Gloriously proggy and extravagant, Francis Plagne's latest release centres free-flowing songcraft. He assembles a tight ensemble (with James Rushford, Maria Moles and Alex Macfarlane), who help sculpt a trio of billowing epics that nestle somewhere between Robert Wyatt, Bark Psychosis, Jim O'Rourke and Richard Youngs.
Very different from Plagne's last run of collaged, concrète-inspired releases - such as the Black Truffle-released 'Rural Objects' and 'The Refrain' - 'Into Closed Air' is a return to the whimsical songwriting of his earlier material, shaped by his unique compositional approach. It's undeniably prog influenced from the very beginning, with mercurial vocals that twist around loungey organ chords and strummed acoustic guitars, but Plagne doesn't sound as if he's trying to evoke ghosts of the past. Like Jim O'Rourke on 'Eureka', Plagne uses studied but accessible techniques to seduce ears towards deviously, almost subversively experimental material.
'Led to the Water' stretches over twelve minutes, weaving sophisticated melodies, harmonies and jazzy, low slung rhythms, but never descending into chaos. Plagne's voice is particularly cavalier, phrased in a way that recalls the Canterbury scene, but delivered with the mercurial informality of the C86 set. And like any good prog epic, the track soon disintegrates into loose, atmospheric component parts: skeletal piano, eloquent environmental recordings, organ drones and fingerpicked guitar that slowly swirls into skittish jazz before the track falls apart again, losing its footing in a Langley Schools Music Project-like woodwind clatter.
'Here is Dull Earth' is more restrained and more clearly fixated on Robert Wyatt's post-Soft Machine solo direction. Plagne sings loosely over staggered synths and informal but tight instrumentation that seems to hoist itself into militaristic precision before it quietens to a hushed, spectral coo. Pipes are formed into discordant wails, leaving room for Plagne to stitch another act into the middle section, reaching a moving crescendo before the the track is able to languish in outlandishness. In the last few minutes, Plagne plays harmonic twangs over rushing, breathy dissonances - it doesn't sound tacked on either, it's the ideal conclusion.
Plagne's most layered composition is saved til the closing 'Benches of Snow', almost 20 minutes of drawling folk-jazz, sounding as vivid and expansive as Kenny Wheeler and Keith Jarrett's 'Gnu High' and as relaxed and natural as Tortoise's 'TNT'. Plagne's not shy about his inspirations, and while he wears them on his sleeve, his particular fusion is as unusual and unexpected as it is virtuosic, makiing for an ostensibly experimental album that's also somehow remarkably easy to love.
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Featuring stunning artwork by Dennis Tyfus
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Gloriously proggy and extravagant, Francis Plagne's latest release centres free-flowing songcraft. He assembles a tight ensemble (with James Rushford, Maria Moles and Alex Macfarlane), who help sculpt a trio of billowing epics that nestle somewhere between Robert Wyatt, Bark Psychosis, Jim O'Rourke and Richard Youngs.
Very different from Plagne's last run of collaged, concrète-inspired releases - such as the Black Truffle-released 'Rural Objects' and 'The Refrain' - 'Into Closed Air' is a return to the whimsical songwriting of his earlier material, shaped by his unique compositional approach. It's undeniably prog influenced from the very beginning, with mercurial vocals that twist around loungey organ chords and strummed acoustic guitars, but Plagne doesn't sound as if he's trying to evoke ghosts of the past. Like Jim O'Rourke on 'Eureka', Plagne uses studied but accessible techniques to seduce ears towards deviously, almost subversively experimental material.
'Led to the Water' stretches over twelve minutes, weaving sophisticated melodies, harmonies and jazzy, low slung rhythms, but never descending into chaos. Plagne's voice is particularly cavalier, phrased in a way that recalls the Canterbury scene, but delivered with the mercurial informality of the C86 set. And like any good prog epic, the track soon disintegrates into loose, atmospheric component parts: skeletal piano, eloquent environmental recordings, organ drones and fingerpicked guitar that slowly swirls into skittish jazz before the track falls apart again, losing its footing in a Langley Schools Music Project-like woodwind clatter.
'Here is Dull Earth' is more restrained and more clearly fixated on Robert Wyatt's post-Soft Machine solo direction. Plagne sings loosely over staggered synths and informal but tight instrumentation that seems to hoist itself into militaristic precision before it quietens to a hushed, spectral coo. Pipes are formed into discordant wails, leaving room for Plagne to stitch another act into the middle section, reaching a moving crescendo before the the track is able to languish in outlandishness. In the last few minutes, Plagne plays harmonic twangs over rushing, breathy dissonances - it doesn't sound tacked on either, it's the ideal conclusion.
Plagne's most layered composition is saved til the closing 'Benches of Snow', almost 20 minutes of drawling folk-jazz, sounding as vivid and expansive as Kenny Wheeler and Keith Jarrett's 'Gnu High' and as relaxed and natural as Tortoise's 'TNT'. Plagne's not shy about his inspirations, and while he wears them on his sleeve, his particular fusion is as unusual and unexpected as it is virtuosic, makiing for an ostensibly experimental album that's also somehow remarkably easy to love.