From Where You Came
Pulling from spiritual jazz, psychedelic private press new age gear, sacred minimalism and 19th century programmatic music, Kara-Lis Coverdale's long-awaited follow-up to her foundational 'Grafts' blots weightless flurries of acoustic instrumentation with cascading synths and muggy, hypnagogic textures. A postmodern, genre overlapped fantasy accented by raw emotions and virtuosic tinctures, it's the record you'll need right now whether you're into early OPN, Arvo Pärt, Laurel Halo, Budd/Eno or Joanna Brouk.
We've been waiting too long for this one. It's hard to fully explain the impact 'Grafts' had on us; Coverdale's music had already set her apart from her peers by that point - just peep 2015's jaw-dropping 'Aftertouches' - but 'Grafts' took us somewhere completely new, dissolving a litany of inspirations, from folk to 20th century minimalism, into a flawless side of suspended, lysergic bliss. She resumes the narrative on 'From Where You Came', breathing the same psychotropic vapours over a suite of shorter, even more exploratory vignettes. The sheer scope of 'From Where You Came' is startling; "I'm sorry, life is beautiful," she chants in near plainsong on opening track 'Eternity', settling the words over Anne Bourne's mournful cello phrases and her own glacial synth drones, and those same elements are chewed with mutant organ vamps on 'Flickers in the Air of Night' while warm-hearted Tangerine Dream-style analogue brass punctuations ring out from the back room.
It's as if Coverdale is looking back over her catalog and waving it off as different ideas bubble to the surface. On 'Coming Around', warbled Mellotron gasps provide balance to her glassy hard-quantized digi-synth sequences, and portamento organ spheres orbit breathy woodwind-like reverberations and saturated bells on 'Problem of No Name', reaching thru the kosmische canon towards the West Coast DIY synth wave. None of this is accidental, either - Coverdale is directly referencing programmatic music, a form of instrumental music that attempts to tell a story with its instrumentation and notation. So each track is soused with emotional cues that permeate her effervescent improvisations and calculated arrangements - peep the open-hearted new world liturgy of 'Equal Exchange', a solo organ cut that sounds as animated as Prokofiev's 'Peter and the Wolf', or 'The Ceremonial Entrance of Colour', where Coverdale's shrill, flute-like synths flutter across the dense humming brass (provided by the Grammy winning trombonist Kalia Vandever) and muted ambience.
Coverdale steps even further outside her comfort zone on the brilliant 'Offload Flip', twisting buckled-up slow-mo beats with off-tuned arpeggios and suggesting a kinked answer to anyone who's spent the last couple of decades trying to exhume BoC's early catalog. There's just so much here to reflect on; we can make out links to Don Cherry, Philip Glass, Alice Coltrane, Hiroshi Yoshimura and IASOS, but Coverdale makes each reference completely her own. By locking into the voice, or expressive quality, of each element and each theme she uses, she's able to concoct a narrative that explains history in the context of the present day, weilding aesthetic markers to constantly subvert the timeline.
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Pulling from spiritual jazz, psychedelic private press new age gear, sacred minimalism and 19th century programmatic music, Kara-Lis Coverdale's long-awaited follow-up to her foundational 'Grafts' blots weightless flurries of acoustic instrumentation with cascading synths and muggy, hypnagogic textures. A postmodern, genre overlapped fantasy accented by raw emotions and virtuosic tinctures, it's the record you'll need right now whether you're into early OPN, Arvo Pärt, Laurel Halo, Budd/Eno or Joanna Brouk.
We've been waiting too long for this one. It's hard to fully explain the impact 'Grafts' had on us; Coverdale's music had already set her apart from her peers by that point - just peep 2015's jaw-dropping 'Aftertouches' - but 'Grafts' took us somewhere completely new, dissolving a litany of inspirations, from folk to 20th century minimalism, into a flawless side of suspended, lysergic bliss. She resumes the narrative on 'From Where You Came', breathing the same psychotropic vapours over a suite of shorter, even more exploratory vignettes. The sheer scope of 'From Where You Came' is startling; "I'm sorry, life is beautiful," she chants in near plainsong on opening track 'Eternity', settling the words over Anne Bourne's mournful cello phrases and her own glacial synth drones, and those same elements are chewed with mutant organ vamps on 'Flickers in the Air of Night' while warm-hearted Tangerine Dream-style analogue brass punctuations ring out from the back room.
