You Are My Geographic Range
A despatch from round or way, longtime ally and smallsound recordist Craig Tattersall with an hour of barely-there music recorded on an assortment of bedroom/DIY instruments and electronics, reminding us of his most intimate work with Hood, The Remote Viewer and via his bijou Cotton Goods imprint. Tattersall's music has been a constant companion for us over the last 20 years, we consider it a kind of archetypal Northern English Quiet music - there’s nowt else quite like it.
Once again blurring our focus through an hour of signature, slow moving melancholy designed for nearfield listening and sparkling with microscopic detail, Tattersall assembles an array of slowly unfurling tape loops featuring mini accordion, melodica and various toy instruments washed through location recordings into an intoxicating haze of slanted motifs.
Shimmering with lingering lines of melancholy, but smudged into a sort of peeling ambient flocking, there’s a natural grasp of small sounds here that hovers at the periphery for a kind of daytime hypnagogia, subtly adapting strategies from bristling drone to etheric keys in near subliminal transitions, from Feldman-like states of reflection to the slow crackling of ferric embers that seamlessly drift into physical tape hiss and force you to check whether the side has ended.
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A despatch from round or way, longtime ally and smallsound recordist Craig Tattersall with an hour of barely-there music recorded on an assortment of bedroom/DIY instruments and electronics, reminding us of his most intimate work with Hood, The Remote Viewer and via his bijou Cotton Goods imprint. Tattersall's music has been a constant companion for us over the last 20 years, we consider it a kind of archetypal Northern English Quiet music - there’s nowt else quite like it.
Once again blurring our focus through an hour of signature, slow moving melancholy designed for nearfield listening and sparkling with microscopic detail, Tattersall assembles an array of slowly unfurling tape loops featuring mini accordion, melodica and various toy instruments washed through location recordings into an intoxicating haze of slanted motifs.
Shimmering with lingering lines of melancholy, but smudged into a sort of peeling ambient flocking, there’s a natural grasp of small sounds here that hovers at the periphery for a kind of daytime hypnagogia, subtly adapting strategies from bristling drone to etheric keys in near subliminal transitions, from Feldman-like states of reflection to the slow crackling of ferric embers that seamlessly drift into physical tape hiss and force you to check whether the side has ended.
A despatch from round or way, longtime ally and smallsound recordist Craig Tattersall with an hour of barely-there music recorded on an assortment of bedroom/DIY instruments and electronics, reminding us of his most intimate work with Hood, The Remote Viewer and via his bijou Cotton Goods imprint. Tattersall's music has been a constant companion for us over the last 20 years, we consider it a kind of archetypal Northern English Quiet music - there’s nowt else quite like it.
Once again blurring our focus through an hour of signature, slow moving melancholy designed for nearfield listening and sparkling with microscopic detail, Tattersall assembles an array of slowly unfurling tape loops featuring mini accordion, melodica and various toy instruments washed through location recordings into an intoxicating haze of slanted motifs.
Shimmering with lingering lines of melancholy, but smudged into a sort of peeling ambient flocking, there’s a natural grasp of small sounds here that hovers at the periphery for a kind of daytime hypnagogia, subtly adapting strategies from bristling drone to etheric keys in near subliminal transitions, from Feldman-like states of reflection to the slow crackling of ferric embers that seamlessly drift into physical tape hiss and force you to check whether the side has ended.
A despatch from round or way, longtime ally and smallsound recordist Craig Tattersall with an hour of barely-there music recorded on an assortment of bedroom/DIY instruments and electronics, reminding us of his most intimate work with Hood, The Remote Viewer and via his bijou Cotton Goods imprint. Tattersall's music has been a constant companion for us over the last 20 years, we consider it a kind of archetypal Northern English Quiet music - there’s nowt else quite like it.
Once again blurring our focus through an hour of signature, slow moving melancholy designed for nearfield listening and sparkling with microscopic detail, Tattersall assembles an array of slowly unfurling tape loops featuring mini accordion, melodica and various toy instruments washed through location recordings into an intoxicating haze of slanted motifs.
Shimmering with lingering lines of melancholy, but smudged into a sort of peeling ambient flocking, there’s a natural grasp of small sounds here that hovers at the periphery for a kind of daytime hypnagogia, subtly adapting strategies from bristling drone to etheric keys in near subliminal transitions, from Feldman-like states of reflection to the slow crackling of ferric embers that seamlessly drift into physical tape hiss and force you to check whether the side has ended.
Back in stock. An hour of music, Includes an 8-panel insert with text and photographs by the artist, and a download of the release dropped to your account.
Out of Stock
A despatch from round or way, longtime ally and smallsound recordist Craig Tattersall with an hour of barely-there music recorded on an assortment of bedroom/DIY instruments and electronics, reminding us of his most intimate work with Hood, The Remote Viewer and via his bijou Cotton Goods imprint. Tattersall's music has been a constant companion for us over the last 20 years, we consider it a kind of archetypal Northern English Quiet music - there’s nowt else quite like it.
Once again blurring our focus through an hour of signature, slow moving melancholy designed for nearfield listening and sparkling with microscopic detail, Tattersall assembles an array of slowly unfurling tape loops featuring mini accordion, melodica and various toy instruments washed through location recordings into an intoxicating haze of slanted motifs.
Shimmering with lingering lines of melancholy, but smudged into a sort of peeling ambient flocking, there’s a natural grasp of small sounds here that hovers at the periphery for a kind of daytime hypnagogia, subtly adapting strategies from bristling drone to etheric keys in near subliminal transitions, from Feldman-like states of reflection to the slow crackling of ferric embers that seamlessly drift into physical tape hiss and force you to check whether the side has ended.