Boomkat Product Review:
Tenderly sensitive ambient introspection from Belgium’s Milan Warmoeskerken, paying a 1st solo visit proper to Ekster after various, enchantingly melodic outings as Crumar Young and a part of the Mittland Och Leo trio in recent years
Last heard in highlights of Ekster’s EX02 and EX03 volumes, Milan W gives a much fuller account of himself here, sketching a sort of blue self-portrait in glistening arps peppered with nimble drum programming and gently resonating within spacious FX envelopes.
Most crucially, for us at least, is the way that that Milan W.’s take on ambient music actually speaks to us. In each part, motifs are recycled, but they don’t feel repetitive. Rather, his compositions burble and chatter in a way that feels like the wallpaper is gently coming alive, with its textured flocking designs blooming as colourful flowers and crystalline figures that catch the light in different ways as you move thru the LP, or appear to slide over each other in moire patinas of synthetic chorales and skin rippling rhythms.
“The harlequin turns the handle. The contraption sucks in air, and breathes. Blows out tone poems. Wordless ballads that soundtrack enchanted scenarios. Issues forth magic. A sorcerer’s apprentice casting its spell. Animating the inanimate. To everything a life. Sets the frozen fluttering / skipping. Pirouetting in red shoes. Illuminates what was dark. Astma sings a Gamelan lullaby. Summons comforting angels to a post-Industrial landscape. Glaasjes has Jazz ghosts inhabit an empty bar room. Spirits stealing excuse-me`s under its deserted spot. In Limbo amplifies their whispers. Lead soldiers court jewellery-box ballerinas behind shuttered shop fronts. OnHeraldic Snippets, a tin infantry marches. Ten thousand men up to the top, and back down again. Keys make-believing that they are massed brass and fife.
The bellows pump, and the pipes all the while wheezing. An automaton philharmonic at the bidding of a steam-punk master. Analogue and digital. Clockwork and glitch. Malady finds sounds isolated, extrapolated, mutated. Orchestral`s organ-grinder moves with urgency, and alchemy. Spinning straw into gold. Snare rolls become bubbling mercury. Metallic, yet fluid. Racing at the speed of flight and escape. Slope is the music of water chasing through crystal caves. Slow Runner, a funeral crawl. Shoved into motion by a drama of strings remembered.
Like the charismatic Rat-Catcher of Hamelin, the harlequin turns the handle, and we bang the cup. (Text by Robert Harris)”