It's as if Coverdale is looking back over her catalog and waving it off as different ideas bubble to the surface. On 'Coming Around', warbled Mellotron gasps provide balance to her glassy hard-quantized digi-synth sequences, and portamento organ spheres orbit breathy woodwind-like reverberations and saturated bells on 'Problem of No Name', reaching thru the kosmische canon towards the West Coast DIY synth wave. None of this is accidental, either - Coverdale is directly referencing programmatic music, a form of instrumental music that attempts to tell a story with its instrumentation and notation. So each track is soused with emotional cues that permeate her effervescent improvisations and calculated arrangements - peep the open-hearted new world liturgy of 'Equal Exchange', a solo organ cut that sounds as animated as Prokofiev's 'Peter and the Wolf', or 'The Ceremonial Entrance of Colour', where Coverdale's shrill, flute-like synths flutter across the dense humming brass (provided by the Grammy winning trombonist Kalia Vandever) and muted ambience.
Coverdale steps even further outside her comfort zone on the brilliant 'Offload Flip', twisting buckled-up slow-mo beats with off-tuned arpeggios and suggesting a kinked answer to anyone who's spent the last couple of decades trying to exhume BoC's early catalog. There's just so much here to reflect on; we can make out links to Don Cherry, Philip Glass, Alice Coltrane, Hiroshi Yoshimura and IASOS, but Coverdale makes each reference completely her own. By locking into the voice, or expressive quality, of each element and each theme she uses, she's able to concoct a narrative that explains history in the context of the present day, weilding aesthetic markers to constantly subvert the timeline.
Pulling from spiritual jazz, psychedelic private press new age gear, sacred minimalism and 19th century programmatic music, Kara-Lis Coverdale's long-awaited follow-up to her foundational 'Grafts' blots weightless flurries of acoustic instrumentation with cascading synths and muggy, hypnagogic textures. A postmodern, genre overlapped fantasy accented by raw emotions and virtuosic tinctures, it's the record you'll need right now whether you're into early OPN, Arvo Pärt, Laurel Halo, Budd/Eno or Joanna Brouk.
We've been waiting too long for this one. It's hard to fully explain the impact 'Grafts' had on us; Coverdale's music had already set her apart from her peers by that point - just peep 2015's jaw-dropping 'Aftertouches' - but 'Grafts' took us somewhere completely new, dissolving a litany of inspirations, from folk to 20th century minimalism, into a flawless side of suspended, lysergic bliss. She resumes the narrative on 'From Where You Came', breathing the same psychotropic vapours over a suite of shorter, even more exploratory vignettes. The sheer scope of 'From Where You Came' is startling; "I'm sorry, life is beautiful," she chants in near plainsong on opening track 'Eternity', settling the words over Anne Bourne's mournful cello phrases and her own glacial synth drones, and those same elements are chewed with mutant organ vamps on 'Flickers in the Air of Night' while warm-hearted Tangerine Dream-style analogue brass punctuations ring out from the back room.
It's as if Coverdale is looking back over her catalog and waving it off as different ideas bubble to the surface. On 'Coming Around', warbled Mellotron gasps provide balance to her glassy hard-quantized digi-synth sequences, and portamento organ spheres orbit breathy woodwind-like reverberations and saturated bells on 'Problem of No Name', reaching thru the kosmische canon towards the West Coast DIY synth wave. None of this is accidental, either - Coverdale is directly referencing programmatic music, a form of instrumental music that attempts to tell a story with its instrumentation and notation. So each track is soused with emotional cues that permeate her effervescent improvisations and calculated arrangements - peep the open-hearted new world liturgy of 'Equal Exchange', a solo organ cut that sounds as animated as Prokofiev's 'Peter and the Wolf', or 'The Ceremonial Entrance of Colour', where Coverdale's shrill, flute-like synths flutter across the dense humming brass (provided by the Grammy winning trombonist Kalia Vandever) and muted ambience.
Coverdale steps even further outside her comfort zone on the brilliant 'Offload Flip', twisting buckled-up slow-mo beats with off-tuned arpeggios and suggesting a kinked answer to anyone who's spent the last couple of decades trying to exhume BoC's early catalog. There's just so much here to reflect on; we can make out links to Don Cherry, Philip Glass, Alice Coltrane, Hiroshi Yoshimura and IASOS, but Coverdale makes each reference completely her own. By locking into the voice, or expressive quality, of each element and each theme she uses, she's able to concoct a narrative that explains history in the context of the present day, weilding aesthetic markers to constantly subvert the timeline.
