartels looked at maritime mythology when they were writing "All Hands Bury the Cliffs at Sea", and they came across the legend of Aspidochelone, a sea creature so big that at one point it was mistaken for an island. Legend has it that sailors docked on what they assumed was an island and lit a fire before it ducked into the sea as if the land itself had collapsed. The Amsterdam duo thought this was an appropriate metaphor for the climate-related erosion that has ravaged the coast of Scotland; they were traveling the area when they came across a church that had been ruined by the receding coastline - a nearby cliff had collapsed into the sea and ruptured the building's walls. The pipe organ inside had been almost destroyed completely, but Wanderwelle were allowed to fiddle with it and extract all the tones they could, sounds that formed the foundation of the album.
Swelling their palette with drones from antique cavalry trumpets, piano, cello and synthesizer, they attempted to mimic the sea's constant erosion of the land it interacts with. The result is a careful, considered set of low-profile flotilla that hovers between the distant disintegration of William Basinski and Tim Hecker's 4K "big ambient" gestures. Creaks, damp sloshing and foghorn blasts make up the majority of the record, but each sound is manipulated in such a way that there's little friction. The mood is dark but the sounds are surprisingly frothy, lapping at the feet rather than drowning the listener in cold truth. If it's an album that's about the grim reality of climate crisis, maybe they're telling us to sleep it off.
Dutch duo Wanderwelle allow the climate crisis to inform their latest full-length, using a ruined Scottish church organ to eke out dying drones for trying times.
Phil van Dulm and Alexander Bartels looked at maritime mythology when they were writing "All Hands Bury the Cliffs at Sea", and they came across the legend of Aspidochelone, a sea creature so big that at one point it was mistaken for an island. Legend has it that sailors docked on what they assumed was an island and lit a fire before it ducked into the sea as if the land itself had collapsed. The Amsterdam duo thought this was an appropriate metaphor for the climate-related erosion that has ravaged the coast of Scotland; they were traveling the area when they came across a church that had been ruined by the receding coastline - a nearby cliff had collapsed into the sea and ruptured the building's walls. The pipe organ inside had been almost destroyed completely, but Wanderwelle were allowed to fiddle with it and extract all the tones they could, sounds that formed the foundation of the album.
Swelling their palette with drones from antique cavalry trumpets, piano, cello and synthesizer, they attempted to mimic the sea's constant erosion of the land it interacts with. The result is a careful, considered set of low-profile flotilla that hovers between the distant disintegration of William Basinski and Tim Hecker's 4K "big ambient" gestures. Creaks, damp sloshing and foghorn blasts make up the majority of the record, but each sound is manipulated in such a way that there's little friction. The mood is dark but the sounds are surprisingly frothy, lapping at the feet rather than drowning the listener in cold truth. If it's an album that's about the grim reality of climate crisis, maybe they're telling us to sleep it off.
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Dutch duo Wanderwelle allow the climate crisis to inform their latest full-length, using a ruined Scottish church organ to eke out dying drones for trying times.
Phil van Dulm and Alexander Bartels looked at maritime mythology when they were writing "All Hands Bury the Cliffs at Sea", and they came across the legend of Aspidochelone, a sea creature so big that at one point it was mistaken for an island. Legend has it that sailors docked on what they assumed was an island and lit a fire before it ducked into the sea as if the land itself had collapsed. The Amsterdam duo thought this was an appropriate metaphor for the climate-related erosion that has ravaged the coast of Scotland; they were traveling the area when they came across a church that had been ruined by the receding coastline - a nearby cliff had collapsed into the sea and ruptured the building's walls. The pipe organ inside had been almost destroyed completely, but Wanderwelle were allowed to fiddle with it and extract all the tones they could, sounds that formed the foundation of the album.
Swelling their palette with drones from antique cavalry trumpets, piano, cello and synthesizer, they attempted to mimic the sea's constant erosion of the land it interacts with. The result is a careful, considered set of low-profile flotilla that hovers between the distant disintegration of William Basinski and Tim Hecker's 4K "big ambient" gestures. Creaks, damp sloshing and foghorn blasts make up the majority of the record, but each sound is manipulated in such a way that there's little friction. The mood is dark but the sounds are surprisingly frothy, lapping at the feet rather than drowning the listener in cold truth. If it's an album that's about the grim reality of climate crisis, maybe they're telling us to sleep it off.