Pulling from spiritual jazz, psychedelic private press new age gear, sacred minimalism and 19th century programmatic music, Kara-Lis Coverdale's long-awaited follow-up to her foundational 'Grafts' blots weightless flurries of acoustic instrumentation with cascading synths and muggy, hypnagogic textures. A postmodern, genre overlapped fantasy accented by raw emotions and virtuosic tinctures, it's the record you'll need right now whether you're into early OPN, Arvo Pärt, Laurel Halo, Budd/Eno or Joanna Brouk.
We've been waiting too long for this one. It's hard to fully explain the impact 'Grafts' had on us; Coverdale's music had already set her apart from her peers by that point - just peep 2015's jaw-dropping 'Aftertouches' - but 'Grafts' took us somewhere completely new, dissolving a litany of inspirations, from folk to 20th century minimalism, into a flawless side of suspended, lysergic bliss. She resumes the narrative on 'From Where You Came', breathing the same psychotropic vapours over a suite of shorter, even more exploratory vignettes. The sheer scope of 'From Where You Came' is startling; "I'm sorry, life is beautiful," she chants in near plainsong on opening track 'Eternity', settling the words over Anne Bourne's mournful cello phrases and her own glacial synth drones, and those same elements are chewed with mutant organ vamps on 'Flickers in the Air of Night' while warm-hearted Tangerine Dream-style analogue brass punctuations ring out from the back room.
It's as if Coverdale is looking back over her catalog and waving it off as different ideas bubble to the surface. On 'Coming Around', warbled Mellotron gasps provide balance to her glassy hard-quantized digi-synth sequences, and portamento organ spheres orbit breathy woodwind-like reverberations and saturated bells on 'Problem of No Name', reaching thru the kosmische canon towards the West Coast DIY synth wave. None of this is accidental, either - Coverdale is directly referencing programmatic music, a form of instrumental music that attempts to tell a story with its instrumentation and notation. So each track is soused with emotional cues that permeate her effervescent improvisations and calculated arrangements - peep the open-hearted new world liturgy of 'Equal Exchange', a solo organ cut that sounds as animated as Prokofiev's 'Peter and the Wolf', or 'The Ceremonial Entrance of Colour', where Coverdale's shrill, flute-like synths flutter across the dense humming brass (provided by the Grammy winning trombonist Kalia Vandever) and muted ambience.
Coverdale steps even further outside her comfort zone on the brilliant 'Offload Flip', twisting buckled-up slow-mo beats with off-tuned arpeggios and suggesting a kinked answer to anyone who's spent the last couple of decades trying to exhume BoC's early catalog. There's just so much here to reflect on; we can make out links to Don Cherry, Philip Glass, Alice Coltrane, Hiroshi Yoshimura and IASOS, but Coverdale makes each reference completely her own. By locking into the voice, or expressive quality, of each element and each theme she uses, she's able to concoct a narrative that explains history in the context of the present day, weilding aesthetic markers to constantly subvert the timeline.
Estimated Release Date: 09 May 2025
Please note that shipping dates for pre-orders are estimated and are subject to change
Pulling from spiritual jazz, psychedelic private press new age gear, sacred minimalism and 19th century programmatic music, Kara-Lis Coverdale's long-awaited follow-up to her foundational 'Grafts' blots weightless flurries of acoustic instrumentation with cascading synths and muggy, hypnagogic textures. A postmodern, genre overlapped fantasy accented by raw emotions and virtuosic tinctures, it's the record you'll need right now whether you're into early OPN, Arvo Pärt, Laurel Halo, Budd/Eno or Joanna Brouk.
We've been waiting too long for this one. It's hard to fully explain the impact 'Grafts' had on us; Coverdale's music had already set her apart from her peers by that point - just peep 2015's jaw-dropping 'Aftertouches' - but 'Grafts' took us somewhere completely new, dissolving a litany of inspirations, from folk to 20th century minimalism, into a flawless side of suspended, lysergic bliss. She resumes the narrative on 'From Where You Came', breathing the same psychotropic vapours over a suite of shorter, even more exploratory vignettes. The sheer scope of 'From Where You Came' is startling; "I'm sorry, life is beautiful," she chants in near plainsong on opening track 'Eternity', settling the words over Anne Bourne's mournful cello phrases and her own glacial synth drones, and those same elements are chewed with mutant organ vamps on 'Flickers in the Air of Night' while warm-hearted Tangerine Dream-style analogue brass punctuations ring out from the back room.
It's as if Coverdale is looking back over her catalog and waving it off as different ideas bubble to the surface. On 'Coming Around', warbled Mellotron gasps provide balance to her glassy hard-quantized digi-synth sequences, and portamento organ spheres orbit breathy woodwind-like reverberations and saturated bells on 'Problem of No Name', reaching thru the kosmische canon towards the West Coast DIY synth wave. None of this is accidental, either - Coverdale is directly referencing programmatic music, a form of instrumental music that attempts to tell a story with its instrumentation and notation. So each track is soused with emotional cues that permeate her effervescent improvisations and calculated arrangements - peep the open-hearted new world liturgy of 'Equal Exchange', a solo organ cut that sounds as animated as Prokofiev's 'Peter and the Wolf', or 'The Ceremonial Entrance of Colour', where Coverdale's shrill, flute-like synths flutter across the dense humming brass (provided by the Grammy winning trombonist Kalia Vandever) and muted ambience.
Coverdale steps even further outside her comfort zone on the brilliant 'Offload Flip', twisting buckled-up slow-mo beats with off-tuned arpeggios and suggesting a kinked answer to anyone who's spent the last couple of decades trying to exhume BoC's early catalog. There's just so much here to reflect on; we can make out links to Don Cherry, Philip Glass, Alice Coltrane, Hiroshi Yoshimura and IASOS, but Coverdale makes each reference completely her own. By locking into the voice, or expressive quality, of each element and each theme she uses, she's able to concoct a narrative that explains history in the context of the present day, weilding aesthetic markers to constantly subvert the timeline.
Clear vinyl
Estimated Release Date: 09 May 2025
Please note that shipping dates for pre-orders are estimated and are subject to change
Pulling from spiritual jazz, psychedelic private press new age gear, sacred minimalism and 19th century programmatic music, Kara-Lis Coverdale's long-awaited follow-up to her foundational 'Grafts' blots weightless flurries of acoustic instrumentation with cascading synths and muggy, hypnagogic textures. A postmodern, genre overlapped fantasy accented by raw emotions and virtuosic tinctures, it's the record you'll need right now whether you're into early OPN, Arvo Pärt, Laurel Halo, Budd/Eno or Joanna Brouk.
We've been waiting too long for this one. It's hard to fully explain the impact 'Grafts' had on us; Coverdale's music had already set her apart from her peers by that point - just peep 2015's jaw-dropping 'Aftertouches' - but 'Grafts' took us somewhere completely new, dissolving a litany of inspirations, from folk to 20th century minimalism, into a flawless side of suspended, lysergic bliss. She resumes the narrative on 'From Where You Came', breathing the same psychotropic vapours over a suite of shorter, even more exploratory vignettes. The sheer scope of 'From Where You Came' is startling; "I'm sorry, life is beautiful," she chants in near plainsong on opening track 'Eternity', settling the words over Anne Bourne's mournful cello phrases and her own glacial synth drones, and those same elements are chewed with mutant organ vamps on 'Flickers in the Air of Night' while warm-hearted Tangerine Dream-style analogue brass punctuations ring out from the back room.
It's as if Coverdale is looking back over her catalog and waving it off as different ideas bubble to the surface. On 'Coming Around', warbled Mellotron gasps provide balance to her glassy hard-quantized digi-synth sequences, and portamento organ spheres orbit breathy woodwind-like reverberations and saturated bells on 'Problem of No Name', reaching thru the kosmische canon towards the West Coast DIY synth wave. None of this is accidental, either - Coverdale is directly referencing programmatic music, a form of instrumental music that attempts to tell a story with its instrumentation and notation. So each track is soused with emotional cues that permeate her effervescent improvisations and calculated arrangements - peep the open-hearted new world liturgy of 'Equal Exchange', a solo organ cut that sounds as animated as Prokofiev's 'Peter and the Wolf', or 'The Ceremonial Entrance of Colour', where Coverdale's shrill, flute-like synths flutter across the dense humming brass (provided by the Grammy winning trombonist Kalia Vandever) and muted ambience.
Coverdale steps even further outside her comfort zone on the brilliant 'Offload Flip', twisting buckled-up slow-mo beats with off-tuned arpeggios and suggesting a kinked answer to anyone who's spent the last couple of decades trying to exhume BoC's early catalog. There's just so much here to reflect on; we can make out links to Don Cherry, Philip Glass, Alice Coltrane, Hiroshi Yoshimura and IASOS, but Coverdale makes each reference completely her own. By locking into the voice, or expressive quality, of each element and each theme she uses, she's able to concoct a narrative that explains history in the context of the present day, weilding aesthetic markers to constantly subvert the timeline.